Chapter 24: Brazen Encroachment on Authority

The shaman had not yet awakened, and Ye Chen was in no hurry; instead, he turned his attention to the chief. As for the chief, Ye Chen could never fully trust him—at a critical moment, he might well be betrayed, and that would be disastrous. For this reason, Ye Chen decided to seize the chief’s body outright, rather than using the chief as a puppet to slowly reshape the tribe.

The chief’s divine soul was left in the Dreamscape, not erased outright by Ye Chen. Within this Dreamscape, bamboo groves, rivers, and mountains all appeared, more vivid and lifelike than before, almost indistinguishable from the real world. Of course, upon closer inspection, there were still indistinct, blurred regions—places like censored mosaics—blind spots in memory that left the Dreamscape incomplete.

These, too, were limits beyond Ye Chen’s grasp, even with his divine authority over dreams. Just as a mountain god must have a peak to preside over, a land god a stretch of earth, a river god a domain of flowing waters, and a lake god a basin to rule, even a Night-Wandering Spirit could not roam freely without limit, but was bound as an attendant deity to the City God, with a territory circumscribed. So it was for Ye Chen as the Dream God—his authority had boundaries. Within the Dreamscape, he could wield his powers almost without hindrance, for this realm was a patchwork of dreams he had stitched together, a monstrous amalgamation, still lacking in many respects. To operate in the outside world, he would consume much more incense and willpower.

In other words, the Dreamscape was Ye Chen’s legitimate domain; to move elsewhere was not impossible, but would be vastly more costly.

“There are still many shortcomings here,” Ye Chen mused, “but the Dreamscape has yet to reach its ultimate form. For now, I can use more dreams to fill the gaps—if quality is insufficient, quantity will suffice. That alone can take the Dreamscape to the next level.”

This was Ye Chen’s advantage: wielding the authority of dreams, such feats were hardly difficult. If he were a land god, for instance, expanding one’s domain would be nearly impossible—territory is not so easily enlarged.

The chief now seemed dejected, unable to imagine such an end. “I thought I might still be of some value,” he murmured inwardly. “How laughable. Whether the Spirit Bamboo or the Spirit Butterfly prevails, there may be no place for me. I have transgressed a taboo; unable to share in adversity, I am a fishbone caught in the throat—perhaps not enough to do harm, but enough to linger in resentment.”

“What surprises me is how early they chose to act against me. Spirit Butterfly’s foundation is still unsteady; to strike so hastily is unwise. At the very least, it should have waited until it had truly taken root in the tribe. Then, if it wished me dead, there would be reason. But since they have made their move, why not kill me outright?”

Within the Dreamscape, although the chief was now a mere soul, he could speak as if he still had flesh and blood; such was one of the Dreamscape’s peculiarities.

“Because you are still useful,” Ye Chen’s voice came coolly. “I know little of the Bamboo Tribe. I need you for that.”

The chief gave a wry smile. Yes, still useful. That had been his hope—he thought that even if Spirit Butterfly gained the upper hand, for a time, things would remain as they were.

Even though he was unfamiliar with Spirit Butterfly, unlike with Spirit Bamboo, if he lacked the strength to change anything, he would simply accept his fate. He saw nothing wrong in that.

He simply had not expected Spirit Butterfly to act so unpredictably. Since when did totems intervene directly? The chief held a high position, but it was a life of toil, nothing to envy. As a totem, being worshipped and enjoying incense and willpower—was that not preferable? Spirit Butterfly’s actions now were truly absurd.

Absurd, perhaps, but Ye Chen saw no issue. Even if things went awry and the chief’s body was ruined, it would not affect Spirit Butterfly itself.

In truth, Ye Chen could have treated the chief as a mere tool, a mouthpiece, using his power to reform the tribe. But after a moment’s thought, he dismissed the notion.

There was no need. Such actions might tarnish one’s divinity, a willful fall from the status of a god, but what did that matter to Spirit Butterfly’s true self? Ye Chen did not care.

He had no ties to the chief; if the chief died, Ye Chen would feel nothing. In fact, now that he had assumed the chief’s identity, he might even inject a note of legend into an otherwise mediocre life. If, in the future, the tribe grew strong and prosperous, the chief would be remembered as a pivotal figure.

Is that not something to lose sleep with excitement over? Moreover, the chief’s soul was preserved in the Dreamscape—not truly dead. Here, he was free from aging and death, free from the limits of natural lifespan.

Within Ye Chen’s domain as the Dream God, he was the omnipotent creator. At a single word, mountains and rivers could be transformed, the seasons made to turn with ease.

Perhaps, one day, this might become the paradise of the chief’s dreams.

Yet the chief’s heart was still filled with bitterness; he had not thought so far ahead, only that his death would be an agonizing waste. But facing Ye Chen and such power, what room was there for resistance?

“Aren’t you afraid your tribesmen will notice something amiss and unrest will follow, threatening the unity of the tribe?” the chief asked.

Ye Chen merely smiled. “Unrest? To be honest, apart from you and the shaman, who in my presence could even muster the will to resist? If anyone did suspect something, I could simply warp their mind and make them my loyal follower. It’s hardly a problem.”

At these words, the chief’s heart sank; he was nearly furious enough to spit blood. To twist another’s mind—such was the work of a demon.

“This man is utterly unrestrained—how could he be anything but a tyrant?” the chief thought bitterly. Yet what was the use of words? If talking could make Ye Chen feel regret or remorse, that would be a joke.

Ye Chen no longer paid him any heed. A wisp of his divine soul descended into the Niwan Palace of the chief’s body, using incense and willpower to dissolve the barriers. At last, soul and flesh became one, and Ye Chen truly felt the power of the body.

Before, his soul had merely floated, rootless as willow fluff in the sky, able to depart the chief’s body at any moment. Now, fused with the flesh, it was not so easily parted. Though this might seem a disadvantage, it was not so. The body protected the soul.

The body was a shell, and the soul was weak. If not for Ye Chen’s use of incense power to forge spiritual radiance and merge it with his soul, a gust of wind or a shaft of sunlight could have scattered the soul to ash in an instant.

Ye Chen’s spiritual strength was now divided in two, which was a considerable sacrifice. Wounds to the soul are slow to heal. Yet for the path Ye Chen had chosen, this was essential. To drive the tribe’s development, he could not rely on another.