Omniscient First-Person’s Viewpoint-Chapter 555: Offering and Fortune

In the land of All Nations, there exists the Bone Altar.

A grotesque monument built from an ancient, savage atrocity. Not a mere massacre, but the chronic, everyday slaughter that once plagued this land—where humans devoured humans, and stacked their bones into a dreadful altar.

Most traces of those heinous acts have been erased from All Nations. Yet a few still remain, too terrible to be scrubbed away, now used as tomb-like relics of a darker past. One such place was now occupied by Mugul, a black magician and priest of the evil god.

The sound of drums made from hide echoed, and mindless sacrifices shuffled forward. Mugul, commanding his underlings and puppets, prepared the forbidden rite.

But even as he set about the ritual he had long awaited, unease gnawed at him. Leaning on his skull-topped staff, Mugul muttered with displeasure:

“...A ritual performed while on the run rarely ends in success.”

But he had no choice. Someone from beyond the Great Plains was coming for him.

Civilized people fear the barbarians beyond the plains. But the barbarians... revere those who cross into their lands from the other side. Wielding unknown weapons and tools, bringing shocking ideas and ideologies, these outsiders overturned this land with irreversible force. It was swift, overwhelming, and left no room for resistance—completely rebuilding life as it was known.

And among them, none had been more powerful and shocking than Mu-hu Agartha. A heroine who united countless disparate tribes to form the nation of All Nations. Though her bloodline may have ended due to some unknown incident, reverence for her still lingered throughout the dark jungles.

Even Mugul, who ruled over the jungles of All Nations, couldn’t shake off that lingering dread.

“But all signs were auspicious. The crow circling the skies, the waning moon, the rising blood—all of them pointed to success. It’d be foolish not to act.”

Mugul, murmuring to himself, raised his staff and steeled his resolve. If this intruder was part of the prophecy, then this trial, too, must be auspicious. If he overcame it, the result would be all the more glorious.

“This was always going to happen. It’s just arrived a bit earlier than expected.”

He waved his staff. Something massive stirred beneath the Bone Altar.

“Come whenever you wish. I will face you myself.”

—

But by then, the regressor and I had already infiltrated the prison of sacrifices.

We stood on the path that led toward the distant Bone Altar. Rather than attacking the black magician outright, the regressor suggested we sneak in first. Somewhere around here, she said, there had to be people Mugul had captured.

The easiest way to deal with a black magician was to ambush them. Like any mage, they were especially vulnerable when unprepared. But the smartest way was to free the sacrifices before the battle.

“I hate black magicians for this. We didn’t come here to play rescue team, but we end up doing it anyway.”

The regressor grumbled as she sliced through the iron bars effortlessly with Tianying.

Just as the rich keep vaults of cash, black magicians stockpile sacrifices, ready for use at any time. They usually hide them well, since they’re both a resource and a weakness—but with her Seven-Colored Eyes, the regressor spotted them in an instant.

Unless you’re someone who truly doesn’t care about others dying, freeing the sacrifices becomes top priority. Not necessarily out of justice—just strategy.

“A rational choice. A black magician’s power scales with the number of sacrifices. The more we rescue, the weaker they become.”

“I just don’t like being forced into it. Obviously a black magician’s going to plan for that.”

Still grumbling, the regressor called out to the figures deeper inside.

“Everyone out. Unless you want to die.”

The people imprisoned inside hesitated. The sudden rescue felt too alien to believe.

“We’re [N O V E L I G H T] saved!”

At least one still had her mind intact—a frail barbarian woman in tattered leather stepped forward.

“We’re finally saved! Oh Mu-hu, Great Spirit, Mother of All Trees! You’ve sent your avatar to save us from the wicked shaman!”

She shouted over her shoulder with trembling joy.

“Everyone, come out! If you don’t, your blood and flesh will be used to wet that sorcerer’s altar!”

The others, slumped and half-dead, began to move. As if she were their leader, the prospective sacrifices followed her lead and staggered out of the cell.

Having slashed through all the ropes and chains, the regressor pointed behind her.

“Go. Anywhere that’s not here. If you stay, you’ll get caught in the fight.”

“Where should we go?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“Understood. Everyone, let’s go. It’s hard, but we have to move...”

The woman guided the dazed sacrifices with calm authority. Brave and steady, she led them like a true survivor.

Hard to believe she’d once been just a name on a sacrifice list.

‘Just like the teacher said. She came here to find the sacrifices first.’

Lamnu, the black magician, moved the sacrifices while keeping his true intentions hidden.

To a black magician, sacrifices were both assets and liabilities. Unlike money, they had feet—they could run off as they pleased, or in the worst case, even pick up a weapon and try to kill their master.

That’s why, when storing sacrifices, you had to break their will through fear and terror, and cloud their minds with drugs and incense. Only then would they obediently offer their lives on the altar when the time came.

