Before long, as more and more blood accumulated, the smell in the air grew increasingly complex.
Skander was still chanting, his voice already somewhat hoarse. The blood on his own hand had clotted, so he did not cut himself again.
It was not the amount of blood that mattered. The true key was—numbers and intent!
By now, guided by those pale-faced people, ordinary people had begun hesitantly cutting their fingers and letting a few drops of blood fall into the pit in turn.
And when the blood in the pit slowly seeped in and accumulated to a certain extent, a change finally occurred.
The ground that had been sprinkled with powder gradually began to turn white.
A low wave of startled cries rose from the surroundings.
It was not merely light. Rather, the color across the stone surface was rapidly fading, while a streak of white spread from the center of the circular pit, slowly reaching the edge of the larger pit.
All around, every "descendant" Skander had transformed shuddered almost simultaneously!
They could feel the blood in their veins begin to heat up. A violent tremor, mixed with fear, yearning, and instinctive submission, swept through the crowd and the air.
That was the sensation of the Progenitor, shared among these lower-ranking descendants.
At that moment, the air directly above the circular pit abruptly blurred.
A faint outline slowly "floated" into existence.
It was extremely faint, only a vague shadow with no discernible details.
—but it was indeed a white phantom of light!
There was no extra radiance, no distinct temperature, no other notable traits. "He" simply hung there in silence—like nothing more than a fleeting illusion.
Yet no one was naive enough to believe it was an illusion.
Especially when that light appeared, the temperature throughout the cavern seemed