The altar was built from a single slab of mountain stone, broad and rough, standing directly beneath the Scorch-Spirit Pillar. Now it was piled high with the bodies of beasts and fiends, stacked taller than any stone house in the tribe—a small mountain of flesh and blood.
Dark-red blood trickled along the weathered carvings of the altar, seeping into cracks and pooling into thin streams. Coarse bristles, cold scales, jagged fangs, and twisted bone horns tangled together. A raw, brutal wildness rolled off the heap, making hearts clench and skin prickle.
Under the old chief's lead, every man, woman, and child of the Chìlí Tribe gathered before the altar. They faced the charred stump and murmured their prayers as one. This ritual followed almost every successful hunt—it had long since become an unwritten law.
The Scorch-Spirit Pillar remained silent as ever. Its split trunk was black as coal, seemingly dead, utterly unmoved by offerings or devotion. It never devoured the sacrifices like the "mountain spirits" of legends, and it never displayed any obvious miracles.
But some in the tribe knew—that piece of dead wood was not entirely dead.
When the last words of the prayer faded, people exhaled together, a long breath of tension and fear. Their faces eased, smiles returning. They began to haul down the mountain beasts, preparing to drain blood and carve them up.
"So many years, and the spirit pillar has never once touched the offerings," a teenage boy muttered amidst the noise. "Do we really have to keep doing this every time?"
"What nonsense are you spouting?"His father's eyes bulged like bronze bells. He lifted a hand the size of a fan, ready to smack some sense into him.
The chief raised his hand to block the blow.
"Ritual isn't about what enters the spirit's mouth," he said slowly. "It's about what's in our hearts. We honor it, so it remembers this tribe—so its gaze lingers here."
The boy's face flushed bright red. "Chief Grandpa, I didn't mean any disrespect. It's just… it never seems to use any of this."
"Sending the intention is enough," the chief replied, patting his shoulder and softening his tone.
Some called what they worshipped a "sacred spirit." Others preferred "the Spirit of the Pillar"—the guardian will they believed dwelled within the charred wood. It did not take form. It did not speak. Yet it was said to suppress the more vicious, twisted things in the surrounding mountains.
The oldest elders still remembered a time before the Scorch-Spirit Pillar—when the Chìlí Tribe had worshipped something else entirely: a strange blood-red stone.
Back then, whenever a sacrifice was made, that stone would drink in most of the beasts' vital blood. Year after year, it grew colder and darker, a presence that made one's skin crawl.
Until one storm-torn night, everything changed.
That night, lightning split the heavens open. Rain fell not as droplets but as rivers. The storm nearly tore the mountaintops from the Blazing Wastes. Flash floods roared, beasts screamed and fled. It seemed as if heaven and earth themselves were being ripped apart.
And in that chaos, an unimaginably vast ancient tree emerged from the sea of clouds.
Its branches were like waterfalls, pouring down from the sky. Its entire body burned with thunder-fire. Lightning as thick as mountain ridges coiled around its trunk. Thousands of branches drew taut, transforming into blazing white chains, as if locked in a struggle with some invisible giant in the darkness.
That sight was carved into the old chief's memory, never to fade.
In the end, the ancient tree was torn apart by the sea of lightning. Its main trunk shattered. Branches burned to ash. Most of its body vanished without a trace.
Only a single blackened segment of trunk fell from the heavens—crashing into the heart of the Chìlí Tribe and rooting itself there.
The moment it struck, the sky-splitting lightning faded. The deluge slackened as if someone had clenched a fist around the rain. It was as though that charred trunk had blocked something… for the sake of these mountains.
That same night, the bloodstone on the altar simply… left.
No one carried it away. No one saw it move. It was simply gone—vanished without sound into the curtain of rain.
For the first decades that followed, the Scorch-Spirit Pillar showed no sign of life. Its surface was cracked and dry like any dead tree. Anyone who approached felt only a heavy, smothering pressure.
Only ten years ago did change arrive.
A single tender shoot grew from one of its fissures—small, fragile, impossibly green against the charred wood. Spring itself, born from a corpse. After that, nothing else changed.
Remembering this, a complicated light flickered in the chief's eyes. Then he pulled himself from his thoughts and raised his voice:
"Careful now! Every drop of blood, every bone in these fiendbeasts is precious. Don't waste a thing."