Of course, if you broke them too much, they’d lose value as sacrifices, so some upkeep was necessary. But managing humans is such a pain. That’s why most black magicians delegate this sort of chore to their disciples, under the pretense of training.

‘I pretended to be the perfect disciple—diligent, devoted, hopelessly in love with my cruel master. If I could fool someone like that, how hard could it be to trick a bunch of idiots who came here to “save” the sacrifices?’

Unaware that his thoughts were being read like an open book, Lamnu inwardly giggled with delight.

‘Master ordered me to report immediately... but there’s no need. With sacrifices like these, I can conduct the ritual myself. While they’re busy fighting the old man, I’ll steal the rite. The one who becomes Ankrah’s avatar will be me!’

A grand plan—but Lamnu had one fatal misfortune.

No, I don’t mean my mind-reading.

The regressor had already started to suspect him.

“Hm. People listen to you quite well...”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Her eyes briefly flashed in seven colors. The penetrating green sight pierced through the grass and rock, revealing the steel key tucked in Lamnu’s robes.

A steel key to the prison. Something a sacrifice should never have. If he had it, he should’ve escaped long ago.

“Huh?”

“First of all—”

“KYAAAAAAA!”

Lamnu was struck down in a single blow, blood spraying from his side. It would be unfair to say he was careless—how could he have known the regressor could literally see through solid matter?

“There’s this gross stench in the air. Some kind of drug? Maybe a tranquilizer? Doesn’t seem too strong, though.”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s why people still aren’t really responding to us, even when we talk.”

“I’ll blow away the incense with wind. You take the people and get them somewhere safe. Without sacrifices, a black magician is nothing.”

“Kuhuhu... nothing, you say?”

At that moment, Lamnu, who had collapsed in a bloody heap, began to rise. He didn’t brace himself with his hands, didn’t even try to stop the bleeding. Like someone rewinding time, he slowly stood, his face lifeless.

“You’re already in the palm of my hand. Did you think I wouldn’t prepare for this much?”

“What, puppet magic?”

“Kuhuhu. Of course. This puppet swallowed one of my fingers. Why else would I bother taking on a disciple?”

A piece of the caster’s body embedded inside and controlled through a binding ritual—this was puppet magic. In exchange for a sacrifice and a body part, you got an extra life.

Mugul, the black magician, had turned his disciple into a puppet and had been watching us through him from the start.

“So what.”

Though the ambush had failed, the regressor didn’t care. She immediately sliced the puppet’s limbs apart. No matter how strong the main body was, a puppet was still a puppet. Break it, and it’s useless.

Lamnu’s dismembered body was quickly rendered inoperative. But the black magician beyond the puppet didn’t care. It was just a puppet to him.

“You don’t hesitate, I’ll give you that... but what about this?!”

The black magician splattered even more of his own blood and began to chant. It wasn’t so much a language as a primal howl—an incantation that turned spilled blood into a red mist.

The red mist surged forward. The regressor slashed the air with Tianying, slicing the wind and dispersing the fog.

“This is it?”

“I wasn’t aiming at you!”

At the same time, the sacrifices’ eyes turned bloodshot and they began to scream. A spell of madness. Already drugged and stripped of reason, the sacrifices couldn’t distinguish friend from foe. They rampaged uncontrollably.

The regressor clicked her tongue.

“Tch. I should’ve struck the real black magician. He’s sharper than I expected.”

“Looks like he knew we were coming and prepared. What do we do now? Kill them?”

“If we kill them, they’ll just become sacrifices anyway. I’m going to kill the black magician’s main body. You take care of things here!”

“What? You’re leaving me alone in a room full of berserkers?”

“You can handle it. You don’t die.”

“Being able to and having to are different things!”

“No time!”

Ignoring me entirely, the regressor raised Jizan high. With a single swing, its blade energy split the ceiling in half, letting starlight stream into the dark underground prison.

“Handle it!”

And with that, she soared upward, leaving me alone in a room filled with maddened berserkers.

“Haah... why is everyone I meet always like this...”

Drooling, teeth bared and claws extended, they surged toward me with a singular instinct: rip and devour. It wasn’t even coherent aggression—just raw, chaotic bloodlust.

“Killing them wouldn’t be hard...”

The problem was, I couldn’t kill them. But if I let them live, they’d just keep attacking me. What a dilemma.

“...Guess I have to, huh?”

One of the berserkers lunged at me with its teeth. Snap, snap. Clashing jaws tried to rip into my flesh. My whole body was scratched and clawed. They charged like rabid dogs, desperate to drink my blood and tear me apart.

Instead of fighting back, I let my blood flow freely.

Life instinctively resists external interference. But black magic blurs those boundaries, letting it manipulate another’s body and mind. In a way, it’s not unlike vampirism—forced vampirism, you could say.

But black magic is still a human-made craft. I let them drink my blood. I could afford to, thanks to my regeneration.

The blood I shed slowly began to seep into their bodies.