Watching believer after believer collapse from blood loss.
Archbishop Byron remained as cold and indifferent as ever.
The laws of survival for every Church had always been cruel.
Even the outwardly righteous and majestic Holy Light Temple and the balance-following Nature Sect were no exception.
When fanatics of the Holy Light Element dedicated themselves to the Holy Light Sovereign, they were willing to commit any act that defied human nature.
Paranoid Archdruids developed an excessive desire to protect, unleashing slaughter in the name of protection.
Thus, the essence of every religion carried a trace of madness.
At this moment, Archbishop Byron stood on a circular platform that protruded roughly twenty centimeters above the ground.
This platform was both the central node of the ritual array and the core altar.
Its position was precisely at the very center.
From where Archbishop Byron stood, he could clearly see the dripping blood gushing along the array's patterns.
It was as though a layer of chilling crimson paint had been spread across the place.
Then, as the blood of those devout believers gradually drained away and their body temperatures turned cold, clusters of ghostly blue souls emerged from their bodies.
They surged toward the center of the array, gathering upon the altar beneath the Archbishop's feet.
The otherwise unremarkable stone altar began to glow and shine, casting a dark, cold radiance.
At that moment, Archbishop Byron raised his right hand. Clutched in his palm was a string of beads.
There were neither too many nor too few beads upon it—exactly thirteen.
At present, those beads were slowly lighting up one after another.
"Praise the gods!"
"The plan is proceeding very smoothly."
His low voice echoed repeatedly through the secret chamber.
The indifference on his face had also turned into delight at the plan's smooth