Our Family Has Fallen

When the iron door closed, the entire room plunged into darkness, and at this moment, the two of them couldn’t help but look at each other.

”Father.” Margaret tentatively greeted, instantly breaking the barrier between them.

”Are you alright?”

”Why are you here?”

”Did that guy bully you?”

Lawrence came to his senses and anxiously asked a string of questions, so many that it was overwhelming.

”I’m fine.” Margaret raised her hand to hold her father’s hand, meeting those anxious eyes.

In Margaret’s memory, her father had always been invincible, nothing could defeat him, yet now he was so haggard, his disheveled hair and weary expression were unfamiliar.

He’s aged...

Lawrence seemed to realize something too; no one wants to appear weak in front of their children. The moment their eyes met, it was like he was pricked by a needle, and he quickly pulled away from her support.

But the old warrior, being seasoned, soon regained his composure and began pressing her on the most important question: why she left the territory and came here.

Margaret, under the pressure of being questioned, didn’t understand why her father was so concerned about this and not about her feelings as his daughter.

”To escape for my life.” Margaret retorted in anger, instantly rendering Lawrence speechless, plunging the atmosphere of the room into heaviness.

Though ”escaping marriage” and ”escaping for life” differ by just one word, their meanings are worlds apart.

But what was even more unusual was that Margaret, who preferred to stay silent than lie, actually said what Lance had suggested.

Perhaps it was her father’s appearance that disappointed her, or maybe it was resistance to the marriage and her dislike of Alvin.

But in any case, Lance’s persuasion was indeed a significant catalyst.

To make an honest person lie, truly this Hamlet is a Land of Corruption.

...

Moonlit night, Misty Mountains, Fang Tribe camp.

In the flickering light of the campfire, a slave’s throat was slit on the altar. The body convulsed like a pump extracting blood from veins, which pooled in the altar’s depression.

The priest took out the still-beating heart and placed it into the depression, the heart absorbed the blood like a balloon swelling as it beat.

At this point, the priest held the engorged heart in both hands and placed it into the mouth of the howling wolf statue.

As he chanted, the heart in the wolf’s mouth seemed to be bitten, the blood it contained gushed out, drenching the statue, imbuing it with a sinister aura as if something had awoken.

Yet the black mist around the statue was mingled with a hint of bloodred tendrils, the elusive Wolf God seemed to exude unprecedented ruthlessness.

The ritual simultaneously awakened a frenzy of rage, even the priest who served it for years was affected.

The priest trying to calm the Wolf God was instead backlashed by its power, his movements halted.

This scene immediately panicked the clansmen participating in the ritual, but the priest persisted to complete it.

Clan members who had long been anxiously waiting assisted the priest down, and when the mask was removed, it was indeed still the same priest hosting the ritual.

But the difference was immense, almost unrecognizable.

Previously, when using rituals to trace the Wolf God’s lost bloodline, he held grand sacrificial ceremonies to bless the warriors of the Warwolf tribes with the Wolf God’s favor.

Back then, although he appeared a bit aged, he bore the aura of a cunning old wolf, wise and able to guide the tribe forward.

But now he seemed more aged, his body no longer upright, his eyes lacked the clarity of a sage, instead, they carried a tint of murkiness, and he exuded an aura of ennui, or more precisely, death.

Conducting the ritual seemed beyond his capacity, leaving him utterly exhausted, as if he’d been wholly consumed.

Compared to the priest’s current state, some clansmen became impatient and started asking.

”Is the Wolf God’s anger not yet appeased?”

In response, the priest weakly reassured them, ”After so many sacrifices, the Wolf God’s wrath is almost soothed.”

Hearing this, relief washed over the clansmen, as long as there was hope, no adversity could crush the children of the steadfast mountains.

The priest dismissed the crowd, leaving only one young man beside him.

Only then did the priest let go of his pretense, coughing up a mouthful of blood, his body visibly withering fast.

Yet despite the situation, the young man’s composure was undisturbed. Instead, he promptly administered a potion to the priest, which slowed the deterioration.

Gradually, the priest’s breathing became more steady, his gaze shifting to the dim moonlight in the sky.

When the chance to advance to legendary status presents itself, no one can resist. The Warwolf left with the Wolf God’s blessing, and it has been nearly two months since then.

The priest, through the connection between the Wolf God and the Warwolf, sensed when they performed sacrificial rituals, he felt it too.

In the first half, although they faced some obstacles, the Wolf God was fine, and after a few offerings, it was quite pleased.

Until one day, as a priest, he could vaguely feel the Warwolf’s life hanging by a thread, sensed through the ritual and connection with the Wolf God that something had invaded the Warwolf’s body.