352: Orc Annual Festival

The Orc Capital, Cana City, the Annual Festival.

The magnificent main altar of the beast god towered into the clouds, its base polished bright by the knees of a million believers.

Today's morning prayer was exceptionally solemn. The High Priest Morton, wearing his priestly robes, was leading the high priest group in chanting prayers, the thick waves of sound echoing over the square.

"Strike the earth with claws, tear through chaos with fangs. Great Warwick, source of beast blood and Soul Fire, master of the wilderness and war songs."

"You kneaded our flesh and blood from stardust, used thunder as a whip to drive us from the wild; used the bright moon as a mirror to reflect the glory beneath our claws..."

"Lord Warwick, please drink the sincere blood of the orcs, please watch over the survival of the tribe, let the war banners never fade, let the ancestral spirits rest forever..."

Just as the prayer reached its midpoint, a sudden change occurred in the Ancestral Spirit Holy Fire Pit at the center of the altar.

Sizzle~

The crimson-gold holy fire suddenly dimmed, the flames twisting and lengthening strangely, seeping out strands of ghastly white, like embers mixed with bone ash.

Morton's face turned pale as he shouted sternly, "What's going on? Investigate quickly."

Before the priests could take action, a piercing crack came from the bottom of the pit.

A seven-finger-wide crack opened in the obsidian-tiled bottom of the pit. Several curled skeletons were washed to the surface by the churning water.

The skeletons shimmered with a glazed luster, clearly having been burned by the high-temperature holy fire. They held old beast-hide prayer scrolls in their arms.

These were the ritual scrolls used exclusively by the priesthood five thousand years ago, now torn to shreds.

Most terrifyingly, the finger bones of one skeleton were dug deep into the northwest corner of the crack at the bottom of the pit.

Beneath the finger bones, a fragmented engraving was clearly visible: the 'Holy Emblem of Light' composed of three circular arcs.

"No!"

Morton's eyes bulged, and he spat a mouthful of old blood onto the front of his priestly robe. Having served the Holy Fire Pit for a full eighty years, he had never seen such a horrifying sight.

The entire altar fell silent for a moment, then completely boiled over.

"Roar..." A deafening roar resounded through the square. The speaker was Grom, the leader of the Fierce-Mane Bear Clan.

He was burly, the thick mane at his neck standing on end. His eyes were bloodshot as he beat his chest. "The Holy Fire Pit has been polluted by the filth of Light."

"These skeletons are our ancestors, burned alive in the holy land by the power of Light."

Behind Grom, dozens of guards from the Fierce-Mane Bear Clan drew their battle-axes in unison. The blades glinted coldly in the morning light, clearly ready to strike at any moment.

"What exactly does the priesthood want to do?"

Next to speak was General Rex of the Blood Lion Clan, clad in battle armor, staring intently at High Priest Morton with bloodshot eyes.

"Three days before the Annual Festival, someone saw the priesthood moving black boxes in the west of the city late at night. Did you know something would happen and deliberately hide it from us?"

As soon as Rex finished speaking, a chorus of agreement rose from the crowd.

Elder Fitch of the Shadow Fox Clan wagged his fluffy tail, his high-pitched voice full of sarcasm. "High Priest Morton, why don't you tell us?"

"The rumors of the oracle spread by orcs a few days ago, and the ironclad evidence of collusion with the enemy found in the noble manors—how did they all pop up at this time?"

"Could it be that the priesthood has long since hooked up with traitors?"

Beside Fitch, the Gloom Falcons of the Nether Eagle Clan spread their wings. The edges of their ink-black feathers shimmered with an eerie light, their sharp gazes sweeping over the priesthood, already viewing them as potential enemies.

"You bunch of useless..."

The cries of a Fenrir Clan girl were drowned in the waves of anger, as more weighty questions emerged from the upper-class orc groups.

"Fifty years ago, my father followed a caravan to present offerings, but was executed by the priesthood for 'offending the sacred object.' Thinking back now, he probably stumbled upon your filthy business."

Viscount Rick gritted his teeth. Behind him, the Wolf Cavalry had unsheathed their scimitars, the blades still stained with blood from yesterday's hunt.

"During last year's winter hunt, the tribe's shaman sensed the wailing of the ancestral spirits and sought an audience with the priesthood, but was blocked at the door. You said 'the ancestral spirits are sleeping' then; now it seems you were simply afraid of being exposed."

The chief of the Barbarian Bull Tribe swung his giant axe, the blade whistling as it cut through the air.

These upper-class orcs either held military power or led large tribes of tens of thousands.

The Fierce-Mane Bear Clan controlled half of the capital's garrison; the Blood Lion Clan guarded the southern pass; the Nether Eagle Clan was the kingdom's most elite scout force... The questioning from these high-ranking orc groups struck hard at the priesthood's credibility.

The ordinary believers were already distraught by the holy fire anomaly, and hearing decades of accumulated suspicions, their anger was instantly ignited.

It turned out the foundation of their faith had long been hollowed out, and the so-called "sacredness" was merely a carefully woven lie by the priesthood.

Angry roars, desperate wails, and frantic curses swept across the square, overwhelming the believers' last bit of reason.

The rumors of the oracle, which were just undercurrents a few days ago, now became a prairie fire under the catalysis of the holy fire pit anomaly... Shang Wan Ning leaned against the phoenix couch, twirling a jade slip containing the Ativi Continent intelligence just organized by Xiao Si.

A light screen hung in mid-air, projecting the chaos of Cana City in real-time: enraged orc believers stormed the temple gates, while stones and burning wooden clubs were constantly hurled at the priesthood's guards.

A massive fire broke out at the Earl's manor in the east of the city. Guixu Walkers mingled in the crowd, raising their arms and shouting, "Execute the oracle, purify the bloodline!"

Chen Yu sat kneeling on the footstool, her white-haired head almost pressed against the light screen, the stray hair on top of her head wiggling excitedly.

"It's burning!"

"Look, Your Majesty! That old fox Morton's priestly robes have been torn to shreds by Grom. Rex's Lion Cavalry has already surrounded the altar."

"What's the rush?" Shang Wan Ning didn't even lift her eyelids, lightly tapping the jade slip with the back of her hand. "The heat is still far from enough."

With a slight movement of her divine sense, You Yu, far away on the Ativi Continent, received a new command from Her Majesty.

Four hours later, in the most affluent Duke's manor in Cana City, a parchment scroll sealed with secret techniques was exposed in a hidden compartment smashed open by the "angry masses."

The word "Blood Pact" was written on the scroll in fresh beast blood, its content shocking: the Duke promised to cede three border cities in exchange for the Church of Light's support in seizing the throne during the kingdom's internal strife.

At the signature, the private magic mark of High Priest Morton was strikingly imprinted.

Even more fatally, Tudor had already used secret lines to let Grom's confidant "just happen" to find half a bishop's ring from the Church of Light in the crack of the Holy Fire Pit.

The name engraved on the inside of the ring was precisely one of the Twelve Bishops of Light who had signed the blood pact with the Duke.

A Guixu Walker "risked his life" to snatch the parchment scroll from the chaotic soldiers and read it aloud in the square.

When Morton's magic mark and the bishop's ring were simultaneously presented before his political rival Grom, the last shred of reason in the Orc Capital vanished completely.

"Kill all the god-betrayers..." Grom held his battle-axe high.

"The priesthood shields traitors and desecrates the holy land; they deserve ten thousand deaths." Rex pointed his sword directly at the altar, and the charge horn of the Lion Cavalry resounded through the sky.