Five minutes to six in the evening.
Having finished replenishing the materials, Aiven knelt before the altar, pressing his hands against the obsidian surface.
He chanted the initiation prayer of the secret cult in a low voice, the syllables ancient and awkward, each word seeming squeezed from the depths of his throat with a viscous texture.
Along with the chanting, the dark red runes on the altar began to come alive, pulsating like blood vessels.
The lines of the runes rose and fell slightly, as though blood flowed within them, and the altar emitted a deep hum—the sound produced by the resonance between stone and magic, at a very low frequency that rattled one's chest uncomfortably.
He had activated the altar.
The surface of the altar began to change, the originally flat obsidian tabletop silently sprouting recesses meant to hold ritual materials.
Faint sounds of babbling surrounded them, and the temperature in the attic began to drop, a chilling cold seeping out from the bone marrow.
Aiven stopped chanting and opened his eyes.
Fine beads of sweat oozed from his forehead, and his complexion was somewhat pale—activating the altar truly consumed a considerable amount of energy.
Yet a piety bordering on madness burned in his eyes, and intense excitement had already taken over his brain.
"Next are the materials." He stood up, his voice somewhat hoarse, not knowing whether he was reminding himself or his companion, "Place them in the corresponding positions, there can be no mistakes... we're just this close now."
Yu Xing was washing his hands in an enamel basin in the corner of the attic.
The water was cool, a clean piece of linen draped over the edge of the basin, and he washed very thoroughly, his fingers rubbing one by one. A faint red floated on