The crimson fire blazed in the fields, piles of straw crackling loudly in the blaze. Under the pitch-black night, blood-colored flames burned; the deserted village was unnervingly silent, with dark blood quietly flowing across the ground.
At the center stood a pitch-black Stone Platform, densely carved with dark red Incantation Script. Many men and women knelt upon it, all draped in Taoist Robes, their throats pierced by sharp Magic Artifacts, collapsing upon that Sacrificial Altar.
The gloomy wind howled and whined; all about, nine neat piles of bones lay, some large, some small, most fragmented. In the center, a black-robed Cultivator sat cross-legged, eyes closed in deep concentration.
This man suddenly opened his eyes. Dharma Light flickered within their depths, his skin was dusky, hair loose—astonishingly, he turned out to be a Shanyue. He stood, humming a tune, picked up the black gourd in his hand, glanced at the moon, and murmured softly:
