The night enveloped the Eternal Village in a cloak of frigid silence. Most of the houses stood in darkness, their torches long extinguished, as most residents slumbered within their walls.
A chill wind whispered through the village, causing the bamboo gate to creak softly. This gentle sound punctuated the nocturnal quiet, blending with the muted creaks and groans emanating from both the walled and unwalled dwellings scattered throughout the settlement.
The few souls still awake at this late hour had grown accustomed to the night’s subtle symphony. Undisturbed by these familiar noises, they maintained their vigilant posts. Phantom kept watch near the houses of Sarre and Arnald, while Eliot and Petyr occupied separate observation towers, their keen eyes scanning the darkness.
Eliot, the young black-haired archer, sat with silent energy in his tower. A bow rested across his lap, and a quiver full of arrows hung at his back. His gaze was fixed northward, piercing the gloom for several dozen meters before the impenetrable darkness swallowed his line of sight.
In contrast, Petyr’s alert visage was softened by the steam rising from a cup of hot liquid cradled in one hand. His sword hung ready at his waist as he paced along the platform of his observation tower. From this vantage point, he commanded a view of both the western and northern approaches to the village.
Petyr’s watchful eyes drifted towards the animal enclosure, where the village’s horses and cows rested, their forms barely discernible in the night’s embrace.
‘Where’s Roulf?’ Petyr mused, his brow furrowing as he scanned the animal enclosure. The familiar bulk of the bull was conspicuously absent from its usual resting place among the cows and horses. Despite this unexpected vacancy, the guard leader felt no immediate alarm.
‘He must have stirred and decided to stretch his legs,’ Petyr reasoned, shaking his head slightly. ‘There’s no point in trying to decipher animal behavior.’ Pushing the thought aside, he resumed his vigilant watch, his gaze sweeping northward to the village’s darkest perimeter.
As a precautionary measure, the torches lining the outer wall had been extinguished, their absence designed to enhance the guards’ visual acuity when peering into the distant gloom. The sole beacon of light beyond the walled area emanated from the western construction zone, where Phantom maintained his silent vigil near the homes of Sarre and Arnald.
The beast sat sentinel between the two strategically positioned houses, their entrances facing one another. From this vantage point, Phantom could swiftly and effectively intercept any potential intruders.
Suddenly, amidst his routine surveillance—a duty he’d faithfully executed since Ice’s departure—Phantom’s senses prickled with an unseen disturbance. His head swiveled westward, hackles rising as he rose to his feet, poised to investigate. Yet, an instinct deeper than conscious thought held him in place, cautioning against revealing his awareness of the unfolding situation.
Phantom’s eyes drifted closed, his consciousness expanding beyond physical sight. In his mind’s eye, two distinct figures materialized: the unmistakable silhouette of a hen, and beside it, the formidable outline of a bull.
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Fifteen minutes west of the village, a formidable bull with impressive horns halted his advance. His attention was fixed on what lay before him—interlopers.
Perched atop the massive animal’s forehead was a hen with striking white and yellow plumage. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight, and her golden-yellow beak was slightly ajar. As they encountered the small encampment ahead, her form shifted, her wings expanding to an imposing size.
With a powerful flap of her wings, one might have expected Annabelle to take flight. Instead, she remained steadfast above her junior’s head. She unleashed a potent blast of air infused with mana towards the interlopers’ camp.
The guards patrolling the perimeter of the strange group felt an eerie chill crawl up their spines. Their attention snapped to the two animals that had materialized out of the night.
The sight of a bull and a hen observing them at this hour was peculiar, yet the three men on watch couldn’t help but smile.
“Well, well,” one guard mused, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “Looks like we won’t need to hunt tomorrow. The food has delivered itself to us.” His words were punctuated by a malicious chuckle.
“Haha, boss, you’ve got to see this,” another man called out, gripping his spear tightly. Despite his attempt at readiness, he couldn’t resist casting an amused glance towards the group leader’s tent.
The forceful gust and subsequent commotion roused the resting men, drawing 12 individuals from their makeshift shelters.
The camp’s 15 occupants, fixated on the bizarre spectacle before them, failed to notice the mounting terror in their horses’ eyes as the animals attempted to inch away from the area undetected.
Disregarding the encompassing darkness, their rudimentary tents, and the smoldering remnants of their campfires, the group’s attention was wholly captivated by what they perceived as their next several meals standing brazenly before them.
“Lady Luck’s smiled upon us tonight, boys,” declared the group’s leader, his scarred, muscular torso bare in the cool night air. “Paul, Jamys, this one’s all yours. We’ll be having ourselves a dawn barbecue.”
