Within the stone basement, the television showed the broadcast of the championship, happening not too far away from this location.
Since the stadium's roaring crowd was so loud, they were able to hear it all the way here despite the thick stone walls surrounding them.
"…"
Sacrael looked at the gold-rimmed pocket watch in his hand, clicked it shut, and looked over to the sacrificial circle.
"We are ready to begin."
With nods, Bulwarkians took knives, walked over to the unconscious bodies, and slit their wrists—their blood poured onto the stone ground like a river.
Their blood dripped into the sacrificial circle, in the gaps between the stones, and made a demonic star at the center.
With their wrists slit, the unconscious men and women frowned—they didn't realize it, but they were dying—and soon they lost so much blood that their faces turned a ghostly shade of white.
"Stand back!"
