Above The Sky
Chapter 46 - 46 44 Sacrificial Rite Thanks to the alliance leader who doesn't pray for a 10-string reward!

46: Chapter 44 Sacrificial Rite (Thanks to the alliance leader who doesn’t pray for a 10-string reward!) 46: Chapter 44 Sacrificial Rite (Thanks to the alliance leader who doesn’t pray for a 10-string reward!) The boy’s voice wasn’t soft, especially because it was so abrupt, everyone else passing by on the street looked up in surprise, turning toward where Ian was, then turned their heads to look at the frozen White Folks man.

“You, you…”

Curious, measuring, and thoughtful gazes converged, and in just a few seconds, one could see Brin’s pale face flush with blood, quickly turning beet red.

The startled apothecary raised his hand, shaking as he pointed at the smiling Ian, but to the very last, he couldn’t muster any words—the exposed herbalist could only trot away, while the passersby on the street exchanged looks, clearly having noticed something.

“It’s hard to say whether that was bold or cowardly.”

Watching the other vanish around the corner of the street, Ian shook his head, closed the window with a sigh, “The public safety in Harrison Port really is poor, should I maybe set up some more traps at home?

That’s indeed something to consider…”

He decided to wait until Hiliard returned at night to inform his teacher of the situation.

When he had time, he would also go to Elder Prude and report Brin’s behavior.

Eyeing money wasn’t a big deal, but after all, there was a child in the house—if Brin was still not discouraged and broke in while he and Hiliard were out, it would be terrible if the kid, Elan, was accidentally hurt.

“There’s no such thing as guarding against a thief for a thousand days.”

Shaking his head, Ian turned back around and continued to cook porridge.

He reached out with the ladle, stirred the bottom of the pot, and mixed the settled barley grains back in evenly.

Meanwhile, in the Redwood Native Tribe.

Great Shaman Animu Deepswamp extended a bone stick, stirred the bottom of the pot, and mixed the settled dregs evenly once again.

At this moment.

He was also cooking porridge.

Located at the foot of Ivorybone Mountain, Redwood Forest Swamp was originally a coastal lake, but due to a massive earthquake over four hundred years ago, the geological structure changed abruptly, the converging river changed course, becoming the Ivoke River that now surrounds Harrison Port, the lake lost its water source and dried up, but due to the perennial storms along the tropical coast, it gradually turned into the shallow watery marsh that it is today.

The ancestral land of the Redwoods Tribe was at Ivorybone Mountain; according to historical texts, they once had the skill to domesticate elephants, to communicate with them, to work together and fight alongside them.

However, with changes in the environment, the Redwood elephant herds gradually went extinct, and this skill was lost over the centuries, transforming, finally evolving into the Redwoods Tribe’s craftsmanship of training ordinary wild animals as companions and hunting partners.

Great Shaman Animu Deepswamp now stood at the mouth of the large shaman’s tent halfway up the hillside, slowly stirring the light purple medicinal mud in front of him, while at both sides of the tent entrance, thirty-two thinly built, but fiercely determined Native Hunters respectfully knelt on the ground, heads bowed, with bows and short spears laid beside them on either side, awaiting the summons of the Great Shaman.

Animu lifted his head, violet fog glimmered at the distant horizon of the Southern Sea, blurring the far-off scenery.

Ordinary people might not notice, but this was a sign of a tremendous storm brewing.

The air was suffused with the furious and humid scent of the impending tempest, and at the swamp forest at the base of Ivorybone Mountain, those tangled woody roots, colorful mosses, vines, and shrubs intertwined with dense branches seemed to connect into one entity.

The many snakes, toads, centipedes, mudfish, and more active creatures made this entity teeming with life.

The entire jungle was like a living being—it was breathing, whispering, issuing warnings that only the Great Shaman could understand.

The Totem Pillars trembled ever so slightly.

—— Mountain and Tide Spirits were warning, as were the Spirits of the Jungle.

Animu Deepswamp closed his eyes and said faintly, “Blood.”

The two Hunters closest to the Great Shaman slowly stood up; their movements were so slight, as if afraid of disturbing the omnipresent Spirits.

They took out an ancient clay pot, engraved with green Inscriptions, from their bosoms, then carefully approached both sides of the cauldron to present the pots to the Great Shaman.

They didn’t raise their heads, nor did they dare to.

The two highly respected and feared Hunters in the tribe, covered in blue-black tattoos and scars—proof of their honor and courage—were submissive like children before the Great Shaman.

Animu picked up the clay pots; he was old, his nose had long been unable to smell anything of the human world, but he could smell that these pots were full of fresh blood, spicy and rich, containing fragments of an angry adult man’s soul.

The scent of the other pot of blood, however, was pure and innocent, as clean as a mountain spring, sweet-scented, like a young and naive child unaware of worldly affairs.

—— It was not quite satisfactory, but it would do.

Animu took a deep breath, poured the two pots of blood into the cauldron, and stirred.

The medicine mud boiling and bubbling inside the cauldron absorbed the two different jars of fresh blood, giving rise to faint hints of crimson within the pale purple and an almost invisible glimmer of light began to dance and converge, quivering the air, emitting sounds like the desperate roars of men and the terrified cries of children.

This soft chime brought with it a hushed breeze, swirling around the Shaman’s gaunt figure.

“Bones.”

The initial two hunters had already stepped back, and following Animu’s command once again, the next pair of hunters also stood up.

They held two wooden cases, one large and one small, and presented them respectfully to the Great Shaman.

Inside the cases were two skulls, one of an adult human, and one of an infant no more than two years old.

“This one is better.”

After a glance at the two skulls, already stripped clean of all flesh and meticulously cleaned, Animu slightly nodded in approval, and instantly a look of joy appeared on the hunters’ faces as they slowly receded.

Without further words, the elderly man with white hair and brownish-black skin extended his hand and grasped a skull.

His skinny hand seemed feeble, and his breath was like the flame of a candle in the wind, but with a gentle knead, the skull turned into the smooth dust of bones, disappearing into the cauldron with a quiet breeze.

The wind around the Great Shaman grew stronger.

“Flesh.”

At this summons, the next pair of hunters rose and presented the offerings they had diligently gathered.

Blood, bones, flesh, tendons.

— The power of life.

Brains, eyes, tongue, skin.

— The senses of life.

Lungs, liver, kidneys, spleen.

— The endurance of life.

Intestines, stomach, gallbladder, heart.

— The vitality of life.

Starting with blood and ending with heart, sixteen of the most tender, sixteen of the most robust, a total of thirty-two parts of different lives, the essence most rich in spirit substance and power, are what is needed for the “Pure Sacrifice.”

“What happened to Atchetu?”

Last of all, when the two hunters presented the ‘Heart of a Child’ and the ‘Heart of a Warrior’, the Great Shaman suddenly spoke, “Is he dead?”

“Yes, yes, Great Shaman.”

The two hunters addressed paused for a moment, then spoke in a fearful and anxious manner: “Shaman Atchetu’s infiltration into Harrison Port failed; he was killed by the Imperial People…

Viscount Grant paid no heed to this.”

“So it is us who have taken his place, offering this most important…”

“Hmm, I know.”

But Animu didn’t wait to hear the rest, he waved his hand signaling the hunters to retreat, and then slightly shook his head: “They indeed noticed the signs, Atchetu was too reckless.”

Stirring the medicine mud in the crucible, Great Shaman Animu Deepswamp mixed the essence of flesh and viscera, stirring the essence of life with an indifferent expression: “But those Imperial People, they too must pay a price.”

“The price of life.”