Chapter 4: The Totem's Internal Strife Erupts

Ye Chen’s spirit butterfly form had already turned to ashes. To break the shackle of the seven-day limit, he would need to transform into a totem. As he saw it, becoming a totem was hardly a matter of personal desire; if he could instead ascend to become a deity, his future prospects would be far greater.

If a totem was akin to the embryonic stage of divine cultivation—worshipped by a single tribe, believed in by one people, but constrained in many ways—then a deity possessed the capacity to be revered by all sentient beings with spiritual awareness.

At this moment, a broken talisman the size of a thumb circulated within Ye Chen’s Mud Pill Palace, and strands of incense and votive power poured into it, slowly mending its fractured form. Should the talisman be restored, it would become a perfect seed of divinity, enabling Ye Chen to truly transform into a deity. This was the initial threshold of the divine path—a step not difficult in worlds where faith in gods thrives. But for Ye Chen, such hope was little more than a distant dream.

“I was too ambitious,” Ye Chen reflected inwardly. “Even if I become a deity, I must masquerade as a totem for now. It’s unrealistic to hope for widespread followers among the various tribes in this world, which so closely resembles the ancient, primitive ages. Humanity has yet to flourish. For the time being, becoming a totem is not unacceptable.”

He longed to advance in one bold leap, but the power of worship was insufficient. All of the votive force he’d obtained had been stolen from the Bamboo Tribe’s totem. Ye Chen’s seizure of their incense and worship was, in truth, a theft without cost. If the totem could speak, it would surely denounce him bitterly.

The opposing currents of incense power clashed and flowed away; for the moment, Ye Chen and the spirit bamboo were locked in a stalemate. Until one side’s power was exhausted, this contest would drag on.

Lacking other means, Ye Chen could only rely on the peach blossom miasma to confound the tribespeople; it had no effect on the totems themselves. Unless Ye Chen’s strength advanced further, enabling him to weave subtler illusions, he could do nothing more for now.

Thus, the situation reached an impasse, and the shaman grew desperate, yet he could not intervene.

After a moment’s hesitation, the shaman approached the withered spirit bamboo, reaching out to touch it. Instantly, the bamboo crumbled to ash, but atop the altar, a golden bamboo seed appeared. The shaman picked it up.

“A totem’s nirvana. The bamboo seed is pure gold—if it takes root and sprouts, it will be born extraordinary.”

The former spirit bamboo, even as a totem, had only a small portion of its trunk suffused with golden light from the incense power. Now, beginning anew from a golden seed, growth would be far more arduous, but the potential was immeasurable.

“If the totem is defeated, even with this seed, it may be too late.”

Evidently, this bamboo seed was a contingency left behind by the totem itself. Had the spirit butterfly not attacked, the seed could have gradually adapted to the power of worship and undergone transformation. But the totem had been gravely wounded—its original bamboo body riddled with holes—beyond mortal repair.

Thus, it had to return to the form of a seed and start afresh.

A faint hum sounded. The shaman looked up to see threads of votive power trickling from the void, descending upon the phantom of the spirit bamboo and the spirit butterfly alike.

“It’s the faith of the tribespeople,” the shaman realized at once.

“With their perceptions twisted, the tribespeople now see both spirit bamboo and spirit butterfly as facets of the totem.”

“I can’t simply stand by and watch. Such distortions of mind can’t be flawless—if I can pierce the illusion, the spirit butterfly’s theft of worship will surely backfire on it.”

But the mists were thick, and to find the tribespeople within this peach blossom haze was no easy feat. Still, the shaman reasoned, “These vapors are all the peach blossom miasma, confusing truth and illusion, casting people into dreamlike confusion. But it is the spirit butterfly who manipulates them. If it dare not divide its attention now, I may be able to reach my people without great difficulty.”

With this in mind, the shaman cast one last, lingering look at the spirit butterfly, then descended from the altar. He had not gone far when he encountered the chieftain.

The shaman was overjoyed, but before he could speak, the chieftain said gravely, “Why has the totem turned upon itself?”

The perplexity in the chieftain’s voice chilled the shaman’s heart. In disbelief, he asked, “You too cannot hold out much longer? So your memories have also been twisted.”

“Can you find a way to stop the totem’s infighting?” the chieftain asked, gazing intently at the shaman. “This division greatly weakens the totem’s power. In the end, our tribe may be left defenseless, doomed to destruction.”

The shaman was about to reply when he noted a subtle intent in the chieftain’s eyes, and a cold realization dawned: the chieftain’s strength was no less than his own, and his will was unyielding—he would not be easily deceived. What if this was all deliberate on the chieftain’s part? Unlike the shaman, whose faith in the totem was devout, the chieftain put the tribe’s survival above all else.

In the past, such differences mattered little; their paths had not diverged, and the interests of totem and tribe were aligned. But now, with the totem imperiled, the chieftain was willing to stand aside? Anger flared in the shaman’s heart, and he nearly confronted the chieftain then and there.

“If the chieftain shrinks from the spirit butterfly’s might, it is understandable. The totem is gravely wounded; all believe it near death. A tribe without a totem is like duckweed without roots—unable to endure for long.”

The shaman suppressed his fury, restraining himself from losing reason. He could understand the chieftain’s actions, but understanding did not mean acceptance.

“The spirit butterfly is an outsider, yet the strength it has revealed is formidable. Replacing the spirit bamboo as the new totem—perhaps, in the chieftain’s eyes, it makes little difference.”

“The totem is important, but compared to the survival of the tribe, it surely weighs less in the chieftain’s mind.”

This thought stoked the shaman’s ire anew. His own power came from the totem, and his bond with it was deep; for the chieftain and the other tribespeople, the totem was more an object of awe than true reverence.

“This is betrayal,” the shaman declared, trembling with rage. “From what I know of you, you would not succumb so easily—certainly not more so than I. Even I can remain clearheaded; how could you fail?”

“Why do you speak such nonsense?” the chieftain replied, puzzled. “It seems you were injured while fighting our foe. You should rest now.”

Unwilling to let the shaman continue, the chieftain drew nearer. Alarmed, the shaman demanded, “What are you doing?” But before he could react, darkness overtook him—the chieftain had struck him unconscious. Supporting the shaman, the chieftain sighed softly, “Why be so stubborn?”

Indeed, the chieftain had chosen to go with the flow, feigning his mind had been twisted. It was precisely because he was so clearheaded that he acted thus.

If the spirit butterfly was defeated and chose to retaliate, it would be all too easy for the tribespeople to perish. An entity capable of altering memories and twisting minds—such a being was terrifying beyond imagination. Even if the chieftain and the shaman survived the butterfly’s wrath, what of the others? Should most of the tribe be slain, the Bamboo Tribe would cease to exist.