The adults had already drawn their gleaming bone knives and metal blades, forming a practiced circle around the carcasses. Blades bit into bone, sending sparks spraying. The shrill ring of steel on stone echoed through the clearing, proof of just how hard these creatures' skeletons really were.
Crude but thick clay jars were brought forward. Warriors carefully collected the dense, rich essence-blood from certain organs and special spots—top-grade tonic, rarely seen.
Among all the prey, the Dread Tapir and Blazehorn Rhino were the true prizes. The tapir might only carry a trace of ancient fiend blood, but that wisp of true blood made it exponentially more valuable than ordinary beasts.
The last time they'd brought down a Dread Tapir had been over two years ago. The thing was vicious beyond words; a single swipe of its claws could rip open a grown warrior's chest.
"This Blazehorn has true blood in its twin horns as well," an elderly man with a deeply creased face said. He handled the beast personally, carving open the rock-hard flesh at the base of the horn.
A surge of crimson liquid gushed out, bright as flame.
For a heartbeat, the blood hung in the air, refusing to fall. It gathered into a glowing clump, then took shape—becoming a palm-sized, twin-headed crimson rhino. Its two tiny heads lifted in a silent roar, expression fierce and vivid.
"Well now, look at that," the old man chuckled. "This horn's blood is potent. Once we refine it, it'll be enough to peel a scrawny brat and grow him a new layer of skin."
He quickly tipped the blood-light into a clay jar and sealed the lid tight.
"Chief, the horns on this Hornridge Beast aren't simple either," a young man called out. "When we found it, it was already half-dead. Otherwise, I doubt we could've taken it down."
The old chief nodded. "Those horns have grown for many years. The bloodline isn't weak. Carve them off carefully. Ground to powder and used in medicine, they'll strengthen bones and sinews."
"The tendon in this Thunder Bull's leg is fierce too," another hunter added. "Took an axe to it and sparks flew."
"Good. All of it is good. You few—don't botch the Wing-Spine Pythons' wing roots. There's essence-blood there we can't afford to waste!"
The tribe worked and joked as they labored. Joy glowed openly on every face.
Only the children reacted differently.
The moment they heard phrases like "blood medicine" and "bone medicine," they all hunched their shoulders at once, like little beasts that had their tails stepped on. Then they turned and bolted in all directions.
They knew all too well where most of that blood and bone would end up.
In them.
Boiled into tonics. Mixed into salves. Or tossed into steaming pits of medicine they'd be forced to soak in until their skin felt like it was peeling off.
Just thinking about it made their teeth ache.
It took more than half an hour of relentless work before the last of the tendons, bones, essence-blood, and true blood were collected. The old chief and elders inspected each jar and bundle, nodding with satisfaction. They gathered the blood-filled jars and sorted bones, carrying them away for later treatment.
"We can't eat all this fresh," an experienced elder said. "We'd better cure a portion—smoke it into dried meat before it turns."
The pile of prey was massive. Even if they feasted for ten days, it wouldn't all be gone. Letting any of it rot would be a crime in a place like the Blazing Wastes, where food and survival were always chained together.
The women of each household moved in next, distributing cuts, hauling meat away. Their faces beamed with genuine relief. A short while ago they'd feared never seeing their hunters again. Now not only had everyone returned, they'd brought back enough to feed the tribe for a long time.
It felt like a blessing.
Soon, smoke rose in soft pillars from across the village.
In iron pots, hacked chunks of meat rolled in boiling water. Oil floated to the surface, sending a rich fragrance into the air. Over open fires, skewered meat browned and blistered, fat dripping steadily onto the flames with a constant hiss, throwing sparks and scent into the wind.
Children ringed the fires, drooling openly, standing on tiptoe to peer into pots. The burly men were no better off—their eyes practically glowed green.
"Here, kid—this is Dread Tapir shoulder. Eat up. One day you'll stare down its cousins in the mountains without flinching."
"Don't waste your time gnawing on that little bit of bark-deer. Won't do much for you. Come on, take a piece of Blazehorn meat—enough of this, and your skin and bones will harden like iron."
"Leave some Wing-Spine Python for the bow trainees! Don't you dare clean it all out."
Boiling broth rolled. Roasting meat spat fat into the flames. The smell of meat and the sound of laughter spread through the stone houses, wrapping the entire Chìlí Tribe in warmth.