Helian Garen’s Transmigration

All he could see was a stretch of reddish-brown earth. Cracks ran across it like the veins on an old man's hand, reaching all the way to a massive earthen platform nearby. Dark brown felt carpets covered the platform, their edges trimmed with polished animal teeth. A dozen or so blue-black wooden pillars, each thick enough for a person to wrap their arms around, stood around it. Twisted patterns were carved into their surfaces, resembling either some kind of writing or struggling beasts. Dark red strips of cloth were wound around the tops of the pillars. When the wind blew, they fluttered, revealing what hung beneath them… Heliangailun's pupils contracted. They were dried animal bones, with scraps of flesh and sinew still clinging to them.

At the center of the platform, a person in a coarse hemp robe and feathered headdress knelt on one knee, holding a bronze knife aloft in both hands. Its blade gleamed with a cold, hard light. Liquid clinging to its edge ran down and dripped into the stone trough below. The trough was already half full of dark red liquid: blood, still fresh and steaming. Beside it lay a black pig with its throat cut, its limbs still twitching faintly.

“Master Shaman, the Welcoming-the-Sun Ceremony has reached the Sacrificial Offering. Shall we ask the Diviner to interpret Heaven's will?” A middle-aged man in relatively clean clothes, a hide belt tied around his waist, stepped forward. His voice was low, filled with a deliberately restrained reverence.

The feather-crowned figure, addressed as the “Master Shaman,” did not answer at once, but slowly lifted their head. By the light of the horizon, Heliangailun…