The brutal battle for the city lasted two full days and nights.
By the third day, the city gates finally fell. Like a tide, the Tatars drove the auxiliary troops into the city.
Bang—
Subutai tossed a shriveled corpse before the Shaman priest, who leaned on an eagle-headed staff, wore a nine-feathered ceremonial hat, and had a sheepskin drum hanging around his neck. "Usun the Shaman, I brought back what you wanted."
Usun the Shaman complained somewhat unhappily, "Be careful! This is precious material that can serve as the main component of a ritual and channel the great power of the Eternal Blue Sky. What if you damaged it?"
Subutai asked doubtfully, "That old bastard was practically at the realm of unity between man and heaven. Could his corpse really be damaged from one fall?"
"Cultivators across the world follow all manner of paths. These Zoroastrian monks pursue liberation of the soul, much like eminent esoteric monks. They do not cultivate the body—"
Halfway through, Usun the Shaman noticed Subutai's utterly baffled expression. Irritated, he said, "You wouldn't understand even if I explained it. Why did you have to ask?"
The owner of this corpse had been a spellcaster only one step away from entering the legendary tier.
He had also been the most venerable elder in charge of religious affairs in the Isfahan region. Every year, countless monks and Imams came to Isfahan to hear this elder preach and debate scripture.
During the siege, this elder had acted several times, repelling the Tatar assaults.
Fortunately, he had been alone. Under the alternating attacks of the two Great Shamans, he had ultimately been defeated, his soul withering away and leaving behind only this aged husk, dry as dead wood.
Many Zoroastrian cultivators knew a spell or two, but their magic