Chapter 259: The Full Story

"Is that so? Has that Hungry Spirit escaped again?"

Hearing Ma Ma Zhaodi's question, the Shaman sighed deeply; at this very moment, a trace of compassion actually appeared on his face.

"The sacrifice was in vain."

Hearing the word "sacrifice," Ma Ma Zhaodi suddenly understood something.

"I'm afraid so, old man," Constantine answered the Shaman: "It tempted my friend, extracted itself from the child's body, then was sealed into a magic bottle—and then, it ran out."

The Priest turned and rummaged for something in a cloth sack by his side, asking, "You must bind Him again; can you learn to do it?"

"It's not impossible," Constantine replied: "But I intended to persuade you to do it. I mean, you know how to seal Him and have done it once; why not personally—"

"I cannot do it."

The old man shook his head, pinched Constantine's chin, and stuffed an unknown plant root he had found in the sack into his mouth: "My power is deeply linked to this land, but you are different. If you are strong enough, I can show you the full story and the entirety of this ritual."

Constantine was somewhat helpless: "I guess there is no other way, is there?"

Ma Ma Zhaodi took another root from the Priest's hand; he also mimicked the two of them, put it in his mouth, and began to chew.

The moment the plant root touched the back of his tongue, an intense bitterness spread; Ma Ma Zhaodi almost felt half his tongue completely numbed by the bitter taste, his mouth briefly lost sensation, and after it fell into his stomach, it began to churn violently from the inside.

"God, it's like swallowing a lump of molten lava."

Constantine's voice came from nearby; Ma Ma Zhaodi instinctively looked over, but did not see his figure—in fact, he suddenly could not distinguish what was before his eyes at that moment.

He felt his skull begin to tremble and churn; his brain matter began to boil and run wild, finally completely bursting through the restraints of the skull and flesh, exploding and splashing in all directions.

"Christ—I—hate—hallucinogens—"

The voice in his ear was distant and illusory; Ma Ma Zhaodi could not distinguish who was speaking from the tone of voice; at this moment, he could barely think.

Moments later, a figure suddenly appeared in his blurred vision; it was that old Priest. His pupils were now blood-red; one hand reached toward his own eyes, while the other reached toward Ma Ma Zhaodi—that speed was like lightning, completely impossible to dodge.

Ma Ma Zhaodi watched the rough black hand expand infinitely in his vision; finally, everything before his eyes plunged into darkness. The pain at this moment was like that near-death experience in the clown theater; only three seconds later did that hand move away—and take an eyeball with it.

At the same time, his other hand was clutching one of his own scarlet eyes.

It was strange; neither eyeball had any blood vessels attached, nor was any blood stained on them; it was as if two fruits had simply been plucked from a ripe tree.

He pressed the scarlet eye into Ma Ma Zhaodi's eye socket; in an instant, searing pain came from the eye socket; the light of blood soaked through this eye, and a streak of snow-white light suddenly appeared in the blurred vision.

The thoughts of the three began to run, finally merging into that light; everything before their eyes gradually began to become clear.

"Why is all ancient magic so painful—"

Constantine could not help but emit a groan of pain; it was clear he was not encountering this kind of ancient and primal magic for the first time.

After his vision recovered, corpses appeared before Ma Ma Zhaodi's eyes.

There were children, there were elders; all had dark skin, withered flesh, empty bellies, with only a glimmer of light remaining in their eyes.

Red-eyed flies came following the scent of flesh, enjoying the thick soup of death and disease under the scorching sun, and greedily extracting the scant moisture from the corpses' double eyes.

This was the day that Hungry Spirit was born.

"Suffering is silent, famine is voiceless, yet these all accuse me."

The voice of the old Priest came from Ma Ma Zhaodi's mouth; only then did he realize he was viewing the other's past memories from the old Priest's perspective.

One by one, emaciated figures stood before his eyes; they looked over silently, their eyes filled with pleading; in that instant, Ma Ma Zhaodi truly thought they were looking at him.

"They begged me to protect them, but their fear and hunger gave Namos power—He fed on them; the weaker they were, the stronger He became."

As the Priest spoke, the scene before his eyes began to change; Ma Ma Zhaodi's body moved involuntarily; he extended a hand and pulled a small, thin child from the crowd.

"They are all my children; I must fight for them; I must make a choice—a difficult choice."

Ma Ma Zhaodi fell silent.

He watched as he brought that boy into the hut, tied him up, then took out a knife—all of this was so real, as if he were doing it with his own hands.

The blade cut off the tongue; the fishy scent of blood surged in his nasal cavity; Ma Ma Zhaodi wanted to close his eyes, but he could not. This was only a memory, and he could not control his body within the memory.

"I cut off his tongue so he could not curse us, the clansmen who betrayed him, then began to summon Namos."

Black smoke composed of mosquitoes and flies rose and churned from the ground; a million buzzing sounds were deafening; Ma Ma Zhaodi extended his hand, loudly calling out to that evil spirit, luring it to possess that child's body.

Then, the Hungry Spirit's hunger tormented the boy, devouring his flesh and blood.

The boy's eyes bulged from pain; despairing groans came from his mouth; his limbs thrashed, struggling desperately, but to no avail.

Holding the blood-dripping knife, Ma Ma Zhaodi pinned him down and began carving patterns possessing binding power onto his skin.

One cut after another, crimson blood flowed from the black skin; every cut was a pain that pierced the heart and gouged the bone—for this boy, for the old Priest, and also for Ma Ma Zhaodi.

Although the process was unbearably painful, the old Priest's hand was very steady; two minutes later, he had finished carving the patterns; Namos was now completely trapped within the boy's body, unable to leave.

He held the unconscious boy, carried him out of the hut, and walked step by step into the distance under the scorching sun.

"I placed him in the distant wasteland; I knew Namos would devour him first, and when his flesh and blood were exhausted, Namos would have to continue devouring himself, because that fellow could not escape from this body."

"I left that wasteland; I did not look back."

When the old Priest's voice stopped, the illusion before his eyes finally completely dispersed, returning to that thatched hut.

Ma Ma Zhaodi stood dazed, reaching out to touch his own face; his eyes were intact, only tears wetting his cheeks.

(End of this chapter)