The villagers stood frozen, their fear tangible as Derek and his team advanced.
Their trembling hands gripped crude weapons—rusty pitchforks, knives barely sharp enough to cut bread, and makeshift clubs.
They were no warriors, but desperation had driven them to act.
“Don’t come any closer!” one of the older men cried, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.
“Go away! Leave us alone!” another shouted, though it sounded more like a plea than a threat.
Derek’s steps didn’t falter. His greatsword rested on his back, his hands loose at his sides, but his presence alone exuded an aura of command.
“Move aside,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
The crowd shifted nervously, glancing at one another, but no one stepped aside.
“Don’t come closer!” a woman shouted again, her voice tinged with panic.
The trembling boy at the edge of the crowd gritted his teeth, his fear mixing with a desperate kind of courage.
Clutching a dull knife, he suddenly bolted forward, charging at Derek with all the strength his small frame could muster.
The boy lunged, thrusting the knife toward Derek’s chest with a desperate cry.
But the blade didn’t pierce flesh. Instead, it stopped abruptly, meeting an invisible force.
A faint red shimmer glowed around Derek’s body, his aura—a protective field forged from years of battle and unyielding resolve—absorbing the blow without so much as a scratch.
The boy froze, his wide eyes reflecting his terror as he realized the futility of his attack.
Before he could retreat, Derek’s hand moved with lightning speed, striking the side of the boy’s neck.
The villagers gasped, their cries of fear echoing through the air.
The boy crumpled to the ground like a ragdoll, motionless.
“He’s dead!” one of the women screamed, her voice breaking.
But Derek’s sharp gaze turned toward her, cutting through the panic.
“He’s not dead,” he said firmly, his tone calm yet commanding. “He’s just unconscious.”
The villagers hesitated, their weapons wavering as they looked at the boy’s still form.
Derek turned back to his team, his red aura flaring brighter as if to shield them all from the oppressive tension.
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His expression was unreadable—firm, almost cold, but not without a trace of regret.
“Everyone, shields up,” he ordered, his voice steady.
The hunters immediately raised their defensive stances, their auras shimmering faintly as they prepared for the inevitable clash.
“Knock out anyone who attacks,” Derek continued, his gaze sweeping over the villagers.
“Defend yourselves, but avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”
The hunters exchanged uncertain glances, but they trusted Derek.
They adjusted their grips on their weapons, their resolve hardening.
“And if it gets too dangerous...” Derek’s voice trailed off for a moment, his jaw tightening.
He let out a heavy breath, his shoulders stiff.
“...then do what you must. Even if that means killing them.”
The words hung in the air like a storm cloud, suffocating and cold.
The villagers’ fear turned to despair, some dropping their weapons, while others gripped them tighter, their knuckles white.
The thin line between survival and sacrifice was all too apparent.
Derek looked back at the unconscious boy on the ground, his chest heavy.
He didn’t want this—none of them did.
But the mission was clear, and the stakes were too high.
“This isn’t your fight,” Derek said, addressing the villagers once more, his voice carrying both authority and weariness.
“Step aside and let us handle this. Don’t make us do something you’ll regret.”
The villagers didn’t respond immediately, their fear battling with the impossible choice before them.
Derek’s heart clenched as he watched their faces—mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters, all forced into a situation no one should have to face.
But he couldn’t waver. Not here. Not now.
"Stay focused," he muttered to himself as he tightened his grip on his sword.
He took another step forward, and the standoff continued, the air thick with dread.
----
The village was plunged into chaos.
Cries of fear and anger filled the air as the villagers, driven by desperation and coercion, charged at the hunters with trembling hands.
Their weapons—simple farming tools, knives, and broken wood—reflected their fear rather than malice.
It was not a battle anyone wanted.
Derek stood firm amidst the chaos, his towering figure and calm demeanor a stark contrast to the frenzied villagers.
One by one, they rushed him, their strikes clumsy and hesitant.
Yet, no matter how many came at him, Derek remained unyielding.
His red aura shimmered faintly around him, absorbing each blow with ease.
“Stop this madness!” he called out, his voice strong yet laced with frustration. But his words were drowned out by the villagers’ shouts and screams.
Effortlessly, Derek disarmed each attacker, knocking them unconscious with precise strikes.
He never drew his sword, never dealt a fatal blow.
Mercy guided his actions, even as his mana drained steadily to maintain the protective barrier of his aura.
They say mercy requires strength, and Derek had both in abundance.
He bore the weight of his power without hesitation, shouldering the burden so his team wouldn’t have to.
But the other hunters were not as fortunate.
They lacked Derek’s aura, his indomitable defense.
Each clash was a risk to their lives, and though they tried to knock out the villagers rather than harm them, their attempts weren’t always successful.
A hunter swung his blade, deflecting a spear thrust, only to grimace as his counterstrike bit too deeply.
The villager fell, blood pooling beneath him.
“I didn’t mean to—” the hunter whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at his shaking hands.
Another hunter cried out as a pitchfork grazed her arm.
Panicking, she retaliated, her weapon cutting down her attacker.
Her face turned pale as the villager collapsed, lifeless.
The hunters’ expressions were grim, their eyes hollow.
They had trained to protect humanity, to stand against monsters—not to kill the very people they were meant to save.
“Damn it!” one of them cursed under his breath, his voice cracking.
“Why is it like this? Why do they force us to... to do this?”
Derek glanced back at his team, his heart heavy as he witnessed their growing despair.
He wanted to tell them it wasn’t their fault, that the villagers were victims just like them.
But there were no words to undo the damage, no comfort to ease the weight of their actions.
"Focus," Derek said firmly, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Don’t lose yourselves now. This isn’t over.”
He turned his gaze forward, his expression hardening.
The mansion stood ahead, looming like a dark monolith over the ruined village.
Its windows were shuttered, its walls cracked and weathered, but the ominous energy radiating from within was unmistakable.
As soon as the hunters laid eyes on it, they felt it—the oppressive presence of demonic mana.
The air around the mansion seemed thicker, heavier, as if it resisted their every step.
They tightened their grips on their weapons, their faces hardening into masks of determination.
The despair they felt moments ago was now replaced by a simmering fury.
Unlike the villagers, the Demonic Guild members hiding within that mansion were not innocents.
They were not victims.
They were monsters, manipulators who thrived on chaos and destruction.
And the hunters were ready to hunt.
“Let’s finish this,” Derek said, his voice steady and unyielding.
He stepped forward, leading his team toward the mansion, the weight of their resolve as heavy as the air itself.
The hunters followed, their hearts hardened by loss, their determination sharpened by anger.
They knew the cost of their mission, but they also knew what had to be done.
For the villagers. For themselves.
For humanity.