Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen: The Sacrifice

West of the city, a two-story tavern faintly emerged from the night, its eaves hanging a sign reading “Closed for Business.”

Old Zhang’s tavern had operated in Fenghuai for many years, until last month a stranger offered to buy it; Old Zhang was reluctant at first, but the man gave him a great deal of silver.

Since then, the tavern had remained shut, occasionally only a few outsiders entering and leaving, never speaking—people speculated it was under renovation.

Behind the building lay a modest grove of trees, beneath which lay the tavern’s underground wine cellar.

The cellar originally had only two rooms, but as business flourished, Old Zhang spent money to dig it deeper into five chambers; fearing collapse, he even hired an elderly craftsman from the county.

The newly expanded cellar had two entrances: one in the grove, accessible by a narrow path, wide enough to transport large wine casks; the other behind the tavern’s rear room, narrow enough for only one person at a time, allowing prompt supply for sales.

At this moment, the entrance in the grove stood open, as eyeless figures, their foreheads marked with pale blue fire talismans, marched stiffly inside, as if plunging headfirst into the mouth of a monstrous beast.

Inside the cellar.

All had gathered in the largest chamber; if any ordinary Fenghuai citizen entered, they would surely gasp and cover their eyes in shock.

It was a strange sensation: the vision suddenly brightened, yet simultaneously lost a layer—as if the light dispelled darkness while also stripping away part of one’s sight.

Only when their hands slowly lowered did they realize what it was—the light banishing darkness was not the warm, soft orange of oil lamps, but a haunting white and blue.

Most had only ever seen three kinds of light: the brilliant white of sunlight, the orange-yellow of fire, and the luminous white of moonlight. But blazing at the center of the wall was a fourth color, as if drawn from some unknown, secret ghostly realm.

The flame’s movement also differed from normal fire, appearing slow and feeble, evoking a sense of stillness, hardness, viscosity, even coldness.

Behind the flame, the wall bore a precisely carved, massive abstract fire symbol, painted in half black-purple and half crimson-gold, radiating solemn, eerie ritual gravity.

Before the flame stood a stand, upon which rested a peculiar rod-like object, seemingly bronze, covered in intricate, dizzying patterns. One end was sharply pointed, as if forged for piercing, the other shaped like a gourd, perhaps a vessel. Perhaps an illusion from the strange light, the gourd seemed to breathe and writhe.

Seven figures stood in the chamber: six with vacant eyes, standing before the flame; one clad in a white robe, sword at his waist, waiting by the entrance.

After an indeterminate time, heavy footsteps approached, then the sound of a door being pushed open.

The stench of blood filled the air; the newcomer threw off his black robe to one side, dropped the final offering onto the floor, then pulled out a porcelain bottle and swallowed several healing pills.

His body was caked in blood: a deep slash across his back had soaked through his clothes; dried blood trails ran down his left arm; the worst wounds were on his chest and abdomen—two puncture wounds. All had stopped bleeding, yet remained unbandaged.

For Wu Zai Gu, tonight had been a grueling one.

In truth, the seeds were sown last night: the fish that had inexplicably slipped from the net disrupted the ritual; though he had swiftly compensated, the backlash from the second invocation of “Dragon’s Tongue” was not diminished in the slightest.

Fortunately, the father and daughter had provided him some amusement, or his rage would have had no outlet.

To prevent last night’s mishap from recurring, Wu Zai Gu had come in person tonight.

Yet at the county office, the timely arrival of the artifact was already unexpected; who knew that the five-pulse waste was actually a direct disciple of Xiaoyun Mountain? By sheer coincidence, he had inadvertently become a threat.

He could have withdrawn calmly, avoided the sharp edge, and returned later—but the man’s casual waste of his entry into a great sect enraged him; so he did not retreat or dodge, but cut him down blade by blade with brute force.

Yet this battle had nearly wiped out his own men, forcing him to personally retrieve the remaining offerings one by one.

Though there had been some turbulence, all seven materials were now here, awaiting only the appointed hour to receive the Sacred Body and inherit the Divine Grace.

Wu Zai Gu glanced at the row of vacant faces before him, nodded in satisfaction, closed his eyes, and let the white-robed man bind his wounds.

Time slipped away.

There was no water clock in the cellar, but Wu Zai Gu’s mind held an exact timepiece; after long waiting, at a precise moment, it clicked—“tick”—and he opened his eyes.

The hour had come.

In the next instant, the base of the gourd-tipped rod glowed with You light, suddenly sprouting seven pale blue tendrils, like a strange flower bursting into bloom. The ends of these tendrils were conical spikes, their interiors swirling with viscous fluid.

The white-robed man, standing ready, lifted seven small bronze cups and placed them one by one beneath the tendrils.

Wu Zai Gu changed into a brand-new black robe and fresh boots, then solemnly washed his hands with meticulous care, leaving no speck uncleaned; when finished, he stepped forward two paces and stood silently beside the gourd-tipped rod, eyes closed.

The white-robed man stood solemnly before, clasping a scroll in both hands, beginning to chant in a distant, low tone that echoed through the cramped space: “Revering the ancient past, boundless is the cosmos, spirit and wisdom in chaos; Pangu and Nüwa revealed their deeds, Yin and Yang first divided…”

The “magnificent” prayer reverberated within the chamber, as if spoken in some solemn, ancient divine temple, or atop the lofty summit of Mount Tai, where the Son of Heaven, flanked by ministers, proclaimed his governance to Heaven, proving the legitimacy of Heaven’s Mandate.

Yet here was only a dark, damp, underground cellar in a remote small town—no emperors or generals, only pale, sickly men, lingering stench of blood, and zombie-like men and women.

“We reverently beseech the Supreme True Dragon Immortal Lord, who inherits Heaven’s mandate, establishes the cosmic order, governs with divine authority; all beings bow, myriad spirits follow…”

The ghostly elegant, icy-fire-like strange flame flickered within the confined space. As the prayer continued, the tendrils, as if sentient, each probed into the bronze cups, slowly injecting the fluid within.

“The world has been blessed with boundless grace; now we return what we have been nourished by, humbly offering living blood, presenting it before the Immortal Throne…”

This was a sacrificial text, and indeed a sacrifice—and the offerings here were only…

Seven pairs of vacant eyes glowed with fanaticism, trembling in place; only the first youth received permission, shuffling forward toward the small cups.

“We humbly beg the Sacred Spirits not to reject this meager offering…”

The youth grasped the cup with reverent, ravenous hands.

The man raised his neck and intoned: “May it be received!!”

The youth lifted the cup with both hands, expression vacant yet frenzied, and drained the nectar within in one gulp.

The bronze cup clattered to the ground; the youth’s arms fell limp, motionless.