Chapter 20: The Body Remains, the Spirit Is Extinguished

“Huh? Fang, did you break through?”
Though the grand ritual in the Bamboo Tribe had ended, the people had not dispersed yet. The spiritual vortex was gone, but the lingering energy remained thick; no one was willing to let such an opportunity slip away.
Ordinarily, that spiritual energy could only heal old wounds; as for breaking through, such a notion was unthinkable. Ye Chen had not used the power of incense and wishes, so it wasn’t the strength of a totem. To break through meant a fundamental shift in one’s existence—a feat not easily achieved, requiring the totem’s power to shatter the shackles and allow the mortal body to ascend to another level.
That is not to say it is impossible to break through on one’s own, but it is exceedingly rare.
Yet the chief noticed an astonishing surge of energy emanating from Fang, and was greatly delighted.
“It seems you have indeed broken through.”
Fang grinned sheepishly, “My strength has grown much more than before.”
“What a pity,” the chief said with regret, “Our tribe lacks proper inheritance. Without cultivation methods, even if you happen to break through by sheer luck, it will be difficult to continue on this path.”
He sighed, “If the opportunity arises, Fang, you should venture out and broaden your horizons. Perhaps you’ll stumble upon some lost teachings, and the road ahead will open up.”
Ye Chen spared some attention to the changes in the tribe, surprised to witness someone break through.
“This is promising—a formidable tool. The tribe is about to grow; he can be appointed as the vanguard.”
Ye Chen had already made arrangements for Fang in his mind, then glanced at the chief.
“Fortunately, the chief is shrewd enough. With such a valuable asset, he should use him well. Otherwise, I wouldn’t hesitate to replace him.”
The chief was clever, there was no need to dispose of him. It would be beneath a deity to intervene directly; Ye Chen had no intention of usurping the chief’s position.
There was simply no need. As long as the chief did not wish for the Bamboo Tribe to be reduced to dust, he would not dare offend those best left unprovoked.
“The chief is easy enough to handle, but the shaman is a hidden danger.”
Murderous intent surged in Ye Chen’s heart. Yet eliminating the shaman was inadvisable—not for lack of power, but because the tribe was still far too weak. Lacking the shaman’s leadership, it would collapse swiftly.
If that happened, all Ye Chen’s efforts would be wasted—a futile struggle, like drawing water with a bamboo sieve.

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“Although I have broken through and ascended to the ninth rank, becoming a true deity, it is in name only; my strength remains weak.”
“It’s easy enough to deal with those of feeble will, but stubborn elders like the shaman are not so easily dismissed.”
Ye Chen pondered, and conceived a plan.
“I can do nothing to the shaman, but I can squeeze the softer fruit.”
“If I turn the tribe’s people into my followers, what can the shaman do, no matter his schemes? He would be nothing but an empty figurehead, incapable of harming me.”
Indeed, Ye Chen’s wariness of the shaman stemmed from his unique position—a deep influence within the tribe.
But if the tribe’s people’s minds are bent to Ye Chen’s will, the shaman becomes a feeble old man, devoid of any threat. Ye Chen could then afford to be magnanimous.
As the grand ritual ended, the tribespeople dispersed.
Though only Fang broke through, others had also benefited. All needed to spend the night in absorption and reflection; tonight would likely be sleepless for many.
The chief and the shaman entered a bamboo hut, both bearing heavy expressions.
“I have said all that needs saying. I hope you will remember the tribe before acting,” the chief urged.
The shaman’s face darkened. He replied coldly, “You think putting the tribe first is always right? How laughable.”
“I know your mind well. You believe that as long as the tribe survives, any humiliation is justified. But you fail to see—once the totem is abandoned, any tribesperson can be discarded. When unity is lost, the tribe may remain in form, but will not last long.”
“Do you think such a weak tribe has endured for so many years merely by luck?”
“Mortals are like insects—ants, weak in themselves. Even the wolves in the mountains know to unite, yet humans are less wise than beasts.”
The chief’s face was grim. He snorted, “If everyone dies, what you say is empty—worthless. It has no meaning.”
“No. Today the tribe’s body remains, but its spirit is dead. In these Demon Ridge wilds, countless weak tribes rise and fall daily, like ants, eking out a meaningless existence.”
“If not for cooperation, how could we have achieved a miracle? With such weakness, to be remembered by heaven and earth for a hundred years—next century, we will be dust, ruins, our trace erased from the world.”

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“Hmph, nonsense.”
The chief’s face was livid as he retorted, “I know that even if I must kneel, as long as we live, that is enough. It’s not that I wish to abandon the totem, but death is simple—life is hard. As long as I live, I will not let the tribe perish.”
“You speak lightly, shaman, but the tribe cannot be destroyed by your pride or mine. Seeking glory in the moment does not make you brave. You are not a brute; if you were a warrior, I would salute you. But as shaman, you are meant to be our wisdom, the backbone of the tribe. This impulsiveness ill suits you.”
The chief’s mood soured—not because the shaman’s words were wrong, but because priorities must be weighed. The shaman understood, yet could not overcome his inner turmoil.
Who didn’t know the shaman’s deep affection for the totem? But those in high places cannot act without restraint.
To the chief, the shaman was failing in his role.
Yet, recalling the earlier ritual, the shaman had not sabotaged it or given up in despair. The chief’s heart softened; had he provoked the wrath of the Spirit Butterfly, the consequences would have been irreparable.
Yes, the shaman had compromised. Even the most stubborn souls fear not their own death, but are not invulnerable; they cannot be utterly fearless.
His words now were, perhaps, just his lingering regret.
Ah, who among us is free from regrets?
The chief drew a deep breath and sighed, “Let us wait and see. We know little of the Spirit Butterfly. Whether we were wrong will only become clear with time.”
“We should part ways.”
He shook his head, “This bamboo hut is theoretically shielded from the totem’s power—very secret. But if we linger, we may arouse the totem’s suspicion, and invite trouble.”
“That is unnecessary. Now, the tribe’s recovery is most urgent—not internal division.”