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Every step of the middle-aged man is filled with piety and fervor, his gaze fixed on the empty throne on the high platform, as if he sees his deepest faith and worship within it. His posture is dignified, his steps steady, each one a tribute to the Black-faced god.
When he finally reaches the front of the platform, he bows deeply, then kneels slowly and carefully. His hands are clasped together, his eyes closed, and his lips move gently, as if silently praying. His voice is deep and powerful, every word filled with immense reverence and admiration for the Black-faced god.
"Black-faced god Ah, you are the source of all wisdom and power. Under your guidance, everything will follow the will of heaven." His words are filled with deep faith, and every word seems to express his loyalty and dedication to Black-faced god.
A fervent smile appears on his face, as if he has already felt the presence of Black-faced god, "Everything in the world originates from you. My life, my journey, all exist to witness your greatness."
The middle-aged man leaned forward, his hands tightly clasped together. "I am here not only for myself, but also for your glory. Let us witness your return together, my God!"
In this extreme atmosphere of fanaticism, Su Jianyang and Wu Cheng could only helplessly watch. They felt shocked and unsettled, as the middle-aged man's behavior exceeded their understanding. They felt a deep fear because what they witnessed seemed to be an unimaginable ritual, a mysterious event that could potentially overturn the world.
The middle-aged man began chanting a certain spell loudly and continuously. His voice became increasingly high-pitched, filled with a primitive power. Su Jianyang and Wu Cheng felt a wave of ominous chills, clearly sensing the evil and danger contained in these incantations.
Su Jianyang tightly gripped his handgun, but hesitated on whether to shoot. His brow furrowed, his eyes revealing deep confusion and concern. He shouted, "Stop! What are you doing? Stop immediately!" However, the middle-aged man seemed to completely ignore Su Jianyang's words, instead becoming more engrossed in reciting those unknown phrases.
The voice of the middle-aged man gradually transformed into a deep and ancient tone, as if his incantations came from a distant time and space, carrying ancient power and secrets. He repeated certain phrases, his voice both mysterious and dignified, as if chanting some ancient hymn, awakening the power buried deep within this dark space.
"Atanos, Iriote, Alashas..." These words were filled with an inexplicable rhythm, each one seeming to possess a life of its own, echoing through the space with the man's voice.
Su Jianyang felt an inexplicable sense of oppression. These incantations seemed to be depriving him of his ability to think, making it impossible for him to focus on anything other than the middle-aged man, who was drawing him in with his eerie incantations.
The rhythm of the incantations grew faster and faster, and the middle-aged man's body seemed to sway with the rhythm of the incantations. His voice became sharp and piercing, filled with fanaticism and obsession, as if he were communicating with some unseen force.
Wu Cheng clutched his head, his face showing a look of pain and fear. He felt himself enveloped by the evil atmosphere of these spells, unable to escape. Trembling, he said to Su Jianyang, "This... this is too terrifying, we must stop him!" His body involuntarily curled up, his forehead covered in cold sweat. His eyes became hollow and bewildered, as if his soul was being consumed by these spells. His lips trembled slightly, as if struggling against this irresistible force.
The middle-aged man's incantations grew stronger, and his body began to emit a dark glow, as if he were merging with the power of this dark space. His fingers continued to draw complex symbols, each movement seemingly guiding some terrifying presence.
Su Jianyang tried his best, struggling to control the little consciousness he had left, raising the gun and pulling the trigger, and the bullet shot out. A hint of fear and anger flashed in Su Jianyang's eyes. As he pulled the trigger, his heart was filled with a sense of despair. He kept shooting, each bullet aimed at the middle-aged man's body, filled with anger and helplessness. The sound of the gun echoed in this eerie space, each shot carrying hope and fear.
Surprisingly, the middle-aged man knelt there, his body hit by the bullets, yet seemingly feeling nothing. His face still bore that crazy smile, and although the bullets pierced his body, not a drop of blood flowed. It seemed that the bullets couldn't cause any substantial harm to him.
Su Jianyang's face turned pale, and the gun in his hand finally let out a last empty click. The magazine was empty, and his gun was rendered useless. He looked at the middle-aged man in disbelief, feeling an unprecedented fear welling up inside him. As the last echo of the bullet reverberated in this terrifying space, fresh blood began to seep from the bullet wounds on the middle-aged man's body, staining his clothes with deep crimson streaks. Ignoring his own wounds, he continued to kneel on the ground, clasping his hands together and continuously reciting the eerie and unnameable incantation.
Blood slowly flowed from his body, dripping onto the ground made of flesh and blood. Shockingly, this ground of flesh and blood seemed to have an uncontrollable thirst for fresh blood. Whenever the blood dripped, the ground would slightly undulate, as if it had a life of its own. As soon as the blood touched the ground, it was rapidly absorbed, leaving no trace behind.
This scene filled Su Jianyang and Wu Cheng with extreme fear and unease. The middle-aged man's body was increasingly covered in blood, but he seemed completely unconcerned, focusing only on his prayers and incantations. His eyes became increasingly wild, his facial expression contorted, as if he had completely succumbed to some kind of transcendent frenzy.
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