Chapter 23: The Blessing of the Prayer Totem

“Totem!”
Cries of despair echoed through the air. In their moment of peril, the people prayed for the totem's protection, yet a voice of harsh reproach cut through their pleas.

“Do not disturb the totem! The totem itself is already gravely wounded. We cannot let ourselves—useless old and weak—ruin the great undertakings of the totem.”

“Let death take us as it will. Our lives are of no use; we've brought nothing to the tribe, and we must not become a burden.”

Hearing these words, Ye Chen felt a mingled sense of surprise and doubt. He looked more closely and saw that, indeed, some among the tribe wore expressions of utter resignation, yet none spoke of calling upon the totem again. Even when faced with wild boars and grave danger, their resolve remained unchanged.

This was no empty bravado—truly, it seemed everyone shared the same conviction, which left Ye Chen deeply impressed. In the face of life and death, could people truly be so composed? In this light, there was much to admire in these tribesmen.

His only fear was that selfishness might one day prevail, scattering them like sand. If Ye Chen wished to change this atmosphere and hasten the tribe’s growth, it would not be easy.

Of course, as a deity holding dominion over dreams, and with the unique essence of the Spirit Butterfly, Ye Chen could subtly twist the minds of the tribe. This seemed a simple task.

But in truth, altering the mind was no trivial matter. Editing memories required utmost caution—one wrong step, and a person could be reduced to an imbecile, rendering all efforts futile.

Ye Chen intended only the most delicate touch upon the tribe’s memories—the lighter, the better. As for sweeping changes, those were out of the question.

Ultimately, Ye Chen’s current strength was lacking; a ninth-rank deity was hardly formidable.

Instead of killing the wild boars outright, Ye Chen used his dream authority to bewilder their souls, sending them spiraling into confusion and illusion.

Thus, the wild boars, though menacing, became mere shadows of threat. Again and again, they charged in the wrong direction. Even when they should have plowed into the tribespeople, felling them in an instant, they missed every time.

At first, the old and weak were frozen with terror, their limbs numb, but soon they realized that the wild boars seemed blind, and their hearts settled. Gathering their courage, they raised their bamboo blades and struck back.

Clearly, courage was not in short supply.

But the wild boars were too many; no matter how fiercely they fought, there was no end to them. Had these creatures gone mad? What ancient grudge did they harbor? Was it only because the tribe had taken one as a sacrificial offering? Was that boar the prince of swine, of noble blood? The shaman could make no sense of it.

A thunderous rumble split the air, and the world was awash in dazzling golden light, cascading down like rain.

“The totem has acted!”

The tribe burst into cheers, though a few wore grave expressions, their hearts uneasy.

“The totem has yet to recover. Wasting its strength on us proves only how weak we are.”

These words rang with self-reproach, casting a pall over the others’ spirits.

Clearly, the tribe was unaware of the truth: the Spirit Bamboo had fallen, and now the Spirit Butterfly reigned.

If they knew what had truly happened, who could say what chaos might ensue?

Witnessing this, Ye Chen was all the more grateful he had slain the Spirit Bamboo first. Had he delayed, he might not have stood a chance.

Within the tribe, the influence of the Spirit Bamboo ran deep, while Ye Chen had merely slipped in by subterfuge.

Though he had stolen some incense and willpower, his foundation remained shallow—no match for the Spirit Bamboo. Only with time could Ye Chen gradually uproot its lingering influence.

“Slaughter the boars! Imagine being driven to such a sorry state by mere wild swine—how disgraceful!”

Golden light rained down upon the tribe, followed by a thin mist that drifted through the air.

The mist transformed the place into a fairyland, enchanting and beautiful. The pressure in the tribespeople’s hearts lessened, while the wild boars grew increasingly agitated.

In the boars’ eyes, the world became a boundless sea of mist. They brimmed with strength, yet had nowhere to expend it.

The mist had no effect on the tribespeople, who could see the boars standing dazed and inert, devoid of resistance, as though turned to stone within the fog.

Though wild boars are tough and thick-skinned, without resistance they became nothing but heaps of pork.

Bamboo blades slashed fiercely; a boar would grunt and topple, dying a miserable death.

As casualties mounted among the wild boars, the crisis roused some to their senses. They saw their kin die in strange ways, but this only enflamed their ferocity.

The boars snorted and raged, their eyes bloodshot. Gathering together, they formed a moving wall of flesh—but what did it matter? In the end, they were but beasts.

One after another, the wild boars fell. Their vital blood was drained away, their bodies drying up until they resembled slabs of hardened, ancient meat.

“Totem! Totem! Totem…”

Cries of exultation rolled like thunder, echoing through the mountains and forests, driving predatory beasts into panicked flight. In the sound, those wild creatures sensed an overwhelming power—fervent, unsettling.

In their fevered shouts, the totem revealed itself, rescuing the tribe. Amid the drifting rain of light, a Spirit Butterfly could be glimpsed, dancing gracefully.

It became a memory seared into the hearts of the tribespeople—a legend to be recounted for generations.

A simple event, embellished with time, grew distorted, yet took on an aura of divinity.

That Spirit Butterfly, in these tales, became the faith of the tribe, an immortal flame burning above them like the sun.

A torrent of incense and willpower surged forth, originating from the tribespeople, flowing upward in a radiant flood.

The golden light poured onto Ye Chen.

In the mist of light, the Spirit Butterfly danced, as if bathed in eternal flame—a spirit of fire.

Ye Chen gained much: his spent willpower was quickly replenished, with plenty to spare.

No wonder religions have always flourished in times of crisis, yet wither in peace. The greater the peril, the more abundant the offerings of faith.

The wild boars lay dead or dying, the air thickening with the stench of blood.

“Why is there only the Spirit Butterfly? Where is the Spirit Bamboo?”

Some among the tribe murmured in confusion, but soon found an answer.

“The Spirit Bamboo must be too gravely wounded to act.”

They could only comfort themselves with such thoughts. What other reason could there be? None dared pursue it further—the implications were too dreadful.