A colossal, ancient altar radiating endless desolation and death slowly emerged from the void where the pillar of light struck, as though it had been forcibly dragged from the silt of time's long river.
The entire altar was constructed from a jet-black stone, forming a twisted, blasphemous, yet powerfully imposing many-pointed star.
Its surface was covered in countless dark-red runes, weathered by time until they were nearly indistinct, yet still emanating a pressure that made souls tremble.
Stimulated by the bloody light of the witchcraft array, those runes began to glow scarlet layer by layer from the bottom, like sleeping veins awakening.
At the altar's core was not a physical object, but a slowly rotating shadow vortex so deep it seemed to lead straight to hell.
An aura older and purer than the energy gathered by the witchcraft array, carrying an ancient scent, spread from the depths of the vortex.
The vertical pupil on Bell's forehead erupted with unprecedented light as he stared fixedly at the vortex within the altar's core.
He could sense that the Darkborn Blood he had dreamed of obtaining lay in the vortex's deepest depths.
The power of the witchcraft array was resonating with the altar's seal, creating a connection between them. An ancient bronze box appeared within the altar's vortex.
"Mine! It's mine!" Bell's eyes held nothing but the bronze box containing the Darkborn Blood. He poured all his focus and magic power into maintaining and guiding the witchcraft array.
The shadowy bat wings behind him had become somewhat illusory from excessive expenditure, and the vertical pupil on his forehead was bloodshot as well.
At that most crucial instant, when Bell was at his weakest and most focused, a sudden change occurred.
A silent shadow, swift as black lightning, shot out without warning from the