The two men singled out—both clad in weathered leather armor and wielding spears—were part of the night watch. They advanced with predatory grins, their focus primarily on the bull.
“Now, now, don’t you fret,” Jamys taunted, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he approached. “We’ll make sure your end is quick and painless.” His boots scuffed against the ground, kicking up small stones with each deliberate step.
As the two guards closed in, poised to strike from different angles, Annabelle finally stirred. A wickedly sharp, curved blade emerged from her foot, glinting menacingly in the moonlight. Her feathers flared outward, dramatically increasing her perceived size. Her once ordinary appearance transformed, taking on an almost metallic sheen that seemed to ripple through the air.
Paul and Jamys had no time to react.
In the blink of an eye, Annabelle launched herself from Roulf’s head, her lethal appendages a blur of motion as she hurtled towards the two audacious interlopers who dared challenge the alpha of the Eternal Village’s beasts.
A single white feather detached from one of her wings, whistling through the air like a thrown dagger. Annabelle herself collided with the stunned Jamys, her now-enormous, razor-sharp claw raking across the unprepared man’s exposed throat.
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Annabelle’s speed was breathtaking. Her lightning-fast assault left not only her immediate targets reeling but also shocked the remaining 13 interlopers to their core.
Before they could process what was happening, they watched in horror as Paul’s weapon clattered to the ground, his hands clutching frantically at his neck where Annabelle’s feather had embedded itself with surgical precision.
Jamys fared no better. The vicious slash across his throat sent an arterial spray of blood arcing through the night air, rendering him instantly incapacitated. He crumpled to the ground before Annabelle, who landed gracefully in front of him, her form still bristling with deadly intent.
“Your disciples are brazen indeed,” a child-like voice resonated within the minds of the 13 remaining men, its tone belying the carnage they had just witnessed. “You dare to invade the hallowed territory of our village and attack me, the first beast of this land? I demand to know the reason for this transgression.”
The invaders stood frozen, their minds reeling from both the swift, brutal dispatch of their comrades and the unsettling experience of this otherworldly communication.
Gulp!
“Magic beast!” one man exclaimed, his eyes wild with panic as he scrambled for the nearest weapon.
The group’s leader, undeterred by Annabelle’s uncanny communication, barked out a command. “Kill those fucking beasts!” His voice, thick with rage and fear, galvanized his men into action. Despite the hen’s undeniable and terrifying strength, none could bring themselves to heed the demands of what they perceived as mere livestock, no matter how extraordinary.
The armed men surged forward, brandishing whatever weapons they had at hand. Those caught unprepared frantically searched the camp for anything that could serve on the combat. In their haste, they forsook their armor. Even in their restlessness, they recognized daggers would be inadequate against the formidable bull looming before them and looked for spears and swords to replace their daggers.
Witnessing their reckless charge, Annabelle’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “So, you have chosen… death,” she intoned, her childlike voice now tinged with an otherworldly menace.
At her words, Roulf’s eyes ignited with an eerie glow. The massive bull, heeding the command of the village’s first beast, reared up on his hind legs before thundering forward. He lowered his head, aiming his lethal horns at the interlopers’ vulnerable midsections.
Simultaneously, Annabelle’s beak gaped wide, unleashing a piercing shriek that reverberated through the night.
The sound manifested as a visible shockwave, slamming into the advancing men with physical force. Several staggered, momentarily incapacitated by the auditory assault. Thin rivulets of blood trickled from their ears, a grim testament to the power behind the hen’s cry.
Annabelle launched herself skyward, her wings and feathers unfurling in a mesmerizing display of lethal grace. She pirouetted through the air like a macabre dancer, each fluid movement belying her deadly intent. In her wake, feathers as unyielding as forged steel sliced through the air, finding their marks in the flesh of her nearest opponents.
Roulf, oblivious to his senior sister’s aerial ballet of destruction, barreled forward. His bovine features contorted into a mask of unbridled fury as he bore down on the first enemy in his path, intent on launching the hapless interloper skyward.
The village bull’s massive horn found its mark, piercing the back of a man who had been reaching for a sword near a tent. With a savage thrust, Roulf impaled his victim, then jerked his head upward. The man’s agonized scream pierced the night as he felt the horn tear through his flesh, his terror compounded as he was suddenly hoisted three meters into the air.
“Aaaagh!”
The bloodcurdling cry was abruptly silenced as the man crashed back to earth, the sickening crunch of shattering bones punctuating his last moment.
