The cold wind tore at the dark iron chains on the altar, making a sound like a wail of a ghost. Lu Jinli was nailed to the altar made of blood-colored granite. Twelve sky-sealing nails penetrated the joints of his limbs. Dark red bloodstains snaked out into strange totems in the ravines of ancient runes.
"The hour is coming." The corners of Xuanqiong's snow-white robe brushed against the bluestone steps, and a cluster of silver-white light shone on his fingertips. The light made Lu Jinli's right eye hurt - the left eye socket that was gouged out three days ago was still bleeding, and the scabbed wound looked like a grinning mockery.
Under the altar, Lu Tianheng's hand holding the bronze sacrificial knife was trembling slightly. The head of the Donghuang Lu family did not dare to look into his eldest son's eyes, but the blade pointed steadily at the altar: "It is your destiny to be able to become a tidal sacrifice."
