"The blood of a warrior," he pronounced, "shall be repaid with a hundred lives of Imperial People."
His mouth spoke these words, but his hands did not cease their work.
The Great Shaman gently picked up the two hearts that, although long removed from their chest, still beat vibrantly with a fresh red hue.
Then, he tenderly placed them in the crucible, onto the medicine mud that had turned thoroughly blood-red—a hue like molten lava or boiling blood.
As the hearts sank into the medicinal clay, the ritual reached its completion.
In the moment of bated breath, a visible spiritual brilliance flickered.
Inside the crucible, the murky medicine mud instantly turned pure and profound, and within a few breaths, the red slur of blood transformed into a kind of ink-like medicinal juice.
A clear and pure ’Blood Ink’.
And just as the Blood Ink took shape, a whirlwind burst from nowhere, and from the mountainside outside the Great Shaman’s tent, there came a series of mountainous chants, as if ancient ancestors were shouting and calling out, causing all the Totem Pillars to tremble.
This sudden gale spread all the way to the Redwoods Swamp at the foot of the mountain, sweeping through every branch and trunk within the forest, turning the entire jungle into a cacophony, and the fog and miasma above the swamp rose and spread, diffusing a dappled array of colors.
Thirty-two hunters kneeled on both sides of the tent at this moment, prostrating by its edge. Animu held up the medicine pot; he reached out, plunging his hand inside, utterly indifferent to the fact that the fresh red medicinal juice—the Blood Ink—in the pot was many times hotter than boiling water.
Afterward, using his hand as a brush, the old man dipped it in the Blood Ink and motioned for the hunters to lift their foreheads before slowly tracing blood-colored patterns on their brows.
Each hunter could not help but reveal a joyous expression, which then turned to agony, even as they clenched their teeth and forcibly endured. The fresh red patterns spread from their foreheads into their flesh and blood, spreading and taking root between muscles and organs in the span of a breath, making their breathing thick and heavy.
In the bodies of a few hunters who were extremely receptive to the Blood Ink, tiny scales began to emerge.
The air was filled with the scent of soil and the maritime breeze—a smell of mountains and tides, a sign of the awakening of the Spirit of the Mountain Tide.
Animu drew patterns with Blood Ink on thirty-two warrior hunters one by one, but he did not stop there and continued towards the Redwoods Swamp.
In his ears, the trembling of many Totems and the calling of spirits slowly converged into one, like a surging tide.
As time passed, this roaring and surging sound became more distinct, finally turning into a deep murmur emanating from the swamp’s depths.
"[Life...]"
As the vague yet soul-shattering spiritual sound whistled back and forth by his ears, Animu’s face was solemn, and the Blood Ink in his crucible had dried up; the medicine dregs had solidified, turning pale.
Only the larger and smaller hearts remained vividly red and pulsed violently, containing an intense vitality.
"Lord of Mountains, Child of the Sea, the pulse of the tide, the mountain’s call...this is the offering made solely for you, the life dedicated to you."
Muttering the ancient words of sacrificial rites, the Old Shaman stepped into the center of the swamp.
Then, he placed the medicine pot on the murky swamp water and turned to leave.
The Redwoods Swamp trembled slightly, all the trees in the forest shaking.
In the center of the swamp, the mire began to churn, drawing the medicine pot into its depths. The invisible spiritual sound let out a resounding roar, followed by a greedy sucking noise.
Should one look down from halfway up the mountain, one might faintly discern a chillingly massive shadow in the depths of the swamp, held sacred by the Redwoods Tribe, pulsating and expanding.
It slithered and spiraled, with six points of scarlet light glowing beneath the mud.
It writhed at the bottom of the mire, emitting rumbles and howls inaudible to humans.
The pure sacrifice that took place in the ancestral land of the Redwood Natives did not cause any anomalies in a short time.
But without a doubt, something had occurred.
Some time later, the sky darkened, and Harrison Port entered dusk.
As evening approached, Ian inside the house lit the stove. He used the poker to stir the charcoal within, sending a shower of golden-red sparks through the gaps between the stove and pot, carrying a trail of smoke.
As the flames grew stronger, he added some wood. Once the porridge for dinner was well underway, the boy rose to fetch the Spirits Focusing Herbal Water from the cabinet that had been sitting for a day.
—Boom!
A white flash cleaved the dark sky, and thunder rolled as a heavy rain fell upon Harrison Port.
Holding the herbal water, Ian turned to look out the window. Raindrops blanketed the land, the churning clouds above teeming with unformed lightning, occasionally unleashing real bolts that lit up the entire port and coast.
"Tropical weather is normal, but it shouldn’t be this severe."
He shook his head slightly; five thunderclaps in three minutes meant that Ian was aware that the weather in the Otherworld had evidently more variables compared to his homeland.
However, the frequent summer thunderstorms in Harrison Port, capable of attracting a large swarm of Thunderhunter Jellyfish to nearby Sigh Cliff, certainly fell outside the realm of normal circumstances.
The lightning that flickered and vanished within the clouds carried a disquieting energy that instinctively unsettled Ian.
He had a vague feeling that his teacher’s mission was somehow connected to the true cause of this strange weather.
But now was not the time to think about these things.
After sitting for a day, the Focused Spirit Potion exuded a peculiar fragrance. If Ian were to describe it, it was like mint-flavored cologne mixed with the scent of mentholated oil—just a light sniff was enough to bring a cool sensation from the tip of the nose to the lungs.
Upon close observation, Ian noticed that the top layer of the potion appeared different from normal water. With his Foresight View activated, the pale blue glow emanating from the upper half of the container confirmed his suspicions.
"It seems that the effective components in the Spirit-Focusing Herb and other herbs are lighter than water, and after boiling and settling overnight, the medicinal quality floats to the top—providing the simplest and most effective step of purification,"
Although Ian was summarizing his thoughts in his mind, his hands did not stop.
After he arrived in the room where his brother Alan was, he swiftly followed Elder Prude’s instructions, scooped up a spoonful of water with a freshly cleaned wooden spoon, and fed it to his still dozing brother; then, he took the light green powder that had settled at the bottom of the medicinal jar and applied it to Alan’s temples and the surrounding area of his forehead.
"~"
Alan was still asleep when the effects of the potion prompted him to open his eyes. The child looked at Ian with wide eyes, locking gazes with his brother for several seconds before showing a very comfortable expression and closing his eyes to fall into a deep sleep.