Chapter 63 35. Sacrifice
Dacius finished his dinner with a glass of wine. Afterwards, he jokingly asked, "By the way, my dear brother, do you need me to tell your fiancée anything?"
As soon as these words were spoken, the members of the Hell Disaster Family who were still in the dining area started to make a fuss.
Maranur looked at Daquus with embarrassment and said, "Get out!"
Dacus stood up, gave an exaggerated noble salute, and said solemnly, "I understand. I will tell her that you miss her."
"roll!"
As the last rays of sunlight fell from the jagged peaks of the Black Spine Mountains, the common people of Ker Karond, the Druki and the slaves, knew exactly what it meant.
The midnight of death descended upon them, and as the last ray of dawn faded, shrieks began to be heard from the Temple of Khaine. It was a piercing sound that made one's scalp tingle, a sound mixed with pain and fear, as if it were the eternal echo of the last cries of the sacrifices before their death.
To the north, in the heart of Har Ganthe, stood the greatest temple ever built for Khaine. An eerie red light illuminated the building's windows and spires, and screams echoed from its walls, escaping into the darkness of the night.
A shadowy figure stepped onto the highest balcony of the temple, stepped barefoot across the marble floor, and jumped onto the balcony railing with an otherworldly grace, his flowing, fluffy white hair extending to his ankles, wrapping around his naked and bloodstained body.
The Crone Hellebron, the greatest of Khaine's brides, is now a withered crone, for Morathi has concealed from her the deepest secrets of the blood pools. She demands vast sacrifices every year to fill her cauldron, but the effects of each filling are short-lived.
She stood above her city, filled with all her splendor and glory, and her laughter resounded throughout every corner of Khaine's Temple, a laughter that quickly grew cruel and turned into a scream that filled every soul that heard it with fear for what was about to happen.
The Night of the Dead has begun.
With the slamming of doors and sealed windows, Kane's brides, the witch spirits, began to wander the streets. Every Druk wanted to survive, and any captured Druk would become their glorious sacrifice to Kane, but no Druk wanted to be the victim themselves.
Born to sate Khaine's thirst for blood and sacrifice, the witches are the most brutal of the cruel race of Druki. Their service to the Bloody Hand is bloody, as they rip the still-beating hearts from the chests of their victims and roast them over the fire, paint their struggling bodies with scarlet runes, and decorate their altars with the entrails of their dying victims.
During the night of the dead, witches drink blood wine steeped in poison and fall into a frenzy. In this ecstatic state, they pay no attention to their own defenses, only to tearing apart their enemies and feasting on their blood. Their combat is devoid of grace, merely a chaotic slashing of poison-coated swords, filled with madness.
Those who survived the wounds would become playthings of the witch spirits. The unfortunate ones would be torn to pieces in a frenzy, and their blood would become a sacrifice to the ever-hungry Blood Hand God.
Alan's brother was very smart. The other slaves told him about this magical night. He had stored some straw in the pit behind the Gorad family's stable a long time ago. At this moment, he had crawled into the pit, covered it with straw, and prayed to Sallya to see the sun tomorrow.
Lech emerged, fully armed and carrying a serrated longsword. He glanced at the pit behind the stables, scoffed, and departed. His target tonight wasn't the poor little creature, but one of his good brothers. He had already figured out who orchestrated the tampering with the ship. Har Ganthe was bound by the strictest laws of Naggaroth, temporarily suspended only at the approach of Death's Midnight. Tonight, there would be vengeance, revenge!
At this time, Dacus was fully armed and looked back at the Drukis following behind him.
Butler Dia came over, saluted, and said to Dacus, "Master, Young Master Newker asked me to tell you that the Calvo family has been pardoned."
Darkus scoffed. He didn't know what he was laughing at. Was he being assimilated? Or was he laughing at the head of the Calvo family, whose son had died and whose neck and brain were damaged? It didn't matter.
"Tonight! Kill to your heart's content!" Then he waved his hand, and Daquus's followers, Edmund, Kallion, family members and elite family guards rode out on cold lizards.
It was not surprising to hear the banging on the door at this night. A small group of witch spirits rushed into an unremarkable building. They had stepped on the plate many times before. Their frantic screams filled the building, but there was no response of the horrible screams they expected, only a silent silence.
Their leader raised a serrated dagger, put the tip of the dagger to her lips, and silently made a hysterical and morbid gesture. The remaining witches instantly quieted down and also showed a morbid silent smile.
"Don't look in the basement, don't look in the basement, don't!"
Suddenly, heavy breathing sounds came from under the floorboards, reaching their ears, and they all grinned. After a quick search of the house, they found a trapdoor leading downstairs.
Tonight, no victim escaped fate. The trapdoor had been ripped from its hinges by the witch spirits, their leader ignoring the convenient ladder and leaping directly into the darkness. In the corner of the basement, she saw a figure cowering in fear.
The witch spirit leader grinned, stuck out her tongue, and slowly licked her red lips. With seductive and agile steps, she approached the hiding Duruchi, stretched out her serrated dagger, and slowly cut a gash on his cheek.
Venom coursed through the victim's veins, his eyes widened, his body limp. Amidst cheers, the witch leader grabbed him by the hair and began to drag him down the street.
The pain of having your hair pulled was nothing compared to the agony that was to come.
The victim was thrown into the middle of the street and surrounded by witch spirits, who jumped and circled lightly and nimbly. Each witch spirit would gently cut the victim a little bit, and the pain the victim endured was magnified a thousand times. Every caress of the blade seemed to pierce his heart.
The witch spirits continued to dance around the victim, toying with him, leaving only tiny scratches on the surface of his skin.
Last night, I had a low-grade fever in the middle of the night.