Chapter 35: A Stream Flows Across, Revealing Purple Bamboo

Bones simmered in the pot, sending a faint, tantalizing fragrance wafting through the air that made one’s mouth water. Quick-handed tribesmen tossed chunks of wild boar into a stone cauldron, and soon the fat began to render out.

This tempting aroma made some of the tribe hesitate, their feet dragging as they were suddenly reluctant to leave and stash the boar meat in some distant mountain cave. Instead, their stomachs rumbled insistently—a betrayal that brought a flush of embarrassment.

“You really are a glutton,” one tribesman teased, only to be betrayed moments later by the growling of his own belly. The chieftain shook his head and said, “Let’s eat first, then move on.”

Truth be told, the Bamboo Tribe had never enjoyed such abundance. Even at the height of its power, before its numbers had dwindled, the prospect of eating meat meal after meal would have been a near impossibility.

This was an age of scarcity, a time when the land was wild and untamed. Once, a brilliant human civilization had flourished across these vast realms, but those golden ages had long since been swept away by the passage of years. The glories of the past were buried in the dust of time, and those who remembered even the faintest fragment were rare indeed. To dream of more was folly.

To eat wild boar and drink its rich broth—this, now, was happiness.

The chieftain was in good spirits, but he quickly regained his composure. The mountain cave where they intended to store the meat was not far, but it was beyond the safety of the village, and thus fraught with risk.

No elaborate instructions were needed; the tribesmen ate quickly, tying the remaining boar meat with vines and lashing bundles of bamboo together to carry on their shoulders.

Setting down his bamboo bowl, the chieftain called, “Let’s go.”

He led the able-bodied away, leaving only the old and infirm behind in the village. Yet he was not overly concerned. This was the advantage of having a totem.

Within the tribe, the greatest power was not found in the strength of its youth, but in the presence of the totem, which could resolve any threat.

Moreover, with so many wild boars recently slain, their lingering aura was potent—especially to other beasts, whose senses were even keener. In such circumstances, no predator would dare approach. The chieftain and his companions, however, had to be vigilant; the path ahead was far from safe.

Beyond the settlement, a vast bamboo forest spread out before them, its leaves rustling in the wind, the sound crisp and clear.

Ye Chen devoted part of his attention to watching over the chieftain and the others—rather like an anxious matron, but there was little choice. The tribe was too fragile, unable to withstand any significant blow; a single setback could spell total collapse.

If something happened to the chieftain and his group, the consequences would be dire.

“I can channel divine power into the chieftain and the others, borrowing their senses to observe the surroundings. This way, the cost to my strength is much lighter,” Ye Chen realized with satisfaction. It was a fortunate discovery; otherwise, he would not have lasted long.

“But why is this? Are these tribespeople considered my believers now?” he mused.

“Using them as vessels, it’s far easier to project my divine power than to wield it directly.”

The chieftain felt a warm current flowing through his body, invigorating his aging frame with what seemed like new life.

“This must be the work of the Spirit Butterfly,” he thought, his gaze flickering, but he did not dwell on it. Instead, he relaxed; with the totem watching over them, even danger seemed less daunting.

“If we dig up a few bamboo shoots from this forest and stew them with the wild boar, the flavor will be wonderful,” someone suggested.

“True. Boar is delicious, but it can get a bit greasy,” another agreed, prompting the chieftain’s face to darken.

“Greasy? That won’t kill you,” he snapped, shooting a fierce glare at the complainer, who shrank back, not daring to grumble further.

After all, how many dishes had they eaten? Were they so spoiled as to complain now? Did they imagine meat would be on the menu every day? Such good fortune was a dream come true—greed on top of this was infuriating, and the chieftain was understandably annoyed.

“Still, if we have time, we could dig some shoots,” he conceded. Some of the older bamboo would yield extraordinary shoots, prized for their nourishing properties.

Though not true spirit herbs, they could still replenish the body.

At this moment, some members of the tribe were on the verge of a breakthrough. A little more spiritual energy and their bodies might be further refined—perhaps even stepping into a new realm.

“If we find shoots that have transformed into spirit varieties, they could be used in the Great Rite,” someone said, and Fang could barely contain his excitement.

Fang’s own breakthrough was thanks to the Great Rite; without it, relying solely on his own efforts would have been nearly impossible.

If another Great Rite could be held, surely everyone’s strength would advance.

The group made their way through the bamboo forest, sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy in fragmented beams.

Using the chieftain’s senses, Ye Chen surveyed the surroundings, his heart stirring. “Looks like I’ve found something good.”

He didn’t alert the others. After the chieftain’s party moved on, a spirit butterfly fluttered through the air—Ye Chen’s avatar, sent ahead to investigate.

This avatar, condensed from the power of faith, was a stroke of luck for Ye Chen. It was no bigger than a palm and cost little to maintain.

For Ye Chen, creating such avatars was no hardship, but they had their limitations. Their strength was unimpressive, but by drawing on the power of the virtual realm, they could not be dismissed entirely.

Still, their existence was fleeting. The power of faith, though condensed into an avatar, was essentially cobbled together by Ye Chen, full of flaws and destined to dissipate quickly.

Otherwise, with Ye Chen’s current strength, creating endlessly potent avatars would be unthinkable.

Moreover, faith was always in short supply, and even if it was abundant, it was never enough; it could not be wasted lightly.

If not for this significant discovery, Ye Chen would never have risked such extravagance.

Deeper in the bamboo forest, a small stream wound its way through the undergrowth.

It was not the stream that caught his attention, but what grew on its bank—a stalk of bamboo gleaming with crystalline purple light, shrouded in a misty haze, extraordinary at first glance.

Looking at this purple bamboo, Ye Chen’s thoughts turned to the golden bamboo seed left by the old totem in the tribe.

That totem, having spent much energy to produce the golden seed, had clearly created something valuable. Yet, compared to this purple bamboo, the golden seed seemed of a lower order.

At least, Ye Chen had never felt such an irresistible allure from the golden seed—though perhaps that was because it had not yet matured.

Ye Chen fixed his gaze on the purple bamboo, sensing that it lacked true sentience—a fact that did not surprise him.

For plants, unlike beasts, to transform into spirits was a near-impossible feat, let alone to develop intelligence. Such miracles required endless ages to unfold.

The spirit bamboo in the Bamboo Tribe had become a totem only because faith had gathered around it, shaped by the mysterious workings of the human heart. The two could not be compared.