I have the face of a great demon.

Night falls on the far northern ice plains, where wind and snow howl.

Pale moonlight pierced through the leaden clouds and shone on an ancient circular altar.

The altar, built of black stone and covered with obscure runes, was now gleaming with an eerie dark red light, as if dried blood were coming back to life.

Wu Cangting stood shirtless in the center of the altar.

The biting wind whipped ice pellets against his bronze skin, but it could not shake his mountain-like, unshakeable figure.

The totems drawn with animal blood on his chest, back, and arms remained vivid in the wind and snow, each line containing an ancient covenant.

Around the altar, three hundred members of the Wu tribe knelt in three circles.

Clad in snow wolf skins, their foreheads pressed against the cold ground, their deep chanting coalesced into a powerful sonic boom, battling against the howling north wind.

Further out, the elderly, weak, women, and children of the tribe held bone bells and shook them to a specific rhythm, the crisp sound of the bells piercing through the wind and snow.

At this important ceremony of the witch clan, there stood an incongruous figure.

The man, dressed in a blue monk's robe, stood with his hands behind his back, watching the momentous ceremony with great interest.

This person was none other than Master Yunhe, who had received permission from Wu Cangting to observe the ceremony from the sidelines.

&34; thud—&34;

A heavy drumbeat suddenly rang out. Twelve bare-chested, burly shamanic men carried the carcass of a snow mammoth slowly in.

The giant beast had just been hunted down, and heat was still rising from its wounds. Blood dripped onto the snow and immediately froze into scarlet ice crystals.

Wu Cangting took the bone knife handed to him by his clansmen; the blade gleamed coldly in the moonlight.

Without hesitation, he plunged the mammoth into its heart, and scalding blood gushed out, flowing down the grooves that had been carved into the altar.

Where the blood flowed, the dormant runes lit up one after another, like blood vessels being awakened.

"Ancestors above!" Wu Cangting roared to the sky, his voice echoing in the wind and snow. "This unworthy descendant, Wu Cangting, now offers his blood as a sacrifice, begging the spirits of our ancestors to descend upon this world!"

With his roar, the thirty-six animal bone torches at the edge of the altar simultaneously ignited with a ghostly blue flame. These flames had no heat; instead, they made the surrounding air even colder, and frost immediately formed on the eyebrows of several nearby tribesmen.

The tribe's high priest began to perform a bizarre dance. He wore a wooden mask carved with twelve human faces, and with each step he took, the mask would change to a different face.

These faces, some angry, some sad, some joyful, some sorrowful, seemed to be portraying the myriad aspects of human life. As the dance quickened, a whirlwind suddenly swept through the center of the altar, and snowflakes formed a twisted white pillar within it.

Wu Cangting bit his tongue and spat a mouthful of blood into the groove in the center of the altar.

&34; Boom—&34;

The entire altar trembled violently, and the flowing blood suddenly boiled, emitting a thick mist of blood.

Countless blurry figures could be vaguely seen in the blood mist, some holding axes, some drawing bows, and some raising bone staffs—these were the heroic spirits of the chieftains of the witch clan throughout the ages!

"I offer my flesh and blood as a sacrifice!" Wu Cangting's voice had become inhuman, more like the roar of some wild beast. "Please, ancestors, grant me the power of the Ancestral Witch!"

The phantoms in the blood mist suddenly coalesced into a torrent, about to rush towards Wu Cangting.

Just as he was about to completely merge with the ancestral spirit—

&34; Pfft. &34;

A dagger gleaming with a bluish light pierced his back and emerged from his chest.

Wu Cangting shuddered. He slowly lowered his head and saw the tip of the knife stained with his own blood.

The blade, engraved with intricate runes, was now greedily draining his life force.

&34;Ahem...&34;

A mouthful of blood spurted onto the altar.

Wu Cangting turned his head with difficulty and saw that familiar face—Master Yunhe was standing behind him with a sinister smile on his lips.

"Thanks, brother." Master Yunhe's voice was no longer gentle, but instead carried a chilling malice. "I accept this generous gift."

Wu Cangting's pupils contracted sharply.

He opened his mouth, but only spat out more blood and foam.

Those once resolute eyes were now filled with disbelief and horror.

This dear friend with whom he had shared countless nights of conversation and drinks, this injured person whom he had devoted all his efforts to saving, was now...

"You..." Wu Cangting staggered backward, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth with each word he uttered. "Why..."

Master Yunhe did not answer.

With a gentle push, Wu Cangting's tall body crashed to the ground, slamming into the center of the altar.

Blood spread from beneath him, staining the ancient runes that had just lit up.

Outside the altar, after a deathly silence, a deafening roar erupted.

Chieftain!

Kill that beast!

The witch warriors, their eyes bloodshot, struggled to rush onto the altar.

But the ceremony had drained their strength, and even the bravest warriors could hardly stand up straight.

Even more terrifying, a blood-red barrier had risen around the altar at some unknown time, and anyone who approached it would be repelled by an invisible force.

&34;Cang Ting—! &34;

A piercing scream tore through the night sky.

Wu Cangting's wife, Yuechan, the most powerful priestess in the clan, was desperately pounding on the barrier.

Her fingernails split open, and her hands were covered in blood, yet she still couldn't break through the thin veil of blood.

Through the distorted, blood-red barrier, Yuechan's vision was blurred by tears.

She saw her husband's imposing body fall in the center of the altar, his blood meandering like a river on the cold, black stone.

The once gentle and refined Master Yunhe, who used to drink and discuss Taoism with her husband, now stands in a pool of blood, laughing wildly to the sky, the hem of his snow-white Taoist robe stained with a glaring scarlet.

"Don't waste your energy, High Priest." Master Yunhe leisurely straightened his sleeves. "You can't break this barrier. Just relax and watch the show."

As he spoke, his figure began to change. In a few breaths, his refined face disappeared, replaced by a face exactly like Wu Cangting's, and a body of strong muscles.

Master Yunhe had become exactly like him.

No, it wasn't just the appearance; even the fluctuations of spiritual energy were imitated to an indistinguishable degree.

Yuechan trembled as she sensed that even the powerful fluctuations of witchcraft and the unique rhythm of spiritual energy were perfectly imitated. The aura emanating from this demon was exactly the same as her husband's.

Above the altar, the illusory ancestral spirit, having lost its target, let out a silent lament. The lights and shadows, formed from the spirits of past clan leaders, swirled in the wind and snow, sometimes gathering, sometimes dispersing, and finally, guided by the disguise, began to slowly converge towards the imposter...

Yuechan collapsed to the ground.

"No..." Yuechan's fingernails dug deeply into her palms, and fresh blood dripped from between her fingers onto the snow.

She looked at the demon that had become exactly like her husband, and at the ancestral spirits wandering aimlessly in the air, and suddenly let out a heart-wrenching wail.