Chapter 30: Struck Down in a Single Blow

“Failure.”

On a mountaintop of Demon Ridge, a voice filled with disappointment drifted through the night.

“The totem still has some strength left; that’s not surprising. Even a centipede clings to life after death. If the totem made no move at all, that would be more concerning.”

“But those wild boars, how could they be so useless? They died too quickly—could it be the totem truly has some hidden power?”

It was precisely to prevent the Bamboo Tribe’s totem from recovering its vitality that calculations were made, hoping to strike while the serpent was weak. If it survived, it would only bring calamity. Now was the chance to end it with one blow, to ensure the Bamboo Tribe did not regain its breath.

“Too bad. Too many ill-intentioned eyes covet my Dove Tribe. I couldn’t risk bringing everyone, nor dare reveal our weakness. I had to come alone.”

“It’s a great risk. Every day I linger outside, my tribe is endangered. I brought some hidden cards, leaving the tribe more vulnerable than ever, hoping to vanquish this formidable enemy. If not, the consequences are hard to foresee.”

Beneath the moonlight, the envoy from the Dove Tribe melted into the boundless darkness. His sigh echoed among the grass and trees, then faded, unknown to any soul.

The lush, verdant forests concealed all sins, leaving only the emerald green saturating the mountains.

“A tribe without a totem faces such situations—always fearing that, one day after hunting, they’ll return to find everything destroyed.”

The silver moon cast a tranquil glow. The night wind brought chill.

Beside the Dove Tribe figure, a ghost-faced dove quietly devoured raw meat, the scent of blood wafting through the wilds. Bathed in dark light, its presence exuded a sinister aura—an omen of ill fortune. This was the Dove Tribe’s unique spirit beast, said to walk the edge of life and death, kin to the monstrous and bizarre.

This world buries countless glorious histories. Once romantic tales have vanished, underground bones bear witness to legends washed away by wind and rain, ancient stories turned to ash—yet not all is lost.

Among the wilds and forests, across rivers and plains, numberless monsters roam, brimming with hatred toward the living. Their resentment and obsession manifest as soul-chasing, life-taking agents, embodiments of the world’s original sin.

The ghost-faced dove was once a living creature, but has been tainted by the dead’s relentless obsession, becoming something other.

The Dove Tribe, by chance, befriended the ghost-faced dove—riding it at leisure.

The Bamboo Tribe chose the wrong target, picking the Dove Tribe as its soft prey. Their eye for opportunity was sorely lacking.

Thus, the battles that followed were fierce and bloody.

Reflecting on it, the bitterness was overwhelming. So many tribes exist here, and yet they gnawed on a hard bone, breaking their teeth—cut down before their ambitions could bloom.

It was merely a spark of greed, a desire to see their tribe thrive, but now it teetered on the brink of ruin.

No sympathy deserved—only just deserts. This world is one of the strong preying on the weak; rites and morals mean nothing, only strength decides fate.

The Dove Tribe envoy felt no hatred, even though trouble from the Bamboo Tribe came unbidden. He accepted the cruel law of survival.

Of course, acceptance did not mean abandoning enmity—here he stood, after all. One side must fall, either death for you or survival for me—or perhaps both, for many lurk in the shadows with ill intent.

Once the ghost-faced dove had eaten its fill, it opened its beak and spat out a mass of black light. The light swirled and gathered, finally merging into a mirror-like surface.

Ripples shimmered across the surface, crystalline lights spreading in all directions. Within, an altar appeared, shrouded in hazy golden rain—a scene of sacredness.

Below the altar, a surge of black mist revealed a wild boar.

Its bones exposed, blood streaming, eyes crimson with murderous intent—it looked terrifying.

“That wild boar monster still lives, not destroyed. My predictions were correct. The totem is not omnipotent, especially wounded as it is.”

“In that case, things are simple: feed all the resentment to the wild boar monster.”

The ghost-faced dove screeched, unwilling but compelled to obey.

Black mist surged toward the wild boar monster, which began a mysterious transformation. Beneath the altar, the air seemed colder, frost blossomed on the earth.

Within the Bamboo Tribe, wild boar corpses littered the ground, many bamboo huts collapsed in chaos.

“Bring some people here. Cook the wild boar king. It’s about to transform into a spirit beast—its meat will surely replenish our vitality.”

Ye Chen’s heart stirred. He looked up to see below the altar, the wild boar monster enveloped in ever-thickening black mist.

“Interesting.”

The black mist twisted around the wild boar, whose crimson eyes glared with endless killing intent, fixed on the shaman.

The shaman felt a chill—like being stalked by a terrifying beast—strangely unsettling.

He glanced around, finding nothing, and dismissed the feeling.

He shot Ye Chen a look, saw him deep in thought and giving no orders, so the shaman went to call for people, urging them to quickly clear the wild boar corpses.

The tribe lay in shambles, but immediate concerns took precedence. In the dim night, sparse stars and a waning moon hung high, beastly roars echoing, filling hearts with sorrow.

Before the altar, spirit butterflies danced, divine power thundered toward the wild boar monster.

Panic and anxiety grew within the monster, a terror akin to facing a mortal enemy. It longed to flee but was trapped, divine power sealing it in mysterious ways.

A hum sounded.

The black mist churned, the wild boar monster snorting furiously, yet shrinking in size, then suddenly bounced before the spirit butterflies, as if turned into a puppet.

It struggled, desperately, but could not break free.

The wild boar monster continued to transform, torrents of black mist surged inward, streams of blood essence rose like smoke. Its form solidified from illusion to reality, seeming truly extraordinary.

Yet it was useless. In Ye Chen’s presence, the wild boar monster seemed pitifully weak, lacking even the right to bare its fangs.

“The tribe’s youth have lost much vitality—surely the Dove Tribe’s envoy took some blood essence, now transferred to the wild boar monster. They must have high hopes for it.”

Ye Chen smiled softly. “So, the wild boar monster is actually remarkable? Is the Dove Tribe’s envoy certain the wild boar monster won’t be exposed?”

He was puzzled. “I discovered the wild boar monster early—it’s not hidden. Yet the tribe’s youth transformed into ghosts by special means, temporarily masked from my senses. Without a touch of the profound power from the Sea of Rules, I might still know nothing.”

He soon set aside the doubt—no need to dwell.

Perhaps the totem, gravely wounded, should not have concerned itself much with a mere sacrificial boar. Missing the wild boar monster was not impossible.

By the time they realized, it might be too late—the very outcome the Dove Tribe’s envoy hoped for.

Ye Chen sneered inwardly. Too bad—the spirit bamboo is already doomed. All schemes built upon it are destined for futility.