Chapter 8: Life and Death Hinge on Choices

The spirit bamboo carved on the bamboo plaque suddenly came alive; its bright red leaves quivered as if cheering, leaping with excitement. Restless flames surged forth, bursting from the plaque and rising into the air. At a glance, it seemed as though a river of fire was flowing through the void.

“Totem, totem, totem…”
The frenzied shouts echoed from the people of the Bamboo Tribe, rolling like thunder across the mountains and forests.

Golden smoke cascaded through the air, fine and delicate as willow down. Threads of this golden vapor coiled into the river of flames, causing it to swell and expand.

These were the incense-fueled wishes of the tribe, bringing about extraordinary transformations—not unexpected in such a ritual. Ye Chen could feel a mysterious power settling on the spirit bamboo. The change was subtle; the grand ceremony had only just begun, yet Ye Chen was already considering tearing away all pretense.

The shaman clearly harbored private intentions, having only carved the image of the spirit bamboo, clearly hoping it would gain the upper hand.

Ye Chen could not sit idly by. Was it time to strike with thunderous force and end the shaman right here? To do so in public would surely fracture the tribe, a result Ye Chen did not wish to see. Yet if the shaman remained obstinate, then eliminating him in secret would become a necessity; otherwise, Ye Chen’s future control over the Bamboo Tribe would be compromised.

“Is the shaman weary, or has he forgotten something? The bamboo plaque should not only bear the image of the spirit bamboo but also the spirit butterfly. That, too, is our totem. We cannot show such favoritism, can we?”

The chieftain’s solemn reminder shook the shaman’s fragile composure. While the rest of the tribe, their awareness clouded, remained oblivious, the chieftain’s intervention was unmistakable.

The shaman glared at the chieftain with a look of barely contained rage, his face twisted in anger. His eyes seemed to accuse: traitor, have you truly chosen to side with that foreign spirit butterfly?

The chieftain met his gaze coldly, saying nothing. Some truths were best left unspoken, especially under the watchful gaze of the totems. Here, certain actions could be taken, but not declared.

The shaman understood the chieftain’s meaning: the outcome between the spirit bamboo and the spirit butterfly was not yet decided, and the tribe could not be drawn into such a calamity. At the very least, appearances had to be kept, and fairness maintained. Otherwise, should the spirit butterfly be angered, the consequences would be disastrous; the Bamboo Tribe could not afford to be destroyed over this.

The chieftain simmered with frustration. The shaman’s devotion to the spirit bamboo was understandable, but he could not risk the entire tribe for it.

Tension crackled in the air. The rest of the tribe hardly dared to breathe. Their earlier cheers were doused with cold water, leaving a chill in their hearts. Though they said nothing, unease simmered beneath the surface. The shaman’s actions were simply too strange, too unreasonable—wasn’t the spirit butterfly a totem too? This partiality to the bamboo could not stand.

The shaman felt the weight of their silent opposition. If it were only the chieftain, he could have ignored it, but now he sensed resistance from the rest of the tribe as well.

His face darkened with fury, but he forced himself to stifle it. “I have not forgotten,” he said. “Besides the wild ox, don’t we also have a wild boar? The ox is offered to the spirit bamboo; the boar will later be given to the spirit butterfly.”

The tribe, reduced to the old, the weak, the sick, and the few able-bodied, had spent days capturing a wild ox and a wild boar for the offerings. Many bore wounds from the effort.

At this thought, a pang of sorrow struck the shaman—had he truly erred? He pondered in silence.

“No. The weaker the tribe, the more we must rely on our totems. Only the spirit bamboo is trustworthy. Who knows what intentions that foreign spirit butterfly harbors? My actions today may be a drop in the ocean, but perhaps it will allow the spirit bamboo to prevail and defeat the butterfly.”

The chieftain stood silent for a moment, understanding the shaman’s reasoning. If the spirit bamboo, receiving the first offering, gained the upper hand and defeated the butterfly, so much the better. If not, the offering to the butterfly could follow.

Offerings were not merely animal blood; whether ox or boar, these were wild beasts, lacking inherent mystery. Yet their blood, as a medium, mingled with the incense and wishes of the tribe, could, in the unseen realms, summon extraordinary powers.

Such power, bestowed upon the spirit bamboo, could indeed tip the scales. This was no mere fantasy on the shaman’s part; mortals, through ritual, could gamble on the fate of their totems—placing the entire tribe on the table.

If they won, all would be well. Should they fail, disaster would be absolute.

The chieftain’s expression grew complicated. Perhaps such a gamble was not wholly wrong—after all, the tribe had always depended on its totems, sharing fate and fortune. Yet the risks now seemed far too great.

The rest of the tribe, not privy to the shaman’s true intent, found his explanation—delaying the offering to the butterfly—acceptable.

But the chieftain shook his head and said quietly, “Why make such distinctions? Whether ox or boar, why not offer them both together to the totems? This way, both the spirit bamboo and the spirit butterfly may savor both offerings.”

What he truly wished to say was: would the spirit butterfly accept this arrangement? If not, if it responded with wrath, the consequences would be catastrophic—a calamity beyond repair. But now was not the time to speak such words.

Life and death hung in the balance. The chieftain sensed an oppressive pressure, as if it emanated from the altar itself. Was it a warning from the spirit butterfly? It was possible. The real issue was not the sequence of offerings, but that by favoring the spirit bamboo first, it might receive power ahead of the butterfly, upsetting the balance—a straw that could break everything.

Those not involved could never sense the danger lurking beneath. The rest of the tribe, oblivious, thought the chieftain and the shaman petty for bickering over such trifles. Ignorance is bliss, sparing them the torment of anxiety.

The chieftain felt the pressure; the shaman, too, could not ignore it. Yet he refused to yield.

But at that moment, a spirit butterfly appeared beside the spirit bamboo on the bamboo plaque, materializing from the void.

The butterfly’s wings trembled, and the shaman’s face changed. His hope to use the ceremony to empower the spirit bamboo was wishful thinking. So long as the spirit butterfly was not a fool, it would never allow such things to happen.

If the spirit bamboo were allowed to feast alone, what need would there be for the butterfly? If there was food to be had, both must partake together.

A wailing sound arose. Flames suddenly surged, engulfing the wild ox. Still clinging to life, the ox was wrapped in blazing fire, burning like a ball of flame. Its flesh and blood turned to ash, and through the fire, a strange power drifted toward Ye Chen.

On Ye Chen’s spirit butterfly form, a faint, blood-hued mist shimmered, as if a thin veil of blood hovered about his body.