The flames in the Turtle Cauldron suddenly shrank down, as if bent by some invisible weight, their light flickering between blue and purple, illuminating the patterns painted in ochre and vermilion on the furnace.
The leading Turtle-man twisted a handful of white, withered yarrow stalks and tossed them into the furnace—they had grown by the lakeside three days ago, dyed by the water splashed by the Divine Turtle.
From the belly of the cauldron came the sound of crackling.
"When the pattern is aligned, it is pardon; when reversed, a warning; intersected, a calamity; encircled, a celebration... O turtle shell, speak the language of Heaven, let my fate listen!"
The Turtle People lay on the ground, cutting open their wrists with sharp tools, letting the blood flow!
As the first drop of blood fell into the cracks of the turtle shell, the entire pattern of the flames seemed to twist slightly.
The fresh blood suddenly began to stretch on its own, as the flames danced more intensely.
