Chapter 7: Diverging Paths and Growing Discord

The chieftain, feeling somewhat melancholic, was suddenly struck by a chill in his heart. Lowering his gaze, he saw the shaman looking back at him coldly.

He hadn’t expected the shaman to awaken—most likely, it was connected to the grand sacrificial rite. Although the ritual had not formally begun, there was already a faint resonance between the totem and the coming ceremony. This was no small matter for the totem; the grand rite would bring forth an immense surge of faith and spiritual power. The shaman and the totem were bound by a mysterious connection, so it was not surprising for the shaman to awaken at such a moment.

The chieftain gathered himself, regaining composure. Their gazes met, and it was as if lightning crackled through the void between them.

“The shaman is awake—what a joyous and auspicious thing,” the chieftain remarked.

His words drew a scornful laugh from the shaman, who spoke with evident irritation, “So you’ve chosen to walk this path to the very end, chieftain. Can you truly say your conscience is clear?”

The chieftain understood the meaning behind the shaman’s words, but he felt not a trace of regret in his heart. The shaman was no naive youth, and though he could rationally understand the chieftain’s actions, emotionally he could not accept the betrayal.

“No matter whether you approve or not,” the chieftain said, “surely you would not let personal feelings override the greater good? This grand rite serves the interests of everyone.”

The shaman’s role was indispensable to the ceremony.

The chieftain’s words made the shaman laugh in anger. “So you think you have me under your thumb? Where do you intend to lead our tribe? We struggled so hard to take root in this land—do you mean to let the efforts of our ancestors be for nothing?”

The shaman’s heart ached at the chieftain’s decision. The totem was not something innate; it had been painstakingly cultivated from a living bamboo, nurtured through rituals, and refined by the ceaseless power of faith, until it finally transformed into the foundation of the tribe. What the chieftain had done could not be dismissed as a mere personal act; it would sow discord between the totem and the tribe, leaving hidden wounds that might not be obvious now, but whose consequences would be profound. One day, the cracks could bring ruin upon the tribe—and who would bear the blame as the originator of disaster? This must never become a precedent, yet the chieftain was setting a dangerous example.

“Don’t think I don’t understand your reasoning,” the shaman retorted, “but it’s no more than cleverness—a self-serving belief. If, in a moment of crisis, you cannot share in hardship, you’ll only end up as a discarded pawn. How do you know the whole tribe won’t be abandoned? Don’t you think the totem would rather forsake the power of faith? If, at the crucial moment, you turn against it, thinking such self-sacrifice has value—think again. There are plenty of tribes without totems. Would it be so difficult for the totem to choose another tribe? You are pushing us to the brink of the abyss.”

“Our standing with the totem is never equal. Only by living and dying alongside it can we go far. Fools may win its favor, but the cunning—those with schemes in their hearts—who can they deceive?”

The chieftain was silent for a moment before he let out a soft laugh. “There’s some truth in what you say. Only in sharing life and death can we earn true recognition. But the dead have no value—when life is gone, all is lost. I am short-sighted, yes; I choose the present, lacking your long view. But without a present, how can there be a future?”

“Besides, the totem is on the verge of collapse, and that spirit butterfly is a fierce tiger crossing the river—the safety of our tribe hangs by a thread. If I do not act with caution, the whole tribe might be destroyed.”

“Perhaps I’m overthinking everything, but that spirit butterfly is terrifyingly powerful, twisting the minds of our people as easily as breathing. How could such a presence not make one anxious?”

There was regret in the chieftain’s words. “If only the totem were strong, none of this would have happened. There are things I would not do, if sentiment alone decided. But for the sake of the tribe, I cannot shirk them. Here is where you and I differ: you believe the totem is the tribe’s foundation, and I don’t deny its importance. But the totem was cultivated by our ancestors from nothing—it was not born above us. When things are out of harmony, let the totem perish first. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Even if we returned to the beginning, it would only mean starting over. But if our people are lost, then nothing matters.”

“And have you ever considered why, in this bamboo dwelling, I dare speak so freely, unafraid of the totem or that outsider overhearing? It’s because our ancestors, wary of the totem from the very start, poured their hearts and souls into weaving layer upon layer of restrictions into this hut. For the totem, there are no secrets in the tribe—this cannot continue.”

“Totems exist to help the tribe grow, not the other way around. Your intentions are good, but you’ve forgotten our ancestors’ original resolve. Your affection for the totem has outstripped your concern for the tribe—and that is a problem.”

A glint of coldness flashed in the shaman’s eyes. “So you believe me selfish.”

After a pause, the shaman’s voice was icy. “Yes, I am selfish. My bond with the totem runs deep. But to say that I would disregard the tribe’s safety for it—that, I cannot accept.”

He sighed, his expression complex. “Have you considered, chieftain, if the totem prevails in the end, how will the rift born of these deeds ever be healed?”

“In that case, my head can be severed and placed on the altar as a warning to others.”

At these words, the shaman fell silent. He did not believe that by then, the chieftain’s death would be enough to quell the totem’s wrath, but he could no longer bring himself to utter a harsh word.

The shaman said nothing. The chieftain breathed a quiet sigh of relief, reminding him, “When the grand rite begins, we will see whether the totem will gain the upper hand.”

There was an urgency in the chieftain’s voice. The shaman seemed distracted, then finally said coolly, “Let’s go.”

He did not refuse. No matter what, the grand rite could only benefit the totem. Though gravely wounded, with the power of the rite, the totem might yet seize the advantage.

The shaman came before the altar, where a bound wild ox was bellowing, as if it sensed the tragic fate awaiting it. No matter how it struggled, it was futile.

Beside the ox, a wild boar was also tied up, its eyes wide with terror as it stared at the ox. Even with its limited wit, it seemed to realize that if the ox was not enough as an offering, its own turn would come.

Ye Chen stood, eyes downcast, observing from atop the altar. In this moment, his spirit butterfly body hovered between reality and illusion—no one in the tribe could see him. Previously, both the shaman and the chieftain could perceive Ye Chen’s spirit butterfly form and the phantom of the spirit bamboo, but that had something to do with the miasma of peach blossoms.

When Ye Chen swept into the bamboo tribe’s territory, shrouded in a vast sea of mist, the entire tribe was affected by the peach blossom haze. Because of this, Ye Chen could easily draw them into dreams. If not for the dazzling rain of peach blossoms, all of Ye Chen’s designs would have been nothing but empty dreams.

The shaman took a bamboo bowl from a tribesman, then picked up a bamboo knife. The knife glimmered with a golden sheen, looking as if it had been forged from refined iron, sharp and cold.

The knife was crafted from the branch of a spirit bamboo, with all extraneous leaves cut away. Now, held in the shaman’s hand, it radiated an austere aura.

With a swift motion, the shaman drove the knife into the ox’s neck. Blood welled forth, dripping into the bamboo bowl.

With the blood as ink, the shaman took a bamboo brush, dipped it in the blood, and on a flattened bamboo plank, began to paint an image of a spirit bamboo.

“The influence of the spirit bamboo on this tribe truly touches every aspect,” Ye Chen thought. To bring about the final fall of the spirit bamboo would still be a long and arduous road. Unless its influence could be uprooted from the tribe, even a centipede, though dead, does not stiffen—the danger would persist.

On the bamboo plank, a spirit bamboo took form, vivid and lifelike, painted in fresh, crimson blood, as if wreathed in flames.