In the late autumn of this year, the temperature in Santir Castle was somewhat higher than usual. However, within the confines of the Fons Manor, situated outside the castle, Lynn felt an almost piercing chill. 

This chill did not stem from the surrounding environment—though the basement of the manor was indeed a tad colder than the outside. Rather, the true source of Lynn's bone-deep coldness lay in the sacrificial scene before him. 

The dim candlelight flickered, casting a faint glow upon the modest space of the basement. Over thirty individuals knelt reverently before a shrine, their heads bowed in submission. A cloying sweetness permeated the air, masking the faint scent of blood. At the forefront of the crowd, a blood-red banner depicting a ram's head hung high, casting shadows that enveloped the shrine and altar below. 

Compared to the humble shrine, the altar—sizeable enough to resemble a double bed—was strikingly prominent. Encircling the sleek obsidian altar was a ring of dull, lifeless skulls. A cursory glance revealed more than thirty, each uniquely distinct, evidently crafted by nature's hand rather than a sculptor's. 

Beneath the obsidian altar lay a vast, dark red carpet. Traditionally renowned for their luxury, the velvet-woven carpets here appeared as though steeped in blood—filthy, worn, and most importantly, a faint magical circle was discernible upon it, seemingly drawn to prevent anything from emerging from the altar. 

Such devotion, coupled with an undercurrent of wariness, seemed contradictory yet somehow fitting. When the object of your worship is a demon rather than a deity, a heightened sense of caution is hardly surprising. 

"Black Prince, Undying One, may all revere your name as sacred; you transcend life and death, crossing the ultimate boundary; you rise mythically, ruling the endless abyss; you return from death, scornful of the divinity sought by all; countless followers deem you their king; you are death, you are rebirth. You are the obscure, you are the immortal, you are the goat, you are my lord, Orcas." 

At the forefront, the priest chanted the prayer with fervent devotion. Lynn, kneeling in the last row, listened quietly, his mood far from joyful, until the final moment when a hint of a smile escaped him. 

Indeed, no goat epitomized the essence of the term better than the figure before him: Orcas, the Undying King, one of the three great overlords of the abyss, whose very head bore the shape of a ram—truly a goat in every sense. 

This designation was rather amusing—certainly more so if he were not among the cultists venerating him. 

Days had passed since his arrival, yet Lynn struggled to reconcile his new identity. He could not fathom how an ordinary Earthling like himself had been transported to Faerûn. Moreover, if Faerûn were not enough, this was hardly an auspicious beginning. 

How had he become a devotee of Orcas? 

As a denizen of Earth, while Lynn was not a die-hard D&D enthusiast, he had encountered various games and novels related to it. Regardless of the games he played or the Dark Elf trilogy he read, he gleaned a fundamental truth: demons were notoriously unreliable beings, and worshiping such capricious entities was an even more questionable endeavor. 

Regrettably, he found himself cast in the role of a demon worshiper. 

This realization had initially prompted him to consider fleeing, but reality swiftly dispelled that notion. 

"Undying King, allow me to present to you this offering; may you indulge in this exquisite feast." 

The priest of Orcas stood up, advancing toward the altar. There, a naked human male glared furiously, spitting upon him. 

"Demon spawn, the God of Tears shall eventually slay your wicked kin!" 

Unmoved, the priest plunged a dagger into the man's chest. A nearby acolyte stepped forward to catch the flowing blood—an essential material for necromantic spells. 

Thus, an Ilmater paladin met his demise, and as Lynn observed the cultists eager to collect the blood, flesh, and soul of the sacrifice to enhance their necromantic powers, he merely rolled his eyes, saying nothing. 

The "wicked kin" the paladin cursed before his death referred to Lynn's own lineage. 

The murderous priest before him was his uncle, and the assisting acolyte was his half-brother. Worshiping demons was their family business, and this cult devoted to Orcas was led by his uncle, with their family members forming its core. 

Moreover, given their presence in the inherently unjust Santir Castle, and their family's significant influence, they constituted a semi-public worship group. 

Thus, he was not merely a cultist but also a member of this nefarious organization—considering their familial ties, he could even be regarded as a key player. 

Yet, this was not the worst of it. 

"The Reani family, guilty or innocent, is beyond the judgment of the God of Tears. My brother is a hero of the Imburt, and our Reani family shall one day return to the Imburt Kingdom. The God of Tears will inevitably be forsaken by the Imburt people—the tyrant, Thain IV, shall ultimately perish, the old order will be restored, and the great Reani family shall reclaim its place." 

Standing before the corpse, his uncle rambled on, conversing with the lifeless paladin. Although he possessed the ability to speak with the dead, Lynn sensed that his uncle was primarily venting his emotions. His grandiose words belied an undeniable truth: the Reani family had once been a prestigious lineage within Imburt, yet now they had been cast out. 

The tyrant Thain IV, as he referred to him, had long been colluding with the God of Tears, seeking to hunt down the Reani family. The paladin before them was simply a victim of that pursuit. Lynn even suspected that the paladin's reference to them as the "wicked kin" was not solely due to their cultist identity but rather the sins committed by their family in Imburt. 

"Do you think we can truly return to Imburt?" 

Raven, also kneeling in the last row, whispered to Lynn. The interminable and tedious ritual had yet to conclude, and hearing his uncle's words, the young Raven expressed a flicker of doubt. 

Lynn glanced at his brother but remained silent. It was not out of reverence for the seemingly sacred ceremony; rather, he could not be bothered to respond to such a foolish question. 

Of course, they could not return to Imburt; his uncle was merely rambling madly. 

After all, they had a small grievance with the current King Thain IV—his father, the former Duke of Reani, the brother referred to by his uncle, had eliminated Thain IV's parents, lover, and children during his lifetime… if one considers distant relatives, there were even a few uncles and cousins involved. 

As a devotee of the God of Tears, Thain IV was not inclined to overlook this old grudge, seeking perpetual conflict with their family. 

Cultists, a criminal organization, and most importantly, exiled political misfits—Lynn could not help but reflect on what he had done to deserve such a ludicrous identity.