Brugatin Hornhide released the quill, letting it fall on the blank paper on the table while spilling drops of ink, and slouched in his armchair. His tired, lifeless eyes turned towards the metal stove on the other side of the room where fire gradually ate at the wood behind the glass.

He tightened his fur nice red coat with one hand and motioned in the air with the other. The air intake of the stove a few meters away opened wider, letting the oxygen fuel the flames. His poor talent in magic barely allowed him to do a few small tricks, and those were nowhere enough to wipe the grim expression from his face.

His cozy little room, decorated with paintings, animal rugs, and bookshelves filled to the brim, gradually became warmer as he stared into the flames as if in a trance.

It was again one of those days that Brugatin Hornhide, the mayor of this little town going by the name Ekrim’s Haven, hated with all his heart. The name once meant something, however now it was just a relic of the past, much like the rest of the town.

Deeming his procrastination has gone for long enough, he gripped the quill, dunked it into the black ink, took a new piece of parchment, and started writing.

Another group went missing the day prior. This time it was ten young men, one woman, and even an Elder. He rubbed his temples in frustration. If it was just the young men that disappeared, it would still be fine. Not a desirable outcome, but not a disaster either.

The young lass, on the other hand, was quite a loss. Not for any particular reason, but just because she was female. While women were inherently worth more than men in their youth, the differences were especially large when it came to Cultivators.

As their fertility declined sharply with each passing Realm they advanced, the ability for women to carry children quickly went down, nearing zero. It was a natural way for the world to limit and contain those that went against the Heavens and the natural order of things.

Men, on the other hand, even if they lost 99% of their reproductive ability, each of their white tears carried enough seeds to start life thousands of times over. As such they were quite expendable, the young ones especially.

But when it came to the Elder…

The White Rose Sect nurtured him for over a century, fed him Pills and Spirit Stones, protected him, and took care of him for decades, and now he was just… gone! All that investment was just *poof* gone.

While Brugatin Hornhide doubted his little town would suffer from the Sect directly, it was likely they weren’t going to receive any more free aid from them for at least a few years. While they often let their young disciples help keep the surrounding forests free of wild beasts and monsters while gathering some well-needed experiences in the outside world, that was most likely going to stop.

It was the third time this year that a group of their people disappeared in the woods to the north, most likely devoured by the Omboro, a dark beast that lurks in the shadows, howls of which can turn trees into dust, and people into puddles of blood.

Omboro was a name given to the beast by the founders of Ekrim’s Haven when the beast was still young and considered their protector. The name supposedly meant ‘Guardian in the Shadows,’ a title it deserved no more. Since decades ago, it already became more fitting of the name ‘Hunter in the Shadows,’ but nobody cared enough to change it.

Not many have seen the Omboro, and those that did, rarely had they caught much more than a glimpse of its tail or its shadow in the corner of their eye. More often than not, those that met the Omboro did not get to tell the tale.

For anyone that knowingly or otherwise entered the territory of the Omboro was destined to die. Much like the group of Cultivators a few days ago. They were supposed to be back already, no matter if they were successful on their hunt or not. The fact that there was no word from them could only mean one thing.

And so, Brugatin Hornhide wrote the letter explaining it all while expressing his condolences.

He didn’t have to do it since those people came here on their own, but keeping on good terms with the nearest ruling force was always a good idea.

“Shit…” the man silently cursed as he sealed the letter with crimson wax and placed it aside.

Winter was coming and the days were already getting shorter and colder. The Omboro expanded its hunting grounds through the years, already threatening the town from the northern side. Many workers, farm animals, and even children disappeared in those dangerous woods despite all the warnings.

And now he would most likely have to hire Rouge Cultivators to help them deal with this mess. But with what money?! The small town of a few thousand people was anything but rich. They barely had enough for themselves!

Deciding he had enough negative thoughts, the mayor stood up from his seat, put on a pair of knee-height brown boots, wore a warm fur hat, and went outside.

He tightened his coat once more and pulled it higher while tucking his head between his shoulders. And since it was already dark outside, he quickly threw together a light spell, creating a point radiating color and warmth above his head. It was enough to illuminate the area a few meters around him, just enough to allow him to see the stone-paved road clearly. It was a good thing too since some of the damp parts of the road froze over from the night chill.

A well-lit, rundown town pub soon entered his view, and he swiftly made a beeline directly to its front door.

The thick wooden construction slammed hard behind him as the outside wind pulled on it. A few pairs of eyes turned in his direction, but upon noticing his familiar face, they just gave a small nod as a greeting and returned their attention to whatever they were doing before.

