At first, it seemed the night might hold.
The villagers of Green Pine had worked through the day, patching barricades with barn doors and uprooted fences. Every length of rope, every rusted nail, every plank of splintered wood was dragged into service. Elder Shen's body was burned at sunset, as was Auntie Mu's, and the smoke mingled with the fog like incense for forgotten gods.
No one cried. No one dared.
Li Yao stood atop the northern wall—if it could be called that—watching the dark. He hadn't slept. His hands bore new calluses from gripping the blade too tight. The linen wrap around the weapon was soaked through, faintly warm to the touch.
The forest was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the insects had gone still.
Then came the breath.
It wasn't a sound. Not quite. More a pressure—like the exhale of something vast, somewhere deep in the woods, far from human sight. Trees shivered. Leaves curled inward. Somewhere a chicken squawked once, then fell silent forever.
Li Yao tensed.
The third wave struck before the warning bell finished its first peal.
They came from the east this time.
And they did not hesitate.
A massive boar-beast the size of a carriage smashed through the gate with a sound like mountains clashing. Its tusks tore the air. It flung two villagers aside like rag dolls before crashing through the central square. Screams rose from behind it.
Li Yao leapt from the wall, rolling as he landed, and charged into the fray.
"Pull back!" Uncle Wei bellowed, blood streaking his beard. "To the well!"
But it was too late.
A pack of scaled hounds leapt from the shadows—fangs gleaming, jaws foaming with dark fluid. Tao swung a torch wildly, trying to fend them off. One caught his leg. He went down screaming.
Li Yao reached him a heartbeat too late. He slashed the hound's throat, then grabbed Tao and dragged him behind the remains of a cart.
"Stay low," he hissed.
More beasts surged into the village. Dozens now. Too many. All of them faster, leaner, deadlier than before. Not a random horde. A hunt.
Li Yao cut through a charging feline-beast with a pivot of his hips, the blade moving almost of its own will. Another came from behind—he ducked, spun, and jammed a splintered shovel handle through its eye socket. Blood sprayed hot across his neck.
A young woman shrieked nearby—someone he didn't know well. He turned, too slow, and saw her vanish beneath the weight of a horned ape-thing. It snapped her neck with one hand.
He could not save her.
He moved.
The village square was a killing ground. Fires burned unchecked now. The barricades had been reduced to scattered wood. Bodies—human and beast—littered the ground like broken dolls.
Still Li Yao fought.
Still the blade sang.
But then—
The world changed.
It wasn't a noise. Not exactly. More like a pressure that pressed against his chest and ears and skull, like the air itself had thickened. All around him, beasts froze. Villagers paused, panting. Even Uncle Wei—mid-swing—went still.
A silence fell.
Then the trees parted.
And something stepped through.
It was a man—or had been, once. But whatever spirit had once held it human had long since fled. The creature stood taller than two men, its skin a mottled grey-green, patched with fur and scales. Its arms were too long. Its legs bent the wrong way. Horns jutted from the sides of its head in a broken crown.
And its eyes—
They had no light. No soul. Just empty, pitiless hunger.
Li Yao's blade vibrated in his hand.
No—not just vibrated. It shook. A high, keening whine escaped from the steel, so quiet only Li Yao could hear. It was the sound of something ancient and terrified.
Run, it said.
The creature looked at him.
Only for a moment.
But in that moment, Li Yao felt it—felt something see him, not as prey, not as threat, but as a fly beneath notice. And yet, it did not move past him. It simply waited, as if testing whether he was stupid enough to stay.
Li Yao ran.
He didn't decide to. His body made the choice.
He turned and fled into the smoke and dark, leaping over bodies, dodging fire, ducking beneath shattered beams. He didn't stop. Didn't look back. Behind him, the shrieks began again—the true slaughter just starting.
He ran until the village was no longer visible. Until the trees thickened and the earth rose beneath his feet. He didn't slow until he reached the crest of a forest ridge, breath ragged in his throat.
Only then did he dare glance back.
The sky over Green Pine Village glowed red.
And from the mist below, he heard it again.
That breath.
Deep. Endless.
Like a god exhaling over a battlefield.
Li Yao collapsed to his knees.
The blade still pulsed.
But it was no longer humming in excitement. Now, it trembled—like a child hiding from a storm.
So did he.