Chapter Twenty-Two: Resentment

After the slaves' bodies were cast down, the totem beneath the altar seemed startled awake by the scent of blood, stirring at last. In the realm of fate, this manifested as a ripple in the once-tranquil vital energy, as if preparing to welcome the coming feast.

Sensing the awakening of the ancestral spirits, the high priest recited incantations at the side. When the ritual was complete, he ordered the remaining slaves to be thrown down one by one.

Around the altar, the slaves gazed into the space below as if confronting demons—faces twisted in terror—yet they were pressed forward by the strong guards, who kicked them down without hesitation.

"Aaaah!"

A chorus of agonized screams erupted as each was hurled below. Black mists engulfed them, reducing flesh to bone. Then, bathed in crimson light, even their skeletons crumbled to ash, settling silently.

The remaining slaves struggled desperately. A few slave warriors hurled themselves against a guard, breaking free. But before they could escape, a blast of black light swept across the altar. Several slaves collapsed instantly, their chests ripped open, flesh and blood exposed.

It was the high priest who had acted.

His expression remained severe as he reproved the surrounding soldiers: "Hurry and bring them up."

To their ears, his rebuke was as if facing some terrible fate. They shuddered and quickly pressed the slaves forward.

With the high priest suppressing them and the guards vigilant, the slaves could no longer resist. In a sea of despairing eyes, they fell one by one.

Each captured slave was sacrificed in turn, until only one remained: a burly warrior.

He glared at the guards around him, his fierce gaze radiating such oppressive force that the soldiers instinctively retreated. He spoke not a word, nor did he attempt escape, but strode calmly toward the altar as if resigned to his fate.

The short distance was quickly crossed. Yet when all assumed he would submit quietly to death, as he passed the high priest, he suddenly spat at him.

Caught off guard, the high priest's severe face was splattered. His composure broke, and rage filled his voice: "You court death!"

"Hahaha!"

But before he could seize him, the warrior threw back his head and laughed, then leapt resolutely into the pit below.

As his flesh was corroded, he uttered not a sound, enduring the pain in silence—never a single scream.

"A fine man! How many heroes the world holds," Chen Ming sighed inwardly, pity rising in his heart.

From his vantage, he saw clearly what mortals could not: a resolute, pure-white soul writhing beneath the altar. Then, the ancestral spirit below devoured the soul whole, scattering it to oblivion.

The deeper his regret grew, the fiercer Chen Ming's murderous intent became.

To consume human blood, devour souls—such acts are no different from those of demons, deserving death.

Meanwhile, the high priest, stunned by the warrior's resolve, stared in shock as he jumped. His face darkened with anger, but he quickly regained his composure and continued the ceremony as if nothing had happened.

When this batch of slaves was sacrificed, he led a group of elders through another ritual. When it finished, the next blood tribute began.

This time, it was animals. Unaffected, the priests tossed them down one by one, continuing their ceremony.

As the ritual concluded, impatience stirred among the crowd below. Normally, the ceremony would be nearing its end.

Yet, after finishing, the high priest suddenly addressed the guards below: "Bring up the next batch of offerings."

The crowd was stunned—there was another batch?

Soon, as the new group was led forward, shock rippled through the assembled people.

"That's the chief's son!" someone exclaimed, recognizing those being brought forth.

But this was only the beginning. As one familiar figure after another was pressed forward, more faces were recognized.

"That's Kekula! Wasn't he the chief's bodyguard? Why is he here?"

"That's Baza, the famed warrior of the tribe! Why is he being sacrificed?"

...

"Kruri, look!"

A voice sounded in Chen Ming's ear. He paused, glancing at Good beside him.

Following Good's gaze upward, he saw a familiar figure: Balek.

A surge of emotion stirred within him, but he feigned shock and said, "That's Cousin Balek—why is he up there?"

Beside him, Good gripped his hand, his face grim. "Kruri, don't be reckless."

Chen Ming nodded "grimly" in reply.

Not only they, but as dozens were brought up, the faces of many in the crowd darkened. Some impulsive ones even seemed poised to rush the altar, only to be restrained by their companions.

Yet the high priest atop the altar paid no heed to their reactions, as if blind to their suffering, or simply indifferent.

He proceeded with the blood sacrifice, tossing each person into the pit to feed the ancestral spirit amid desperate gazes.

Below, Chen Ming watched as one after another was sent down, dying in turn. Above the high priest's head, a thick cloud of resentment and karmic burden swelled, while his fate rose slightly—though it seemed unstable, as if liable to dissipate at any moment.

As his fate ascended, another strand, once belonging to those below, collapsed in a rush. Though a trace lingered, it was waning, no longer able to resist.

Chen Ming understood now.

This had always been the practice in past ceremonies: using the ritual to dispose of political rivals, suppress dissent, a custom repeated by high priests through the ages—though seldom with such brutality.

Looking at those sent to feed the ancestral spirit, it was clear the chief's faction was being purged wholesale. Even the chief's son was sacrificed; the chief himself was likely doomed.

"However..."

Chen Ming surveyed the crowd. Amidst them, pairs of eyes glimmered with hatred, though none dared look directly at the high priest.

He sneered inwardly.

Those sent to the ancestral spirit numbered in the dozens, most of whom belonged to the leadership class. Nearly all had family.

The tribe itself was not large; most members were interrelated. So while only a few dozen died, counting their friends and kin, the high priest had offended hundreds. If one included those with old grudges, he had antagonized at least a third of the tribe, possibly more.

Previously, without Chen Ming's presence, such actions by the high priest would not have been so consequential. Having eliminated the chief, he would control the tribe, backed by the ancestral spirit's power—nothing to fear.

After all, without strength, mere resentment is useless.

But now, with Chen Ming here, he could be used.

So he thought, staring at the high priest's cold, sinister face as if already staring at a dead man.