Harlotte’s consciousness was drawn into the altar etched upon the human-skin parchment. He felt himself drifting, his whole being shrinking until he stood before that sacrificial dais.
By now, he knew he had walked into a trap—but having come this far, he could do nothing but step onto the altar.
He did not know whether he was the sacrificer or the sacrificial victim. If the former, perhaps he could offer up something of his own; though he had yet to inherit the castle truly, he might still perform a sacrifice. But if he were the victim, his situation was dire. He had to admit: this guest noble had played her role as his tutor well. She had devised a way to make him voluntarily enter her snare.
Most of all, even knowing it was a trap, he had felt compelled to come. Harlotte almost wanted to applaud her ingenuity. The castle’s rules bound these nonhumans tightly—but she had discovered a loophole. In some sense, Lady Margaret had anticipated all his future moves, even known he would seek her out in her own chamber.
He admitted he had underestimated the castle’s denizens. As a transmigrator, arrogance ran in his veins. No matter how much he claimed to treat others as equals, he had always regarded them as NPCs in his solo campaign. That arrogance showed in his words and deeds, but it lurked deepest in his heart.
Step by step, he climbed the thirteen steps of the altar platform. The stench of blood was overpowering, forcing dry retches from him—even though the altar was but a vision, the color of gore, the jagged bone shards at severed limbs, felt as real as if within arm’s reach.
Fortunately, Harlotte remained in the throes of his temporary madness; he would not slip into another hallucination. Compared to those earlier visions and whispers, this was merely child’s play.
When he reached the summit, the altar stood empty—nothing resided there. He lifted his head, peering upward into an ashen void.
“What is this altar? It exists, yet does not. Am I the sacrificer or the offering? And if either, to whom do I offer?”
After a few silent seconds, Harlotte recalled an old trope: when performing a sacrifice, could one offer one’s own… appendage?
Time slipped by unnoticed. He knew he could not linger. The ratio of time within this space to the outside world was uncertain—if he delayed too long, days or even weeks might pass beyond these walls, possibly extending past his eighteenth birthday. Then he would truly be doomed.
“O great and ineffable unknown… if you can hear my call, answer me.”
He did not know the proper ritual; he could only act by instinct.
Honestly, at that moment Harlotte longed to shout, “Yang Jian!” and see if some god might arrive astride a blood-red radiance. But this world would not summon that deity, of course.
His voice echoed upon the altar, yet no cosmic power stirred. How long passed, he could not say—until a single drop of blood fell from the sky, hurtling toward him.
He shivered at the sight of that sudden blooddrop, his instincts screaming to dodge. Yet the drop flew as if guided, striking him no matter how he evaded.
Though merely a disembodied consciousness, he felt the warm wetness pierce him.
Vast-Industry True Blood. When he identified the drop, a chill riveted him as if plunged into an ice cave on the coldest night—yet his heart soared in exhilaration.
Why the hell did I summon the Corpse-Immortal of Vast Industry? Harlotte stared upward, half-expecting phantom blades to cleave him where he floated.
But this was an altar—why had he not yet offered his sacrifice, and already been gifted? It made no sense. Perhaps the Corpse-Immortal, lacking a mind of its own, gave blood whenever summoned. No harm done to it, yet the boon could prove burdensome.
The Vast-Industry Corpse-Immortal and its True Blood hailed from the world of Sun and Moon Misaligned. True Blood could transform an infected human into a Nirvana Corpse upon death. Nirvana Corpses came in two forms: the Common Corpse and the Lawful Corpse. Common Corpses were simple zombies—brainless and perpetually hungry, its rigid body impervious to normal blades but otherwise unremarkable. Lawful Corpses, however, had been cultivators in life; upon resurrection, they retained intelligence, possessed iron-hard bodies, and wielded elusive magical arts.
Most crucially, anyone infected with True Blood would become a Nirvana Corpse upon death—regardless of cultivation.
Harlotte never imagined that by invoking the altar he would draw down a drop of True Blood. If the altar was useless, it would not have contacted the Corpse-Immortal—but if it worked, it was uncontrollable, calling forth any number of fiends next time.
Of course, he doubted the Corpse-Immortal would employ him as a servant across worlds—after all, the neighboring Lawless Extremely Method Demon Lord was powerful, yet did not compel him to serve. The chance to resurrect was indeed a remarkable safeguard; once he transcended the cultivation threshold, he could become a Lawful Corpse, requiring only life-force… otherwise indistinguishable from the living. He might even gain a divine art. Harlotte knew if it came to that, he would not hesitate to eradicate every nonhuman in the castle for vengeance.
As he pondered, the altar suddenly flared with a bloody red radiance, catapulting his consciousness out of the vision and back into his own mind.