The Chief wasn’t someone Kaiser had been particularly close to, but there was something about the old man that had made him feel secure, welcomed, even from their very first meeting. He wasn’t like the many strangers Kaiser had encountered in his life—those who wouldn’t give a second glance to a struggling brat on the street. No, the Chief was different. He was the kind of man who would stop to help, no matter who you were or where you came from. If you stumbled, he would extend a hand without hesitation, like a elderly man who wants nothing more but shares kindness in his remaining lifetime. It didn’t matter if you were a stranger, an outcast, or someone scarred by life. The Chief would see through all of that, offering his help with a patient smile free of judgment or malice. At least, that's how Chief strikes him as a kind of person.

He was like a caring grandfather, not just to Kaiser but to everyone in the village, especially to his people.

The number of people who had genuinely cared for Kaiser in his life could be counted on one hand, and the Chief was partially one of them. Kaiser had only spent a single day under his guidance, learning how to use a bow, but that day had left an indelible mark. The old man’s gentle mannerisms, his calm instruction, his unwavering patience—it had all been unlike anything Kaiser had ever experienced before.

On that day, Kaiser had felt something foreign but comforting: the warmth of being cared for. The Chief had treated him not as a tool, a student, or an obligation, but as a person. His guidance had been firm but kind, his criticisms constructive, and his praise genuine. When Kaiser made mistakes, the Chief didn’t scold or belittle him, let alone harm him. Instead, he smiled, reassured him, and encouraged him to try again.

It was a stark contrast to the teachers Kaiser had known in his past—on Earth, in the unforgiving confines of university, or under the harsh tutelage of swordmaster in the tower. Those instructors had driven him relentlessly, often valuing results over understanding which a low-class like him didn't deserve, while Garba had basically tortured him. The Chief, in his brief time with Kaiser, had done the opposite. He hadn’t just taught him how to shoot an arrow; he made Kaiser feel seen.

For once in his life, Kaiser had felt a sense of peace in learning, that it's okay to make mistakes in order to learn.

In Kaiser’s view, there were two kinds of people in the world: those who deserved life and those who didn’t. The Chief, without a doubt, was one of the few who deserved it.

But now, the old man was gone.

They hadn’t even had the chance to see each other one last time. Perhaps it was better that way—better for the Chief to be spared the disappointment of seeing Kaiser make a reckless decision to stay behind and participate in this gruesome affair, despite forcing the old man to risk everything for his safety. But still, the thought stung.

It was bittersweet to feel cared for, to know that someone valued him enough to prioritize over an entire village. But Kaiser hated being the reason for anyone’s sacrifice. He didn’t want to be the helpless one, the one who needed saving. He never demanded anyone's protection, nor ever will.

Yet that’s exactly what had pulled him in this mess.

Experience the horrors of war, felt its scorching touch, heard its discordant symphony of screams, and now, witnessed the fall of a truly good man. And with that came an anguish that burned as fiercely as the fires raging around him.

Kaiser wasn’t a great man, but he understood the value of life. Every death he witnessed weighed on him, each one another grain of precious sand slipping through his fingers. He wanted to hold on, to save them all, but his hands weren’t big enough. No matter how hard he tried, the sands kept falling, and he was powerless to stop them.

If only I were stronger, if only I were faster.

If only his hands were wider... But no, reality deemed it unreal.

The anger simmered beneath the surface—anger at the invaders, at himself, at the cruel hand of fate. But through it all, Kaiser kept his mind steady to maintain a strategic performance in constant battle with the invaders, keeping his cool through while others goes mad differed his presence immensely.

He had spent a lifetime mastering the art of suppressing his emotions, knowing that letting them rule him would only lead to disaster, especially in dire circumstances. It was a lesson he had learned as an orphan, one ingrained so deeply that it had become second nature. In fact, he mastered suppressing it to the point expressing emotions became difficult, hindering his socialization.

But this time, suppression wasn’t enough.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The Chief’s death wasn’t just a loss. It was the final crack in the dam. Kaiser could feel the rage clawing at him, no longer content to be caged. He struggled to hold it back, to keep his composure as he always had.

But really, what was the point? Previously, there is, but now, no more. The army was slaughtered to a few, with mayhem reigning over the battlefield, order was lost. Not like there's much a command could do in this situation.

They no longer need a brilliant commander, for this war demanded a strong warrior.

There was no need to hold it back. Not anymore.

'Every single one of those invaders was going to die.'

Glaring at the last enemy, rage bloomed within as Kaiser let the fury consume him, an unexplainable surge of strength coursed through his veins. It was raw, primal, and unrelenting, as if the floodgates of his very being had burst open, unleashing something long restrained. His senses sharpened to an unnatural degree. The acrid scent of smoldering wood filled his nostrils, yet it didn’t choke him as it had moments ago. Instead, he felt it—every nuance of the air, the searing heat brushing against his skin, the vibrations of the ground beneath his feet as the flames danced and devoured. His surroundings became vivid, almost overwhelming, yet he wasn’t paralyzed by the inferno consuming the battlefield.

Even now, Kaiser still didn't know whether to be grateful to Zara or resent that treacherous woman. Nor fully understand the mechanism of her shared beastial talent, enhancing his power with rage, or multiplying it? Though, one thing is certain, he felt his power increase significantly and his resistance grew higher, deeming the suffocating heat too insignificant to seriously harm him.

