Roland lifted his head and glanced at the priest. The man showed no reaction at all, still chanting his incantations in that strange, almost theatrical tone.
Seeing the priest hadn't noticed, Roland steadied his nerves and quickened his movements.
He swiftly overlaid key runes and severed the audio incantation channel, effectively cutting off the priest's chant from reaching its target. This ensured the sacrifice wouldn't be completed before his changes took effect.
Then, he deleted the superfluous structure and began reconstructing the ritual from scratch. He had no intention of modifying a pile of spiritual garbage. That would be far too cumbersome in his current state.
As Roland methodically rebuilt the sacrificial ritual, time ticked by. When the ceremony dragged on longer than usual, the priest standing at the base of the altar grew visibly anxious. His chants sped up, no longer calm and deliberate.
The cultists around the perimeter began to stir restlessly, though they remained in place, clearly uneasy, but unwilling to act without the priest's command.
One cultist, however, broke from the ranks. Wearing a pale gold mask, he rose silently, retrieved a bottle of black alchemical potion from a box in the corner, and approached the priest with reverence. Kneeling beside him, he raised the potion with both hands.
After finishing another verse of his chant, the priest took the potion, uncorked it, and drained it in one gulp.
As the potion took effect and his magical energy surged, Roland immediately intensified his siphoning of that very power.
After all, Roland was still just a regular human. Without the priest's unwitting contribution channeling magic into the altar he wouldn't be able to construct a sacrificial ritual at all.
As the flow increased, a flash of joy crossed the priest's face.
Based on experience, this sudden surge usually meant the ritual was on the brink of success.
And at the exact moment he drained the last dregs of power from the priest, Roland completed his own sacrificial design.
He stood, etched the final runes into the altar, and seamlessly redirected the front end of the priest's ritual into his own.
As shadow elements began pouring into the newly inscribed sigils, Roland's version of the sacrifice activated.
His voice, in stark contrast to the priest's solemn theatrics, was calm, precise, and utterly lacking in reverence.
"Cradle of the dead, convergence of shadow, you who reside in the liminal veil beyond the material realm I, Roland, from the Northern Kingdom, standing upon the largest enclave of orc blood, call upon you to strike a bargain."
His words echoed throughout the chamber.
The cultists looked up at him, their expressions twisting into varying shades of disbelief.
Though their knees ached from kneeling, their gazes remained filled with scorn as if watching a fool.
A sacrifice wasn't something you completed just by speaking. Only priests possessed the knowledge of the required components and rituals. Did this boy really think saying a few words could summon a great entity?
Look at him beautiful face, empty head.
Freyana, on the other hand, looked on with shock. Trained in formal arcane disciplines, she recognized the subtle shifts in the surrounding runes. Though unlike anything she had studied, Roland's ritual activated the moment his voice fell.
The officiating priest, meanwhile, stood frozen, eyes wide.
What the hell just happened?
In all his years leading sacrifices, this was a first.
He'd just been offered as a sacrifice. On his own altar. Using his own setup.
It was like a master chef preparing a feast, only for the ingredients to declare you were the dish, and then use your own cutting board to make it happen.
The priest nearly laughed in disbelief.
What was this a main course learning to bite back?
This kid thought sacrifices were a joke? That flat, irreverent chant it had no beauty, no craft, no devotion. How could such a crude ritual possibly summon a great presence?
He, the priest, spent four hours chanting inherited verses from ancient predecessors for every proper ritual.
Besides, the boy had mispronounced the anchoring phrase.
A mispronounced anchor could provoke divine wrath.
Yet, in the next instant, the priest's smirk vanished.
Something terrifying had descended.
Unlike the fleeting presence they'd contacted in past rituals, this time the entity lingered, hovering silently above the altar.
And everyone everyone except Roland was instantly struck unconscious, flattened to the ground by its sheer presence.
If the priest's incantations were like a public radio broadcast, calling the entity by the wrong name over and over until it reluctantly responded out of suspicion and had to scan the entire material plane just to locate the altar
Then Roland's ritual was a direct call, a message with a name, location, and purpose attached.
By invoking the largest enclave of orc blood in the Northern Kingdom, Roland had narrowed the range the entity had to scan. Even though spatial coordinates couldn't be precisely used since the world had not yet been mapped by legendary mages this vague locator was far more effective than the priest's ramblings.
More efficient targeting, a streamlined ritual, and clearer intent meant the response from the death-aligned plane was swift and immediate.
Roland raised his head. He felt no fear. Calmly, he began to negotiate with the descending consciousness.
The deal was struck quickly.
Because Roland's ritual allowed the entity to identify the offering site almost instantly, there was no wasted time, no diluted reward. Unlike the cultists whose vague sacrifices led to diminished returns Roland received the full measure of the being's favor.
A wave of terrifying energy surged across the altar.
All the cultists died on the spot.
Their corpses, souls, and every last trace of existence were taken. Even the altar and all the materials they had prepared were swept away by the dark force.
Then came the blessing.
A torrent of shadow elements poured into Roland's body. The wear and tear of his hard childhood the physical toll of labor and hardship vanished. His once-thin frame grew lean and strong. At the same time, his magical capacity soared.
With knowledge from his past life, Roland guided the surging power and initiated his ascension.
By the time the flow subsided, he had crossed the boundary from mortal to mage a First Circle Spellcaster.
It wasn't much in the grand scheme, but it was a beginning. A beginning strong enough to resist.
Roland opened his eyes, now a stormy gray.
He stepped lightly onto the ground.
Barefoot, he walked toward the unconscious bodies of Hela and Freyana.