Undeterred, Roulf pressed on, leaving a wake of devastation through the small encampment. Yet, even in his rampage, he demonstrated a calculated restraint. The carriages remained untouched, and the lives of the camp’s animals were spared. While his senior sister Annabelle might have considered him dim-witted, Roulf possessed enough sense to preserve the potential spoils for the village. His singular focus remained on the human interlopers—those who had dared to violate the sanctity of the village’s territory.
After felling his third opponent, Roulf halted his advance, observing the remaining invaders with a predator’s gaze. The survivors’ initial bravado had evaporated, replaced by palpable fear. The bloody carnage wrought by what they had mistaken for mere farm animals prompted them to retreat, clustering together with their backs to one another, encircled by the two beasts.
“All right! You wanted to talk, let’s talk!” The group’s leader shouted, his voice cracking. Sweat glistened on his brow, his eyes wide with terror, and his lips parched from fear.
Of the original fifteen-member contingent, only six remained standing. Eight lifeless bodies lay strewn about the periphery of the devastated camp, while one more clung to life, groaning pitifully before Roulf.
The bull took a deliberate step forward. With chilling detachment, he brought one massive hoof down upon the skull of the wounded man, silencing his agonized moans forever.
The sickening crunch of their comrade’s demise sent a collective shudder through the surviving invaders.
Any lingering hope of overcoming these beasts evaporated, replaced by a desperate need to understand why these animals had unleashed such brutality upon them.
The leader, his mind racing back to Annabelle’s earlier inquiry, spoke again. “We’re not here for you,” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “I don’t know what village this is. We’re searching for our companions who vanished months ago. That’s all we’re after, I swear it.”
Annabelle, perched nearby, could sense the raw fear permeating the human’s words. She didn’t doubt the sincerity of his claim.
However, unlike her less cognitively gifted sisters, her memory was long and sharp.
The only humans who had approached the village in recent months were enemy groups dispatched by Jonn or Ice.
“So that’s your origin,” the hen mused, her momentary pause kindling a flicker of hope in the men’s eyes.
That hope was cruelly short-lived. “Then you must all die, enemies!” she declared, her voice ringing with cold finality.
She advanced with nimble, predatory steps, her gaze locked onto her prey as she placed implicit trust in her battle companion.
Roulf, emboldened by the village's first beast’s decision, charged forward. The bull paid no heed to the swords and spears pointed in desperate defense, his focus on the annihilation of these interlopers.
Each thunderous step Roulf took sent tremors through the earth, a testament to the monstrous strength that had already claimed four of the nine fallen interlopers through sheer brute force.
Despite his imposing bulk, Roulf’s speed was far from sluggish. The remaining enemies, who moments ago believed they stood a chance against the bull, now struggled to evade his onslaught, let alone mount a counterattack.
One interloper, in a moment of grim clarity, realized that if Roulf had been their sole opponent, perhaps they might have stood a chance. But Annabelle’s presence changed everything. Her movements betrayed a perverse, calculating mind bent on carnage. The small creature used her mana with deadly efficiency, weaving through the moonlit battlefield with purpose. She systematically weakened Roulf’s targets while distracting the others, embodying her role as the village’s ultimate guardian with chilling effectiveness.
As Annabelle’s razor-sharp claws sliced through yet another adversary’s throat, a surge of exhilaration coursed through her diminutive frame. Her senses sharpened to a preternatural degree; each movement became swifter, more precise, and paradoxically, more graceful. The act of combat awakened something profound within her. Defending the village that had given her everything felt like her true calling, her most genuine contribution to the community she cherished.
Amid this epiphany, inspiration struck. With a powerful leap, Annabelle soared skyward, channeling the explosive mana within her body to her right wing. As she descended, she manipulated her wing like a celestial guillotine, poised to cleave through her enemies.
Swooish!
In that instant, a dense, palpable blade of pure mana erupted from the creature’s wing. It sliced through the air, bridging the gap between Annabelle and her target—the man assailing Roulf—in the blink of an eye.
The magical blade made contact at the apex of the enemy leader’s right shoulder. He had no time to react, no chance to defend. The attack cleaved through his body with terrifying efficiency, carving a vertical path downward.
For a heartbeat, the man stood motionless, as if untouched by the lethal strike. No cry of pain escaped his lips. Then, under the horrified gazes of the remaining interlopers, the horses, and even Roulf himself, the bisected body of the village’s would-be conqueror split apart.
The gruesome display revealed a cross-section of severed organs, a picture of the devastating power of Annabelle’s attack.
"We’re all dead!” The anguished cry of realization echoed through the night, giving voice to the collective terror that gripped the surviving interlopers.