Brugatin Hornhide wasn’t a beloved mayor, but neither was he hated. He got along with nearly everybody in this town, as a mayor should, especially with such a tiny population of common folk.

As he made his way toward the bar, he noticed a man already sitting there. That was nothing unusual since there was always someone there, keeping the barkeep company, but this one was different.

First of all, he was clearly an outsider, judging by his bright orange clothes and a shaved head that attracted quite the attention, even if the one in question didn’t realize it. He also apparently ate quite well, going by the large stature that made him as tall as the mayor himself, despite the man sitting down.

Deciding to get a closer look, Hornhide took a seat beside the man and took off his hat.

“Good evening,” he began in a friendly manner while heating up his chilled fingers with a bit of fire magic.

The man in orange turned around and put the bottle of wine down with a bright smile. “Good, it is good indeed!” he beamed while showing his white teeth in a friendly manner. “The wine here truly soothes the soul on such a cold night.”

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“That it does! Sir must know a lot about wine?” Hornhide probed.

“I dare not to brag,” his interlocutor began, “But if I say I’m the number one, nobody better say he is a number… Wait- I think I messed it up…”

“Haha, sir is good with jokes I see! Let me offer you a toast!” Brugatin exclaimed and was just about to order a drink when a hand stopped him.

“Hold it! If I am going to have a toast with a brother on my long journey, we need to do it properly!” the man in orange put his hand in his sleeve of which the opening was wide enough to reach the floor, and brought out a bottle of his own.

“A bottle of 500 years old wine made from the Crystal Celestial Vine, Dragon Tears, and Mad Honey! It is a specialty from my home place, the Temple of Kaolin!”

“Oh!” The mayor felt something stir in his body the moment the bottle came to light. He had no clue of any of the ingredients or the temple, but if it was 500 years old, it had to be good stuff! Probably… Actually, wouldn’t it go bad after such a long time?

However, all doubts disappeared like morning mist under a warm summer sun as soon as the cork was removed. The fragrance alone was enough to instantly intoxicate everyone present in the room. They fell down like flies, dead asleep.

Brugatin Hornhide was the only one still left standing, or sitting in this case, a fact that showed his ever so slight superiority over the common folk.

“Oh…” the man in orange mouthed after noticing the reaction the powerful fragrance caused. He gave it a good whiff and sighed, “Aaah~ It came out marvelously! I was worried I might have made a mistake while making it. It is good to know I was successful, good indeed!”

He then took a glass of water from behind the counter. The bartender was unfortunately sleeping on the floor, so he couldn’t help.

Into the glass he dropped but a single tiny drop of dark crimson liquid, immediately coloring the water bright red.

“Here you go my friend, a glass of Dragon Blood Wine! May our bonds never break, even when our life is at stake!” He handed Brugatin Hornhide the glass and took a mouthful straight from the bottle.

The mayor looked at the glass in his hand in suspicion, but seeing the merry expression on his drinking buddy’s face he steeled his mind and chugged.

An explosion of heat erupted in his chest as soon as he was done, and his cheeks flushed red as all the arduously built-up defenses in his mind crumbled away like a sand castle under the waves.

“S-say…. *hic*” Brugatin Hornhide began, already slurring his words from instant intoxication. “A-are you a ko- cohoho *hic* scuse me… *hic* a Cultivator?”

“I am indeed, my friend! The best and most humble Cultivator in the land, going by the name-”

“Yes, yes… *hic* … listen, I need your kelp- *hic* Help, I need your h-help *hic* with this beast… Oroboro… Wait *hic* no… Orocimaru? No, that’s not it *hic* either...”

“You need my help with a beast?” the Cultivator in orange asked. “Is it making trouble for your town? Are you in need of my aid?”

“Yes! *hic* It’s in the north… f-forest *hic* a dangerous monster *hic* stealing our… our sh-sheep *hic*! It-it even stole my *hic* goat! And a-ate it! My goat!*hic*!”

He never had a goat. Nor did he ever have any farm animals, apart from boars, of course. And those were all safe and sound. But he was too drunk to know that.

“Don’t worry my friend… Err, what’s your name?”

“Brugatin Hornhide! *hic* That’s what they *hic* call me.”

“Alright, Brugatin Hornhide. I’ll help you since you are my friend...” He wasn’t, heck, he barely even knew the guy as they first met just minutes ago. “… or my name isn’t Benevolent Monk!”

ZZZzzzzzz…

Brugatin Hornhide didn’t seem to have heard his final words as he finally succumbed to the alcohol.

