“Could it be a celestial married into the Ghost Clan?” Luther’s confusion deepened. A mixed bloodline might explain children who carried both signatures, yet full integration on this scale still made little sense.
“Impossible… Marriage or not, energies wouldn’t fuse this cleanly. Besides, the higher a cultivator’s realm, the harder it is to bear children, let alone cross-race offspring,” Jared answered, shaking his head.
Luther knew the logic, but the mountain’s abnormal aura left him no closer to an explanation. “We keep climbing. The mountain will show us the answer itself,” Jared added.
They resumed their silent ascent, cutting higher through the fog. The blended aura thickened with altitude. Celestial energy pressed harder; Ghost Clan traces slipped beneath it like a faint undertone. With every yard gained, threads of pressure coiled inside the mist—invisible yet heavy enough to ripple Jared’s robe sleeves.
“No more flying. If we stay airborne any longer, they’ll notice us. We walk from here.”
Luther landed beside him without argument; Jared knew the difference between boldness and needless risk. They settled onto a narrow side path where only a handful of pilgrims had reached. Most devotees still labored far below.
Just as they prepared to continue, Jared noticed several celestial soldiers herding a dozen rag-clad cultivators down a branching trail. Every prisoner stared ahead with dull eyes. Their steps dragged, bodies moving only because the soldiers shoved them forward. Whatever faith they once wore had been stripped away along with their robes.
“Where are they taking them?” Luther sent the query straight into Jared’s mind.
Jared’s eyes narrowed. “We follow them….”
They slipped after the group, keeping to shadows cast by jutting rocks and twisted pine trunks. The side trail wound deeper into the mountainside and ended at a concealed cave mouth half hidden behind a fall of vines. Two High Immortal Realm Level Six celestial guards flanked the entrance.
One sniffed and grumbled, “Not many materials today!”
The escort leader chuckled. “Pilgrims are scarce lately. Be glad I scraped up this lot; two are High Immortal Realm Level Five, decent stock.”
“Go on in!” The guard waved the chain-bound line forward.
Once the procession vanished inside, Jared and Luther stepped from the gloom like ghosts slipping through smoke.
“Materials?” Jared tasted the word; it left iron on his tongue. A chill flickered behind his eyes. Whatever sanctity the Sacred Mountain claimed, something ugly festered beneath its skin.
“Mr. Chance, what now?” Luther asked, voice pitched low.
Jared weighed the unknown, then spoke with quiet resolve. “First we learn the truth. If the celestials are butchering innocents…” His fingers tightened around the Dragonslayer Sword’s hilt. “We bring this mountain down.”
Both men drifted to the cave mouth without stirring a pebble. Jared summoned chaotic force. A thin gray mist sheeted over his body, bending light and scent until even the guards’ senses would slide past him. Luther belonged to the Ghost Clan and had been born with a knack for hiding. From Jared’s angle, the man only gave a slight shake of his cloak before melting into the nearest patch of shadow, as if the rock face had swallowed him whole.
***
At the cave mouth, one of the armored celestials stiffened. A faint breeze had slipped across his cheek. He rubbed the spot and frowned. “Strange… Where did that wind come from?”
His partner snorted without looking up. “The mountains are full of drafts. Quit worrying. If any of the materials escape, we’re the ones who’ll be flayed.”
The pair fell silent again, utterly unaware that Jared and Luther had already skimmed past their spears and slipped into the tunnel beyond their torchlight. Inside, the passageway widened more than Jared expected. It sloped downward, and glowing stones were set into either wall, each casting a sickly green wash that left no true shadows for comfort.
Step by step the air grew sharper, damp with a metallic tang. The farther Jared walked, the heavier that chill pressed against his skin, until he tasted blood at the back of his throat. Roughly a hundred yards in, scattered echoes rose ahead—shouts, the clang of chains, and the low moan of wind that was no wind at all.
Jared exchanged a brief nod with Luther, then lengthened his stride, boots landing without sound on the worn stone. They rounded a bend, and the tunnel spat them into sudden open space.
A cavern stretched wider than a city plaza, its ceiling lost in gloom. At its heart loomed a statue nearly three hundred feet tall, grotesque and impossible to ignore. The carving had a human torso that tapered into a serpentine tail. Eight arms fanned outward, each gripping a different arcane weapon. Its face twisted in permanent fury, crimson gemstones served as eyes, and the mouth yawned so wide that Jared half-expected a scream to pour out.
Worse than the visage were the hundreds of desiccated corpses that ringed the base. Chains punched through shoulder blades suspended every body like slabs in a butcher’s smokehouse, skin shrunken tight against bone. Robes of every color still clung to them. They had been cultivators, once.
Seeing this scene, Luther’s pupils contracted to pinpoints.
Jared’s jaw set hard. “So the so-called chance at holy light was bait. These pilgrims walk in as offerings.” His gaze swept the floor. Dozens of celestials herded the newest captives toward the idol, forcing each one to kneel beneath those unblinking gem eyes. Once the victims bowed, all life fled their expressions. Celestial guards shoved barbed chains through muscle and hoisted them up without resistance.
Jared’s voice dropped to a razor whisper. “They’re draining blood essence and souls. That thing’s an evil implement…”
The statue shuddered before he finished. All eight weapons flashed scarlet at once, bathing the cavern in blood-red glare. The hanging husks quivered, and thin streams of ruby mist drifted from every chest toward the idol’s open maw. Runes along the stone surface pulsed alive, and a foul pressure rolled outward, thick enough to bow the air.
“Hurry! The ghoul corpse is about to awaken!” A celestial in a golden crown shouted, excitement cracking in his voice. “Push the sacrifice! Bring the rest of the materials!”
Another ten-plus prisoners were dragged forward. This time the guards skipped the formalities, slashing wrists and letting fresh blood patter against the idol’s feet. The crimson pooled, followed the carved channels like living snakes, and vanished into the base.
Luther stared at the serpent-tailed effigy, his gaze flickering with doubt and dread. Some buried memory stirred inside his Ghost Clan bloodline, scattering half-formed images through his mind. Luther inhaled, words trembling. “Mr. Chance, the statue depicts Lord Mournwright, an ancient Ghost Clan powerhouse.”
