"A warrior's blood must be repaid with a hundred Imperials."
His mouth spoke, but his hands never stopped.
The High Shaman gently lifted the two hearts from the box. Though they had been removed long ago, they still beat, bright red.
Then he softly placed them into the crucible, atop the medicinal sludge that had turned completely crimson, like lava—or boiling blood.
As the hearts sank into the sludge, the ritual was complete.
In the held breath that followed, visible spiritual radiance flickered.
The murky medicinal sludge within the crucible instantly became pure and profound. Within a few breaths, the red blood paste transformed into an inky medicinal liquid.
A clear, immaculate "blood ink."
And at the very instant the blood ink took shape, a violent wind arose from nowhere. Halfway up the mountain outside the High Shaman's tent, wave after wave of mountain-shaking cries suddenly rang out, like the calls and roars of ancient ancestors, making every totem pole tremble.
The cries spread all the way to Redwood Marsh at the mountain's foot. The sudden gale swept through every leaf and trunk in the forest sea, turning the entire jungle clamorous. The fog and miasma above the marsh also rose up, spreading in a dazzling riot of colors.
The thirty-two hunters were kneeling on both knees, prostrated along either side of the tent. Animu lifted the medicine pot and reached a hand into it, utterly unconcerned that the crimson blood ink inside was several times hotter than boiling water.
Then, using his hand as a brush, the old man dipped it in blood ink and gestured for the hunters to raise their foreheads. Slowly, he drew bloody patterns upon the crowns of their brows.
Every hunter could not help but reveal a delighted expression at first. Then pain twisted