“You monster!”

A shrill cry pierced the chilly fall evening.

Desperate words, barely comprehensible between the tears and wheezing sobs.

Choppy.

Incoherent.

Lost.

This wasn’t the handsome despair displayed in the afternoon soap operas, but a hideous one. With faces full of snot, puffed eyes, and drool. The kind of despair that would turn even the most beautiful woman into an unsightly wreckage.

The woman in front of me was the same.

“Wulfhilda will punish you! She’ll char your body and sent your soul to Maeon’s hellhounds. You hear me? She’ll make you suffer!”

Insults and threats reached my ears, accompanied by the cheers of the surrounding villagers. Clenched fists and hate-filled eyes produced a stunning visual background. Altogether, this scene would fit perfectly into any high-budget movie production.

The peasants’ last stand against the evil overlord. Would it get one of those overdone slow-motion montages while a sad violin emphasized the villagers’ plight? Next, the fearless voice of a child would echo through the scene. Go away! Leave mommy alone!

Maybe the young girl would even throw a stone at the armored figure.

But the force wasn’t enough. It was never enough. And the pebble bounced off the black steel.

Infuriated, the evil overlord would raise his sword, ready to strike the little girl, now shielded by her begging mother. But deaf to the pleas, the cold steel would fall down, ready to take two lives at once.

A beautiful ring. Metallic. And silence. Followed by cheers.

The hero had arrived and saved the day with his last-minute parry.

Would these villagers cheer when I was stopped?

The dark overlord, overthrown by the heroic leprechauns.

Lost in my imagination, I continued to listen to the woman with one ear, waiting for the end. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and I lacked the strength to take her words to heart. Therefore, I waited until her voice became hoarse.

“Listen to us!” The old woman seemed to have noticed my state of distraction, took a step, and swung her arm.

Would I feel better if I let her slap me? Would the pain become some kind of relief? Some kind of atonement?

Either way, I couldn’t allow her to hit me and although her slap turned out surprisingly fast for a woman her age, it was still slow in the eyes of a warrior multiple levels above her.

I just grasped her wrist.

“Why? Why? Leave us alone…” The moment her hand stopped, she dropped to her knees, her angry voice replaced by feeble imploration.

All energy had left her, only the caught hand supported the raised upper body.

“Go away. Please. Just go away.” Countless tears ran across her cheeks, joined at her chin, and dropped to the cold ground. And each tear stole a tiny bit of her energy, quenched her voice, until it became silent.

This display of sheer desperation hit me harder than those insults, cut deeper than their stares, and weighed harder on me than my responsibility.

My mother had never cried in front of me. Always smiling, no matter how forced. Always composed enough to suppress the pain.

Therefore, this became the first time I saw a woman display such a grimace. Filled with endless grief and sorrow.

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

I couldn’t fathom how overwhelming those feelings must be for one to just break.

“You have 30 minutes.” I forced my voice to remain steady and proclaimed the verdict. “Use that time well.”

With that, I released the woman’s hand, turned around, and left the motionless figure behind me.

I would wait outside the village. Let’s grant them one last undisturbed moment.

While I left the central square, Thea approached it, an unreadable expression on her face. I knew she would help the old woman and speak with the villagers, but I didn’t care. For now, she fulfilled her self-imposed role as the bright hero to my evil overlord. Good cop and bad cop in a fantasy world.

Would she make another move when we returned to the fortress? Replace the troublemakers with a villagers’ union? I didn’t know, but it also didn’t matter. Next time, I would need to crush her together with the other leaders.

But for now, she only settled the agitated villagers.

And I was grateful for that.

Scorched earth appeared to be a reasonable decision. To sacrifice a few things to save the majority. The kind of plan you would decide on during a war council where humans became numbers and success was measured by changes to the frontline.

My first contact with the concept had been a documentary about Hitler and World War 2. During the fights on the eastern front, both nations destroyed important infrastructure and stationary equipment while retreating. Telegraph networks, railroad tracks, or bridges turned into rubble. Electrical generators and factories had been sabotaged, mineshafts and farms had become useless.

But it hadn’t been the enumerations that caught my attention. It was a single comment by the narrator about Russia and the winter. Hitler repeated Napoleon’s mistakes.

In the early 19th century, the small Frenchman led his Grande Armée to conquer Russia but only found desolate lands. With no chance of success, the Russians had retreated and burned farms, fields, entire villages, and even forests to the ground. Russia’s countryside had become a dead landscape without a single bread crumb.

As a result, Napoleon’s advancing army had no way of replenishing their dwindling rations. Half a million soldiers continued their way on an empty stomach, lost man after man to hunger and morale, and ultimately failed their campaign. An overwhelming army destroyed through a sacrifice.

To cut your own flesh to defeat the enemy.

To destroy an entire countryside to save the rest.

This cold and result-orientated reasoning had left its impression on me.

And it returned when I had behold the leprechauns’ army. No carriages or pack animals, only leprechauns in different forms. No matter how much food each leprechaun carried, it shouldn’t be enough to reach the southern fortress or Gladford.

Evacuate the villages, burn the fields and the harvest, and retreat to the southern fortress. Then sit there and wait for the winter while begging Gladford for assistance. Alternatively, the fugitives themselves would become a bargaining chip, as thousands of starving villagers were enough to overrun Gladford.

A simple plan with a clear path to success.

Until we had reached the first village and nobody believed us. A massive army of leprechauns? Impossible, according to them. Retreat and leave their entire lives behind? Not possible. And the harvest? Of course, nobody agreed.

We argued and argued, convinced some, annoyed others, and didn’t reach a consensus. Two hours wasted, not one step ahead.

I also understood their reasoning. To leave your homes behind and start the long journey to the southern fortress, not knowing when the first snow would fall - it sounded like a reckless idea. Or rather, a perfectly stupid one. Therefore, we could only spent endless minutes to persuade them one by one.

But we didn’t have the time to discuss for days in every single village. Furthermore, every little piece of food was important, so everyone had to leave if we wanted to succeed.

Yet the first village already contained old folk that refused to leave, no matter what.

An unbreachable wall.

And the only way to force them forward was to destroy everything behind them.

Make them homeless and the southern fortress their only hope.

Burn the entire village.

Turn into the monster that destroys their lives.

And after the first village had turned into a column of smoke, we split into two teams led by Torphin and me. One group took care of the eastern half, the others set fire to the western part.

From then on, the same scenes repeated themselves in front of me. Angry villagers, begging villagers, and crying villagers. Insults, threats, and prayers. Shock, resistance, desperation, negotiation, sorrow, and finally smoke.

Some villages recognized one of the scouts and made it easier, some threatened to use violence, and some became apathetic. But all of them turned into another column of smoke.

Without a doctor, even the smallest wound could become deadly. And when a healthy male was needed in the fields, people grow more and more reluctant. In the end, even five half-trained scouts were enough to take an entire village hostage.

This village was no different.

Forty minutes later, as one house after another burst into flames, the trembling crowd took its first step toward the north, and I stood in the central square and witnessed their departure.

I didn’t know whether they would reach the southern fortress. Old age, the cold weather, lost orientation, territorial animals, and the leprechauns’ scouts. People would die.

I couldn’t predict how many but people would die.

And I had sent them to their deaths.

Hence, I forced myself to watch their departure.

To burn these images into my brain.

It wasn’t my fault they would die. In fact, more people would survive than without my decision.

But it was my decision that caused this outcome.

“Aki. We’re finished.” Thea’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

To the next one.