“Oh well…” The Monk in orange finished his drink, the entire bottle of Dragon Blood Wine, and stood up. He tossed a few spirit stones on the counter and slowly made his way outside. The thick wooden boards cried beneath his feet as each step threatened to break them, akin to a mountain in human form walking on them.

As he opened the front door, the icy wind of winter attacked his face, swirling and howling while trying to invade his body.

But the Benevolent Monk simply closed his eyes and slowly exhaled, his breath instantaneously silencing the wind, and calming the storm. With a wave of his hand came a gale, a gust of wind so strong and wide, even the dark clouds above were blown away, letting the gentle moonlight shine upon the sleeping town.

The Monk then hummed to himself as he slowly made his way north, step after step, to the territory of the terrifying Omboro the Shadowbeast.

In truth, that was a stage the beast had long left behind. Now it was a creature of darkness, a hunter in the shadow, a true nightmare. And as its black eyes met those glowing amber orbs of the smiling Monk, the creature attacked from afar with its most powerful move, straight of the back.

HOWL!

A storm of black blades was formed from its power, accompanied by the howling gale, shredding everything in its path. Trees, shrubs, stones, flowers… Even the very earth beneath its feet wasn’t spared. The destruction spread out like a wave as anything it touched was instantly disintegrated into dust.

Everything, except the Monk.

As the storm of wind and blades touched his skin, it all became quiet. The hurricane became but a whisper in the night and the raging blades typhoon died soundlessly, not moving a centimeter further.

The eyes of the Benevolent Monk glowed red, and for the first time in a while, his brows came together in an angry frown.

He placed the left hand on his chest and lifted the other in the air, “Creature of darkness, long enough have you tortured my people and prayed on their young! You deserve punishment where nothing shall be left behind!”

His body began glowing unnaturally with a bright white light as his feet rose and he began levitating in the air.

“Say now your prayers for your days are done. I do not judge you, I just carry out our God’s command!”

The light around him became brighter, with a tinge of sky blue in it.

“Go now to sleep, under my Divine Hand!”

The sky was split vertically by a silent slap and a flash of light, making it brighter than daytime for an entire 10 seconds, before darkness came flooding back. During the entire time, there was no sound, nor any tremor to startle mankind.

And at the place of battle in the forest, nothing was left except for a 50 meters wide hole in the ground. Where the powers of the gods descended to the earth and left an imprint of a hand eternally in the soft earth and solid rock.

The following day the people in the pub woke up with heavy heads. The mayor especially had a damn splitting headache. He vaguely remembered speaking to some guy in orange the previous night, but he couldn’t remember clearly.

He stumbled towards the door to get some fresh air when he heard a loud crunch. He looked down and saw the metal door handle, together with the entire massive wooden door, had been broken off by him.

“What the f-?”

“Mayor? Are you alright…?” a concerned citizen questioned the confused man.

“Y-yes… I just… need some fresh air.” He stumbled outside while still holding on to the door and looked at it incredulously. That thing was heavy! At least 50 kilograms, and he was holding it like it was a feather.

He gave the handle a quick squeeze and the metal cried and deformed as if it was made of soft clay instead of steel.

The mayor was rendered speechless for a moment. In the next instant, he grabbed his hunting knife from his belt and stabbed himself in the stomach with all he had.

Ka-cha!

The blade broke. Absolutely and completely, and his skin remained unharmed.

What a blessing! A sudden chance meeting with a mysterious person, a drop of divine wine, and he became stronger than many of the Cultivators that roamed those lands. What a blessing!

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What a curse!

Brugatin Hornhide cursed the Monk 2954 times, for each person that died a week later, after a beast horde razed the town to the ground. For all the strength he had gained, it was all useless. He couldn’t save a single soul, while unable to die himself. He was bitten, he was clawed and he was mauled, but nothing left even a scratch on his skin.

Omboro, the Guardian in the Shadows protected Ekrim’s Haven from harm ever since its founder died centuries ago. Ekrim, the man that saved its life when it was but a wolf cub and nurtured it to adulthood, made it make a promise to protect his kin.

And so it did, for centuries. However, as it grew, food became scarce and so its territory expanded. It was either eat a few bandits and lost folk that wandered into its territory every once in a while or go and find new hunting grounds.

But it couldn’t do that, for it has sworn to protect, and so it did. Until the day it was ruthlessly slain by an invader, without even the opportunity to explain itself.

A week later, after learning of the forest king’s demise, the beasts and monsters came to the all-you-can-eat buffet, with the main course: Human!

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And so, another bead was added to the long string.

“Another good deed, for my master’s creed!” the Monk smiled, not looking back, and made his way to find and help those addicted to hookers, and crack.