The frantic shouts and anguished cries of his comrades, once so deafening, had faded to a distant echo. Kaiser strained to listen, but only silence and the crackle of the blaze accompanied by a few grunting whispers answered him. The battle’s chaos had given way to an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional sound of collapsing trees to reign over. The hunters and volunteers who had once stood together against the invaders were gone—whether retreated or slain, he couldn’t tell. All that remained of their desperate stand were fleeting memories and ashes scattered in the suffocating air. However, his certain some strugglers remains.

Kaiser didn’t mourn the extreme decrease of life. It only fueled the inferno inside him.

Letting the Chief’s scorched bow fall to the ground, Kaiser clenched his fists before reaching for his battered sword, another one he found on the way. It was barely holding together, its once-pristine blade now nicked, blackened, and coated with the remnants of countless clashes. Yet it would suffice. He didn’t need perfection—he only needed steel and a direction.

He turned his eyes toward the last invader standing in the distance. Its grotesque, towering form loomed over the battlefield, thrashing wildly amidst the firestorm. It was a dark, monstrous silhouette against the flames, a living symbol of everything he despised in this moment.

Kaiser’s lips curled into a snarl as he tightened his grip on the hilt.

Then, in the next moment, he blurred into motion like a dashing dark beast in the fiery war.

***

The last invader towered above the battlefield, its grotesque, tailless form drenched in a vile cocktail of blood and ash. Its matted fur was no longer white, instead, bore scorch marks from the raging inferno, yet it stood tall, unyielding, a nightmare in the flesh. The beast was unlike its fallen kin, standing over three meters high, its eyeless head perpetually twisted into a horrifying mockery of a grin. It was a monster that seemed impervious to despair, to exhaustion—thriving amidst the carnage as though the destruction only strengthened its hunger.

Its size alone made it obvious that it was older than the rest, taller, sturdier and wilder.

Unlike its brethren, this one had weathered the relentless traps, arrows, and blades with minimal damage. Its scorched but sturdy form mocked the efforts of the hunters, its endurance as monstrous as its appearance. Even among its kind, it was superior— perhaps a leader, a butcher, the embodiment of hopelessness.

Around it lay the remains of its defiance. The corpses of brave hunters and volunteers were scattered like broken dolls, their weapons shattered or discarded. Of the more than thirty who had dared to face this horror, only five battered survivors remained, hiding, playing dead, keeping safe distance or leaning on trees and clutching their wounds. They were battered, bloody, and powerless.

The beast moved again, its gaping maw descending upon yet another fallen hunter. The crunch of bones echoed across the battlefield, a grotesque melody of despair.

Now, they're down to four.

Then, a knife flew through the air.

The blade spun futilely, clanging harmlessly against the beast’s thick skull. Its grin widened as it stopped mid-motion, its head snapping toward the source of the attack.

“That’s my brother, beast! Don’t you dare treat him as food!”

A hoarse voice roared, breaking the tension.

The shout came from a hunter slumped against a tree. His legs were mangled beyond repair, yet his hands trembled with rage, clutching at the air as if yearning for another weapon to hurl.

The other hunters, though equally devastated, gritted their teeth. Some wanted to scold him for his reckless defiance, but they all knew the truth: it wouldn’t have mattered. None of them could stop this beast. All they could do was watch, helpless, as it turned its attention to their defiant comrade.

They tried, over thirty of them truly did. Yet paled against the beast, reduce to four in exchange for shallow wounds on the invader's leathery hive. By now, in their wounded states, all they could achieve was hasten their impending death.

The invader began its approach, its gait slow but deliberate as if there was no more danger around. It didn’t rush; it didn’t need to. It moved with the cruel patience of a predator savoring the inevitability of its prey. Its bloodstained maw widened in anticipation, revealing jagged rows of teeth glinting even through the smoke-filled air.

The injured hunter met the beast’s gaze—or where its eyes would have been—with burning hatred, so much that fear had no place. His fists tightened around nothing, his body refusing to tremble despite his broken state.

As the beast loomed over him, dropping a dreadful shadow, its gaping maw opened inches away, he shut his eyes. There was no fear in his final moment, only the pride of a man who refused to bow. He had no regrets, even as he waited for the end.

But the end didn’t come.

Instead, a deafening, guttural screech of pain tore through the battlefield.

The hunter’s eyes snapped open in shock. Before him, the invader stumbled back, its body writhing in agony. Blood sprayed from its side where a broken blade was forcefully drilled into the hive until the iron bent. And there, in the distance was a fearsome figure swiftly picking another sword from the ground.

No, his eyes widened.

It was a young man.

A young man, yet not. His form was human, but his presence was that of a predator unleashed. His eyes blazing with a fury so consuming it seemed almost inhuman. The bloodied sword in his hand gleamed menacingly, and his body silently radiated an aura of unrelenting wrath.

The hunter could only gape.

“The Player…” he let out a low, trembling voice.

But it wasn’t the unsociable young man he remembered awkwardly walking in the village as if his allergic to everything, even covering his companions as if others gaze would rob them from him.

This was something else entirely— More like, an unstoppable, wrathful Beast. The most terrifying one he seen through his life as a Hunter.

Was he mistaking it? Or did he just sense the invader shuddered, for the first time? He can't blame the poor thing, for even he felt a creeping dread in the presence of the monster in human clothing.