February 2, Year 1 of the New Calendar
Sacrificial Grounds
A ring of strange runes encircled the ground, and the Snail Shaman busied himself setting down all manner of peculiar materials.
"A warrior's shell, a newborn vine, a wisp of dream-speech lingering in the world..."
With each phrase, the Snail Shaman placed another item into the magic circle before him.
Soon, every empty space in the circle was filled with strange sacrificial offerings.
Some materials came from the red crystal sealed outside time, while others had been freshly gathered near the cave.
At the very center, he placed his broken prayer beads.
The Snail Shaman skillfully arranged the offerings. This was a unique art that belonged to him alone.
Rituals, or rather, sacrifices.
Unlike the others of his kind, this Snail Shaman was better at making use of the traces left behind by powerful beings than studying the ways of the soul.
Every god had an essence they represented, or perhaps something even more fundamental.
Through different offerings and sacrificial procedures, the Snail Shaman could wield all kinds of powers rather than being limited to soul magic.
Over the years, this Snail Shaman had indeed learned a great deal by observing powerful beings.
On a handful of occasions, he had even seen beings who called themselves gods, yet none of those encounters had been as overwhelming as that single glimpse.
At the thought of what he had felt in that moment, the Snail Shaman shuddered again, but excitement soon surged through him once more.
There was no doubt. That had been a real god, worlds apart from those self-proclaimed pretenders.
"Hoo hoo hoo, how ironic. A kingdom that staked everything on having a god only welcomed its master after falling silent."
His words expressed regret, yet his tone held not a trace of sorrow. The snail's twisted sense of humor was laid bare in his speech.
At last, the magic circle was complete. The Snail Shaman stood at its center and waved his scepter, pouring in the souls he had long stockpiled.
After that great disaster, the Snail Shaman had only made a cursory collection before hastily entering the red crystal to sleep. Even so, those materials would last him a while.
With ample fuel, the circle began to work, and ownerless souls gathered steadily beneath the Snail Shaman's feet.
Black matter welled up from the ritual array, swallowing the offerings the Snail Shaman had prepared like a rising tide.
Yet he remained standing firmly on its surface, and that black matter never touched so much as a hair on him.
Then ripples spread across the surface. Small orbs emerged one after another, hovering at the circle's four corners and surrounding the Snail Shaman at its center.
Only when the fourth orb appeared did the black surface stop churning. The Snail Shaman seemed somewhat dissatisfied and muttered, "Only four? Never mind. Four will do."
Only now was the first stage of the ritual truly complete.
But the crucial part came next.
Running through what he was about to do once more, the Snail Shaman trembled with excitement, only to shake his head at the thought of the tedious steps ahead.
His Path of Sacrifice was excellent in every respect, but its final result was closely tied to the sacrificial process and the quality of the offerings.
That meant he could not afford a single mistake. The stronger the power he wielded, the heavier the price of any error.
Yet the rewards of such painstaking work were also boundless. He could, for instance, disregard his own limits and wield power approaching that of a god.
The Snail Shaman had realized long ago that every symbol possessed power, and everything in existence had a name of its own.
Storms, raging flames, floods-in this age, so barren that even disasters lacked the resources to occur, they had become legends of the past.
But with the proper steps and sacrifices, he could achieve results akin to those natural calamities.
"I must do it before the feeling from that moment fades. I'll never have a better chance in my life."
Indeed, this Snail Shaman had only just angered a god, and already he planned to use what he had felt in that moment to perfect his Path of Sacrifice.
This was not an act of madness, though it certainly looked like one.
Ever since creating his Path of Sacrifice, he had known that the art had one enormous flaw: there was nothing to offer sacrifices to.
In the era before the Snail Shaman had been sealed inside the red crystal, gods had not existed. There had only been things that resembled them.
Naturally, this had greatly diminished the effects of his sacrifices. But things were different now. This land had finally welcomed a god in the truest sense.
The Snail Shaman's reasoning was simple. If his Path of Sacrifice really worked, offering a sacrifice to this genuine god was sure to provoke a response.
"I've already angered the god anyway. I might as well stake my life on it. Perhaps I'll be seen as useful and spared."
The Snail Shaman spoke as though his own life meant nothing at all.
It was just as it had always been with the snail race: life invariably came second.
As for what came first, opinions varied.
For this Snail Shaman, what mattered most was naturally the success of his own ideas.
"Boluka, Azahu! Praise be to you, primordial, eternal flame!"
The intricate procedure continued, and the Snail Shaman began reciting all manner of ancient incantations.
As he chanted, the Snail Shaman's scepter traced fiery marks through the air.
Those flames were utterly unlike anything in this place-orange-red, brimming with vitality, and conveying hope.
This was the Snail Shaman's most immediate impression of what he had felt in that moment, and his greatest means of locating that god next.
Most gods shared similarities to some degree. Thus, a sacrifice had to express the defining traits of its intended god as directly as possible. Only then could the ritual be completed successfully.
As the ritual progressed, the Snail Shaman slipped into his role, as though he had truly become a devout, pure-hearted believer.
Just as the opening of a poem described, devotion appeared upon the believer's face.
His chanting was grand and melodious, like a devout believer reciting the teachings of the True God he served and spreading them throughout the mortal world.
"Sunfire God, symbol of searing heat and light, your flames shall never die! Your radiance shall never dim!"
The melody soared, sung at full voice.
The chanting swelled into a torrent, resounding through the sky above the Sacrificial Grounds. Wind rose abruptly, and red clouds gradually gathered overhead.
Then the final note fell, and everything stopped there.
"Yes, this ends here."
Gron spoke to the Snail Shaman before him. At his side stood a specially assembled rapid-response squad.
Beside the Snail Shaman, two insects of the Ashen Clan held their weapons and pinned him to the ground, one on either side.
At that moment, Gron was profoundly grateful that he had acted as soon as he received his orders.
Otherwise, there was no telling what might have happened if he had allowed this pitch-black creature to keep speaking.
The strange phenomena in the sky above the Sacrificial Grounds gradually dispersed. Gron looked up, feeling relieved.
He realized that, had he not stopped the shaman just now, something beyond any mortal insect's imagination might have occurred here.
And, just as he had expected, he had once again found the being his Lord had warned him to watch.
The Snail Shaman struggled to lift his face from the ground and looked around. It was easy enough for him to guess who these people were.
Yet he paid the scene no mind-or rather, he paid no mind to his own predicament.
Sensing the fruits of his work, the Snail Shaman said with a grin, "Hoo hoo hoo, it doesn't matter. The ritual went smoothly. I've already succeeded."
"You were sent by the god, weren't you? The god knows about me now, doesn't he? Hoo hoo hoo hoo."
Gron's expression darkened. He did not understand what this rather deranged snail meant, but he knew what he had to do now.
"Take him away from here. Let our Lord decide his fate."
Before you continue