The air was thick with the stench of blood, sulfur, and a low chant that seemed to rise from the depths of the earth, blending into a nauseating symphony.
"This is it!"
Dean lowered his voice and drew the hunting knife from behind his waist. Its cold touch calmed him slightly. He glanced at Sam, and the brothers exchanged a look.
Sam took a deep breath, chambered a round, and said quietly, "There are a lot of people inside—at least twenty cultists. And those three powerful demonic presences are all in there. White-Eyed Demons, no doubt about it."
Wu Heng sensed the flow of energy within the factory. The ritual's fluctuations had reached a critical point, like a bowstring drawn to its limit. He looked at the two brothers and said calmly, "The ritual has reached its crucial stage. Get ready. This will be a hard fight. Dean, remember to guide the power inside you. Don't try to overpower them head-on."
At that moment, the factory was no different from hell.
The open area in the center had been cleared, and a formation drawn in blood and some kind of black pigment covered the floor.
Its intricate patterns brimmed with blasphemy—upside-down symbols and twisted lines packed densely together.
More than twenty Pale Believers in black robes and hoods knelt around the edges. With their heads bowed, they chanted in a harsh, awkward language. Their low voices were filled with fanaticism, merging into an unsettling hum.
On every exposed wrist was tattooed a hollow white eye, as though it were blinking and about to leap off their arms.
At the very center of the sacrificial formation stood an inverted cross made of charred wood.
The pastor who had still been putting on a respectable front in church that afternoon was now