Chapter 124: Substitute Ritual and Transformation
Inside the sealed chamber, two men—one unconscious, one awake—were bound at the center by coarse ropes drawn taut from all sides. Beneath their bodies, an intricate magic array glimmered faintly, its runes emitting a dull, obscure light.
Two circular formations were linked together, broadly resembling the Blood for Blood ritual, yet far more complex. The structure was denser, the inscriptions more elaborate, and the incantation noticeably longer.
The awake one—the beautiful young man—cried and screamed incessantly. If it were possible, Charles truly wished he could knock him unconscious as well. But just as the sacrifice in Blood for Blood had to remain conscious, this upgraded version was its complete inversion.
This time, the recipient had to stay awake.
In the end, Charles had no choice but to stuff a rag into the boy's mouth.
Candlelight flickered across the chamber walls. As the low, fragmented incantation echoed on, the very light in the room seemed to dim. Outside the sealed door, the others waited nervously. Those who had witnessed the battle at the Trident were especially tense, bracing themselves for what might come.
Yet unlike before, there were no screams. No shrieks. No inhuman howls.
Only the chant.
And… something else.
A faint sound, like running water.
Some thought they had imagined it.
"Did we bring water in there?"
"I don't think so…"
They exchanged uneasy glances.
---
It was the sound of blood.
As the incantation deepened, the wounds carved into the sacrifice's wrists and ankles began to bleed faster—far faster than normal. And unlike ordinary blood loss, under the influence of the chant and the dull glow of the magic array beneath him, the liquid flowing from his body began to change.
Bright red faded to dark crimson.
Crimson darkened into black.
Black bled into purple.
Until finally, the color drained away entirely.
Gray.
Gray blood gushed from the wounds, and the sacrifice's body visibly shriveled, collapsing inward as though all moisture and vitality were being wrung from it. Then, without warning, a cold, unnatural wind swept through the chamber.
The body—now a dried corpse—crumbled into ash, scattered cleanly out of the magic circle by that unseen gale.
The strange liquid that had once been blood flowed calmly along the carved channels of the runes, filling every groove.
Compared to the wildling woman before, this sacrifice died quietly.
Peacefully.
And yet—far more disturbingly.
After the body vanished, the chanting did not stop.
Within the linked circles, the gray blood began to emit a mist of the same color. Thick, churning vapor rose from the runes, pooling and gathering like storm clouds—only darker, heavier, and far more oppressive.
Once fully formed, the mist surged forward.
It lunged across the chamber and enveloped Sardin completely.
Wrapped around his body, it forced its way inward—pouring into the wounds cut into his limbs, flooding his flesh from the inside out.
The gray mist split into four streams, like four somber, venomous serpents. Under the dim candlelight, they writhed and burrowed relentlessly into the target's body—or like flesh-eating worms, rapidly hollowing out Sardin's blood and muscle before taking their place within.
After a long while, every trace of the mist vanished into Sardin's body. The chanting came to an abrupt halt.
[You have activated the Substitute Ritual. Target: Night's Watch recruit Sardin]
[Ritual successfully completed]
[Under the influence of the Authority of Death, your spell has mutated]
...
Silence fell over the sealed chamber.
The candles steadied, their flames swaying gently as warm yellow light chased away the lingering shadows.
Charles stared at the young Night's Watch recruit lying on the ground, his skin flushed red, and frowned slightly.
He knew what the original Substitute Ritual was supposed to do: it would block a single attack for the recipient—fatal or otherwise.
But the altered version?
That, he had no idea.
As Charles lingered longer in the North, more people had converted their faith. Without him realizing it, his Authority of Death had begun to awaken.
And that this beautiful young recruit also worshipped the Seven came as a genuine surprise.
Enough so that Charles had never anticipated a mutation.
Normally, a spell mutation was a good thing—it meant greater power or stranger effects.
But right now, it was… inconvenient.
All he needed was a substitute death.
Nothing more.
