Chapter 10: Severing an Arm to Eliminate Hidden Dangers

The chieftain did not dwell long on the shaman’s injuries. Since this involved the Spirit Bamboo, it was clearly a battle between immortals—one he most certainly wished to avoid. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn into the confrontation between Spirit Bamboo and Spirit Butterfly; he could not distance himself quickly enough, and there was no reason to get involved.

“Catch that wild boar,” he ordered.

Several of the tribe’s able-bodied youths immediately gave chase. They were the last of the Bamboo Clan’s strength; beyond them, only the elderly, the infirm, and the children remained. The scene of the young men surrounding the boar was chaotic and confused.

“Did the wild boar really break its rope by accident? If it’s just coincidence, then all is well, but if there’s more to it…” The chieftain shuddered at the thought and dared not pursue it further. If the Spirit Butterfly had truly tampered with the boar, did that mean she could no longer tolerate the shaman?

Should he simply turn a blind eye, pretending not to see, and let the shaman fall into danger? The chieftain’s heart quivered; he wanted to say something, but offending Spirit Butterfly could bring consequences too dire to guess. One misstep now, and the Bamboo Clan might tumble into the abyss. Since he had already betrayed them once, how could he risk angering Spirit Butterfly at this critical moment? There was no turning back; otherwise, all his past suffering would have been for nothing.

“Spirit Bamboo is still stirring—it should be able to protect the shaman, shouldn’t it?” He could only comfort himself thus. Clearly, the entire clan was too weak to intervene in such a clash of powers; their wishes and fears were irrelevant in the face of such forces.

He drifted into a daze, sensing two powers locked in silent confrontation, like volcanoes gathering strength, ready to erupt at any moment.

“Is Spirit Bamboo about to clash with Spirit Butterfly?” The chieftain and the shaman exchanged a glance, instantly reading each other’s thoughts. The chieftain stepped forward, placing himself protectively before the shaman.

“What do you mean by this, chieftain?” The shaman’s tone was aloof, his attitude cold.

“You know very well,” the chieftain replied. But realizing such words were not fit for the others to hear—lest it seem there was discord between him and the shaman—he hurriedly added, “The shaman has suffered a great fright. Go and rest for now. We’ll resume the Great Sacrifice once the boar is caught.”

The wild boar darted for its life, crashing left and right, eluding capture for the moment.

The shaman snorted coldly, casting a glance at the altar. Seeing even the chieftain nervous, he turned and seated himself in a bamboo chair.

This was deliberate, the chieftain thought with a bitter smile. The shaman was no fool; he too realized that, in the present situation, he could only stand aside and watch.

“This Great Sacrifice seems to be restoring Spirit Bamboo rapidly,” Ye Chen mused. “I cannot sit by any longer. No matter the cost, the threat must be eliminated. If this drags on, there will be no cure, and no human effort will be able to reverse it.”

On the altar, the shadow of Spirit Bamboo swayed, shrouded in crimson flames that bathed it in endless bloodlight—though that light shone with unbridled vigor and vitality.

Golden halos poured down like a deluge—the surging power of incense and prayer—raining upon the spectral bamboo.

The bamboo’s branches were withered and gray, its leaves shriveled, yet its trunk stood proud and unyielding. Fallen leaves, yellowed and dry, carpeted the ground beneath, turning to dust.

With a sharp crack, a dead branch split open, and from within a tender shoot emerged—vivid green, ready to burst forth.

Spirit Bamboo was undergoing transformation, yet at this crucial moment, fortune was still lacking.

Ye Chen pondered, then lowered his gaze toward the depths of the peach grove. Each blossom, set against the vibrant green leaves, was dazzling and delicate. Only one great peach tree stood out—its trunk charred black, but its presence unmistakable. Its branches were bare, its leaves withered, yet a single peach blossom gathered the last of life, welcoming rebirth amidst decay. That blossom swayed in the wind, as if laughing softly.

“Ning Peach Blossom…” Ye Chen’s eyes reflected the stars and moon, recalling scenes of the past—where a butterfly alighted among flowers, perfectly matched. It felt as though it were only yesterday, though their hearts were now changed. If it weren’t necessary, Ye Chen would rather have nothing more to do with Ning Peach Blossom.

“Our first meeting set fate’s path askew. But was it all foreseen by you?” A chill crept into Ye Chen’s heart; if someone had already written the script of your destiny, how could you not be shaken?

Petal after petal drifted down into the tribe. The wind swept a sea of blossoms, as though a god were driving the waves, and the peach flowers rained down, sparking joy and excitement among the people.

“This is a good omen!” they cried.

During the Great Sacrifice, such a change surely meant the totem had manifested.

“Silence! No noise,” the shaman rebuked, and the tribespeople fell instantly silent, subdued like quail.

But the shaman’s face was full of worry. This was no auspicious sign—peach blossoms were inseparable from miasma, and earlier, Spirit Butterfly had come from the Sea of Mist. This change must be linked to her, but the shaman could do nothing to change it.

In the end, in this contest of totems, only Spirit Bamboo and Spirit Butterfly made moves; even the shaman was not a piece on the board.

A spirit butterfly danced, unfurling a dreamscape—a realm of illusion that enclosed the altar in its own world. The shadow of Spirit Bamboo could not escape. Within the dream, it struggled desperately. As golden light poured down, green shoots burst from its branches, stretching in all directions, quickly forming a bamboo forest.

Tall and verdant, the slender bamboos rose like swords, their tender green light flooding the world—a vast ocean of emerald waves, surging endlessly.

The spirit butterfly flitted through the bamboo, leaves swirling, the sky dimmed. Everything seemed draped in a gray veil. Wherever the butterfly passed, peach blossoms bloomed soundlessly in the void. The petals, sharp as blades, sliced through the bamboo as if it were tofu, felling it in an instant.

The shadow of Spirit Bamboo was driven back, as if about to be expelled from the dream world entirely—like a dying candle, its flame twisted and scattered, on the verge of going out. Suddenly, it flared brilliantly—a final burst of light—burning like a star in the night, a torch held high, blazing in this dream.

Throughout the dream realm, crimson fire spread, becoming a domain of flame. The heavens and earth trembled; cracks appeared everywhere. The dream was fragile, and now seemed on the verge of being torn apart.

Spirit Bamboo’s shadow drew upon the power of incense and prayer. Firelight flooded the world, flowing and surging, transforming into myriad fire serpents writhing in the void.

“A dying struggle,” Ye Chen thought. He would sooner lose an arm than allow the threat to remain.

In the dream, peach trees took root in the earth—phantoms, but in dreams, truth and falsehood blur. On every branch, peach blossoms bloomed in riotous color, their fragrance thick as water, saturating the world.

The power of Spirit Bamboo’s shadow dispersed, its position perilous; it was forced to withdraw, shrinking inward. The endless bamboo that had stretched in every direction now gathered into a forest, draping the void in layers of green, slender trunks stabbing into the heavens like swords—yet now, they fell like a defeated army.