Chapter 3: Twisted Consciousness Seizes the Incense

Dense mist swirled, then flowed like slender streams, drifting through the void. At the heart of this endless sea of fog hovered the spirit butterfly, stirring vast, tumultuous whirlpools. It was as if ink was being splashed, the gathering and dispersing mist sketching out vivid scrolls of landscape paintings.

As the scrolls unfurled, one could see members of the Bamboo Tribe hunting, fighting, and battling wild beasts. They hauled the massive carcasses back to the tribe.

The shaman’s expression shifted as he stared fixedly at the painting. It showed the tribesmen lost in dreams—a scene vaguely familiar to him. Soon enough, he spotted his own figure.

"The Great Tribal Rite."

Everything depicted in the scroll seemed ordinary enough; though called a dream, it was merely a replaying of memories. Yet in no time, the scroll’s images began to shift and accelerate, speeding toward the moment of the Great Rite. There, upon the altar, a stalk of spirit bamboo swayed, with a spirit butterfly circling above.

The shaman staggered, nearly toppling from the altar—if not for regaining his composure, a fall from the thirty-foot height would have been disastrous. He thrust out a trembling finger, pointing at the spirit butterfly, his voice brimming with indignation.

"You twist the minds of my people, making them believe that our totem is not only the spirit bamboo, but you, the spirit butterfly as well. But a falsehood remains false—are you not afraid that one day this illusion will shatter? When the power of faith turns against you, you will be doomed beyond redemption."

Ye Chen looked at the shaman, a murderous intent rising within him. "I didn’t expect that, even with your memory distorted, you could still remain lucid. Pity. A hero to your people, a foe to me. To become a shaman, you must possess extraordinary qualities. But if you can't be used by me, I’ll have to cut you down with regret."

Though he felt some regret, once the killing intent surged, there was not the slightest hesitation.

Powerful waves of faith surged forth, flooding toward Ye Chen. A faint golden glow appeared before him, gathering and transforming into a mighty river. On its shimmering surface, light danced like limpid eyes, the moonlight frosted and cold. Now, as the sun set and dusk thickened, sparse stars studded the heavens, and a waning moon hung high.

Silver moonlight, using bamboo as its brush and the endless night as its ink, painted a tranquil landscape. The bamboo forest swayed, whispering with the wind.

With faith gathered, a golden longsword took shape, its light singing as it shot skyward—like a golden bolt of lightning cleaving through the sea of mist, tearing open the heavy fog.

Clouds and mist gathered and scattered, now hidden, now revealed; each patch like fish scales, or folds of brocade.

The entire Bamboo Tribe was shrouded in this mist. The bamboo huts, green stones, and flowing streams were all concealed within the vast sea of fog.

Ye Chen struck, parting the mist with cold, murderous intent. The shaman felt an icy chill, as if targeted by a venomous serpent, his hair standing on end. He did not fear death, but he was unwilling to yield.

Suddenly, the sound of a bamboo flute rose, its notes abrupt and strange. Golden flames shimmered along the flute’s length, interwoven with tendrils of black.

A jolt of disbelief struck Ye Chen. Was the totem about to rise from its grave even now? It seemed utterly absurd.

The bamboo flute slipped from the shaman’s grasp and floated in the air. Then, the entire altar began to glow.

Joy lit up the shaman’s face. "The totem lives yet!"

But as soon as the words left his lips, the bamboo flute cracked with a sharp snap and fell to the ground.

His expression twisted again as the flute’s light faded entirely and his hope plummeted. How could this be? Just as hope had been kindled, it was kicked into the abyss—worse than never having hoped at all.

Ye Chen, on the other hand, remained calm and cautious. Unlike the shaman, he didn’t believe the danger had passed. Changes in the flute might be a final spasm—a dying totem would still stir up some commotion. For things to die down so easily seemed unlikely.

Sure enough, on the spirit bamboo, branch after branch withered, leaves drifting down. Golden halos gathered, swirling in the void, until they formed a phantom of spirit bamboo, as long as an arm.

Meanwhile, the real stalk of spirit bamboo on the altar completely withered, its life force utterly spent.

"Again, the spirit bamboo’s phantom."

Ye Chen’s mood soured. He had seen this trick before—had it not been for his alliance with Ning Peach Blossom, he might have fallen for it. Totems were not to be trifled with, but that was only because Ye Chen was still too weak.

"Knowing my own weakness, I supplemented with the toxic miasma from the peach blossoms and used the spirit butterfly’s innate powers to weave dreams, blurring reality, and thus distort the minds of the Bamboo Tribe. I made them believe I was their totem. But to erase the spirit bamboo from their memories entirely and replace it with myself—that’s impossible, too drastic a change."

"My only option was to add my presence atop the spirit bamboo, leaving it intact—just one more spirit butterfly. At least the logic of memory would not break down."

"My plan worked—those tribesmen’s perceptions were twisted. But I hadn’t expected the withered spirit bamboo to stir again; this exceeded my expectations. I can’t expect Ning Peach Blossom to intervene again."

Ye Chen was deeply wary of Ning Peach Blossom and preferred to avoid further entanglements unless absolutely necessary.

However, this time the phantom was much smaller, only as long as an arm—its strength severely diminished, the threat to Ye Chen much reduced. Realizing this, he remained alert but no longer felt the spirit bamboo was insurmountable. Perhaps at its peak, he would have had to retreat, but now, even a tiger’s tail might be safely tugged.

"If I keep seizing the power of faith, the spirit bamboo’s tricks will be useless in the end."

Ye Chen had already surreptitiously diverted some of the faith power meant for the spirit bamboo, which had pushed the totem to its limit. Some of its consciousness lingered, preventing its complete demise. Had Ye Chen not appeared, given time, the spirit bamboo might have recovered. But fate had intervened; Ye Chen had become its tribulation.

Without faith to sustain it, such grievous wounds would have spelled the spirit bamboo’s end, with no hope of revival. For now, it was faith alone keeping it alive.

Normally, it was impossible to steal another’s faith power. Even though Ye Chen had twisted the tribesmen’s minds, the faith they offered now would be his, but the faith previously accumulated rightfully belonged to the spirit bamboo—no one should be able to touch it. Yet Ye Chen was not bound by common logic; he could accomplish the impossible.

"Did Ning Peach Blossom hold back on purpose, or is this just another favor she’s selling twice?" Ye Chen thought of the immense peach tree in the orchard, its trunk charred black as though struck by lightning—such an existence was terrifying. Upon it, a single peach blossom was about to bloom, heralding new life.

Suppressing his urge to investigate further, Ye Chen refocused on the spirit bamboo. If it still had any strength, it would not have waited until now to act. It had been forced to the edge, with no way out.

"The spirit bamboo is making a last, desperate stand, forcibly wielding the power of faith against me. But since the minds of the Bamboo Tribe are already under my sway, I am confident—victory is not out of reach."

Threads of faith power wove together, forming raging flames. The spirit butterfly beat its wings, and, reborn amid the flames, surged with golden light as it dove fiercely at the phantom bamboo.

Boom!

The most intense clash took place upon the soul. In the brutal exchange, the faith power became a single, devastating burst—leaving the phantom bamboo dim and shadowed, while the spirit butterfly fared no better.

It was a disaster. The hard-won faith power was squandered in an instant. Ye Chen’s heart ached with the loss.