"Let's hope it changed in a favorable direction," he muttered. "Otherwise, I'll have to find someone else."
He crouched beside the unconscious boy and drew a shallow cut across Sardin's arm with a silver dagger.
Blood welled up as expected.
Charles frowned.
Then the wound began to close.
Not slowly—but visibly, right before his eyes.
That wasn't the most shocking part.
What truly stunned him was the color.
The healed skin wasn't the pink of fresh flesh, nor the healthy redness covering the rest of Sardin's body. It was pale. Slightly rough.
It was Sardin's original skin tone—exactly as it had been before the ritual.
"…What?"
Charles stared at the healed cut, then at Sardin's flushed cheeks, arms, and legs.
He cut again.
Same result.
A third time. A fourth.
Every wound healed instantly—and every healed area reverted to Sardin's original appearance, losing the ritual-induced redness.
---
While Black Castle prepared for the duel, the enemy beyond the Wall convened inside a tent stitched together from animal hides.
A thin, gray-haired middle-aged man sat silently by the campfire, listening. Around him, several wildlings wrapped in heavy furs argued loudly.
"I drink a lot, but I'm not stupid," a bearded man slurred, reeking of ale. "Santoro can only skinchange into a shadow lynx—and he's barely grown! We can't send him to die!"
Nearby, a heavily pregnant woman wrinkled her nose in disgust.
A bald man wearing snow-bear fur scoffed. "Young? If we don't get through the Wall, what difference does age make?"
"If we fail, we can still cross," the bearded man shot back. "The crows promised!"
"Yes—on the condition we obey the laws of the green lands," the bald man retorted. "Kneel and become kneelers? Since when do the Free Folk agree to that?"
"Exactly!" someone shouted. "I'd rather die than kneel!"
A scar-faced wildling woman sneered. "The green lands have lost the Old Gods' favor. Their so-called 'wizard' is nothing but a parlor trick."
Nods followed. The tension eased slightly.
Life beyond the Wall was brutal—but it had its advantages.
South of the Wall, skinchangers were legends. North of it, gifted children still appeared from time to time.
No skinchangers in the south. No real sorcerers either.
The wildlings knew this. That was why they dared make such a demand.
"Still," someone muttered, "why did the crows agree? They know—"
A soft strum of a lute cut him off.
The unassuming gray-haired man finally spoke.
"That doesn't matter. The agreement is made. What matters now is who goes."
The argument returned full force.
"Borok. He's old—won't last much longer anyway."
"Borok's old, but experienced. We'll need him once we cross."
"And don't forget the Others…"
"I still say Santoro—"
"No. Not Santoro!"
---
The argument inside the tent drifted into the forest.
Outside, the very people being discussed stood in uneasy silence—some leaning against trees, others squatting, arms crossed, heads lowered.
They listened.
No decision came.
At last, someone suggested, "Why don't we decide ourselves?"
"Fine. Who goes?"
"Draw lots?"
"Fair enough."
"Thorn, get the sticks."
Simple minds favored simple solutions. The idea was quickly accepted.
Before they could act, a short, gray-haired old man with broad shoulders spoke up.
"I object."
The strongest skinchanger among them had no intention of risking himself.
He snorted, then pointed at the weakest of their number—Santoro.
"Santoro. After your head's cut off, you enter your lynx. I'll take over the animal. You'll live on inside me."
He spoke as if this were perfectly reasonable.
"Why me?!" Santoro demanded, his voice young and shaking.
Skinchangers possessed a strange affinity with animals. They could project their spirit into beasts—wolves, hawks, bears, boars, cats.
In death, their spirit could flee into their bonded animal and survive.
But only briefly.
Months at best.
Eventually, the human mind faded, replaced by instinct.
A slow, inevitable death.
No one wanted that fate.
Least of all someone young.
"If you don't go," the old man said calmly, "I'll kill you now."
Santoro looked around desperately.
No one met his eyes.
Compared to drawing lots, choosing a single sacrifice was far safer.
For everyone else.