Chapter Fifteen: Heaven's Thunder Strikes to Fulfill Destiny

Since the shaman had agreed, the tribespeople hurriedly brought the wild boar before him. The animal struggled fiercely, but some heartless soul had wedged a branch into its mouth, silencing its protests—it could not even grunt out its indignation.

The shaman lifted his bamboo knife, and instantly the boar’s eyes reddened with fury. Enemies confronted, and the boar recognized the shaman well; had it known, it would have crushed him beneath its weight.

The wild boar thrashed violently, all four hooves kicking and flailing, as if it wished to trample the shaman to death.

Ye Chen felt a stirring in his heart, a tempting thought: what if he used the boar’s strength to rid himself of the shaman? The prospect was alluring.

“No, it still wouldn’t be quite right.”

It was not that Ye Chen had suddenly grown merciful, but he considered the larger picture. If Ling Bamboo survived, Ye Chen would need to find a way to diminish her standing within the tribe—then, naturally, he would seek an opportunity to eliminate the shaman. But for now, there was no urgency. The tribe had suffered heavy losses; should the shaman die at the hooves of a wild boar at such a critical moment, chaos would surely ensue.

To Ye Chen, the most vital matter now was to perfect the fractured talisman, to truly embark upon the divine path. All else was a distraction, to be dealt with later unless the shaman completely lost reason and provoked him beyond endurance. Otherwise, he could tolerate a little.

The shaman, unaware he had just narrowly escaped death, would likely not care even if he knew. He swung the bamboo knife, cold murderous intent in his eyes, ready to sever the boar’s head in one swift stroke.

Clearly, his mood was foul, though he forced himself to restrain it; but venting his anger on a wild boar—what did that matter?

Ordinarily, the animal would be granted a swift end—a cut across the throat, and in its ignorance, it would become succulent meat, never again a living creature.

With a clang, the bamboo knife struck repeatedly. The boar struggled, blood spurting like a fountain, until its head was mangled and it breathed its last. Its eyes, wide and fixed on the shaman, seemed to refuse to close in death.

The shaman was unconcerned, and with another cut at the throat, nearly severed the head entirely—it hung by a thread, ready to fall at the slightest touch.

He fetched a bamboo board, paused in silence, then dipped the blood as ink, whittled bamboo into a stylus, and etched onto the board the image of