At seven fifty, Elyon made his way to the front courtyard, where about a dozen people were gathered around a small wooden platform. He hurried over, finding himself next to the drunkard he had seen earlier.
"Hey, why are you just getting here? The ritual is about to begin," the drunkard slurred, pulling Elyon closer to the stage. Cor, with a gag in his mouth, was tied to a chair at the center of a circular magic circle, which had a pentagram within it and human limbs placed at its points.
Cor's eyes were void of light, and even Elyon's exaggerated gestures failed to catch his attention. Below the magic circle was a small silver basin, its purpose unclear.
A figure in a blood-red robe with a demonic mask adorned with two horns stepped onto the stage, flanked by two men in similar attire—Monge and his two superhuman subordinates.
Monge surveyed his followers with excitement. "Tonight, we shall welcome the arrival of a god, and together, we will journey to the divine realm."
He placed five purple candles on the magic circle, lighting them before slicing his finger with a silver dagger and dripping blood into the basin. He passed the dagger around, and each person did the same.
"What's this for?" Elyon nudged the drunkard, who looked at him with disdain. "You're not drunk, are you? It's a blood offering ritual. Monge said those who participate will receive blessings from the Underworld God."
Elyon doubted any blessings would come from such a sinister ritual, suspecting it was more likely a selection of the unlucky to be sacrificed. The trio on stage completed their ritual quickly, and now it was the turn of those below. Elyon prayed he wouldn't have to participate, but the line was moving too quickly for his liking.
Monge began to arrange the ritual space with essential oils and red rose petals. Elyon couldn't decipher the purpose of the ritual, which seemed more suited to welcoming a goddess of life than the god of death.
"What's wrong with you?" One of the superhumans leaped down from the stage. It was a gaunt man, and as he approached Elyon, Elyon ducked his head to avoid recognition.
"How can you be so drunk at such an important event? Do you have a death wish?" The superhuman scolded the drunkard in front of Elyon.
"Sorry, I'll be careful next time," the drunkard mumbled, realizing his mistake.
"Whether there's a next time is questionable," the superhuman muttered as he walked away. Elyon was more convinced than ever that this ritual was a trap. When his turn came, he ascended the stage, cleaned the dagger with a handkerchief, and caught Cor's lifeless gaze. Elyon winked at him, and Cor, sensing hope, tried to struggle free, but Elyon shook his head to signal it wasn't time yet. Cor settled down.
The cold dagger sliced Elyon's finger, and his blood—a shade of gold-tinged red—dropped into the basin. The smell of burning reached him; the fire he had started was growing. The blood offering was nearly over, and Elyon stepped off the stage to hide next to the drunkard.
"Fire! We need help here!" A servant in a linen shirt, face blackened with soot, came running. The fire in the manor's wine cellar was now visible.
"Don't panic. Get the servants, gardeners, and gatekeepers to put out the fire. Everyone else, stay calm. Even if the main building burns down, it doesn't matter. Continue with the ritual."
The crowd ceased their attempts to extinguish the flames, but Monge's speech left many with doubts about the importance of the ritual. Monge poured the blood around the magic circle and drew a triangular sigil with a cross in the air.
Elyon felt a barrier forming in the air, a kind of magical enclosure. He regretted not starting a fire in the front yard to cause more chaos, but it was too late. He couldn't take down the twenty-plus people with just his twelve-round pistol if they didn't resist.
"O mighty ruler of the Underworld, one of the four supreme beings of chaos, you are the oldest nightmare of this world. Your majesty makes even the sun hide in fear. Avatar of death and terror, your followers offer the required sacrifice, praying for your descent. We beseech the Underworld God's arrival."
As Monge's incantation ended, a dark red magical circle appeared above the stage. A gurgling sound followed, and a torrent of crimson blood rained down, drenching the stage. The circle began to spin.
Thud. A person in a crimson cloak collapsed in front of Elyon, his body shriveling like a withered apple, quickly desiccating into a mummy.
People panicked and ran, falling to the ground. Elyon felt an invisible thread pulling magic from his body toward the circle above.
Activating his magical sight, Elyon confirmed his suspicions. The magic circle was siphoning life, draining a blood-mist from each person's head. It was like a black hole, consuming life force relentlessly.
As more people collapsed, Elyon felt dizzy from hunger but dared not stand out. He pretended to faint and lay on the ground.
The magic circle stopped spinning, and a crack appeared, from which a massive hand made of blood reached out. The sense of dread was overwhelming, reminiscent of a lowly creature's trembling before a superior predator. Elyon's legs shook, and he punched them to stop the trembling.
Screams filled the air as people bashed their heads on the ground, and one nearby gouged out his own eyes. Elyon had worried about dealing with the crowd, but the ritual had taken care of most of them.
"Have we succeeded? Hahaha, today marks the dawn of a kingdom of blood and death, and I shall be crowned king," Monge laughed maniacally. The circle reversed its rotation, changing into a six-branched snowflake. The blood-mist began to freeze, and Elyon felt a cold wind blowing through. His amulet cracked, losing its usual chill.
The reaching hand from the circle started to freeze rapidly, struggling fiercely. The crack in the circle began to close.
Monge grabbed one of his superhumans. "What's happening? I gambled everything on this, and if it fails, the Special Actions Division won't let me off. My father will discard me like trash."
"I don't know, sir. The men in black assured success," the superhuman stammered.
Monge pushed him away, collapsing onto the stage. "It's over."
The hand still fought, snatching the bewildered superhuman and lifting him into the air.
"Help, Master Monge, I don't want to die!" The superhuman struggled, his upper body soon disappearing into the circle. With a snap, the hand vanished, and the bisected corpse fell to the floor. The circle in the sky shrank rapidly, the last of its light sucked into the stage's circle.
"It's all over. We were deceived by those in black," Monge despaired. The remaining superhuman, still lucid, helped Monge up and whispered, "Run, sir. So many dead, and with one of the four evil deities involved, we can't hide the energy release. Your father can't protect you. Let's pack and flee."
Monge realized the gravity of the situation. "Finish them off. I'll meet you at my private yacht at the dock. These expendables were meant for sacrifice anyway, don't leave any alive." His words were final, knowing flight was his only option, and the recruited cannon fodder wouldn't withstand interrogation without implicating him.
"Understood, sir." The superhuman seemed accustomed to killing. Monge hurried inside, while the superhuman drew a scythe, checking each survivor and ending those still breathing with a stab. Screams echoed.
"So brutal. I just wanted to make a living. Kid, I know you're fine; let's get out of here," the drunkard whispered, having miraculously survived and noticing Elyon unharmed. Unsure whether the remaining superhuman was the hypnotist or the one who could turn into wind, Elyon wasn't worried about hypnosis, having encountered a higher-level hypnotist in the Special Actions Division. But if it was the wind-controlling superhuman, he had no confidence.