Before Sora and his group descended the mountain, Paradise Village was no longer the peaceful countryside it once had been. Farmers patrolled the stockade walls with blades and swords in hand, their sharp eyes scanning the surroundings with a deterrent intensity. Once, the village had welcomed ten or more refugee families to its outskirts daily. Now, its gates were tightly shut, refusing entry to anyone. The villagers, hardened by recent incidents where refugees turned out to be bandits in disguise, trusted no one—not even women and children.
The refugees, however, refused to leave. The next village lay a hundred miles away, and surviving the journey was a gamble against the unknown. Many set up temporary shelters outside the stockade walls, occasionally earning chances to work the fields but never stepping foot inside the village. Backed by mountains filled with miasma, prowling beasts, and countless unseen dangers, these refugees lived under the shadow of death every day. Yet, despite the harshness, dozens of families clung to the faint hope of gaining entry into Taoyuan Village.
On the horizon, an ominous wind carried sand and chill, heralding impending disaster. Torches in the distance grew in number, forming lines and rows, their light creeping closer. The dry earth trembled with the increasingly frequent drumbeat of hooves.
"Boss Jin, let us from Lishui Stronghold charge first," said a wiry yet muscular bandit leader sidling up to Jin, the head of the largest faction among the assembled bandit groups."Just promise us an extra 10% of the loot."
Jin gave a cryptic smile."Boss Tu, there's no need for such trouble. Do you think a village this small requires you to lift a finger? Spread your men wide and put on a show—make it grand. I already have people on the inside. When the time comes, someone will open the gates for us."
Boss Tu's eyes lit up with admiration."You're the best, Boss Jin! I'm in awe of your foresight."
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Outside the village gates, a group of ten or so refugee families lingered, their cries piercing through the thick wooden walls. On the ramparts, some villagers showed signs of wavering, their hardened gazes betraying a flicker of pity. Below, a middle-aged woman knelt at the gates, her body trembling with fear as she kowtowed repeatedly.
"Kind sirs, please," she begged, her voice hoarse."There are infants and elderly here. We don't want to die out here. I beg you, let us in!"
The village chief stood atop the wall, his weathered face carved with hesitation. His snow-white hair seemed even grayer than usual under the torchlight. He looked around at his fellow villagers, reading their conflicted expressions—some hesitant, some reluctant, some wary. Letting out a heavy sigh, he pressed his hand against the protective Kṣitigarbha amulet on his chest as though searching for inner guidance.
"Sir, what if there are bandits mixed in with them?" one of the villagers asked nervously.
The Chief paused, then spoke resolutely."A few days ago, when I told you to give them thin porridge, I deliberately added wild greens to make it bitter and unpalatable. Do you know why? Bandits wouldn't eat such things. I've observed these people for days—they're genuine refugees. Bring them into the side houses, but under strict supervision. They mustn't wander. One day, these people will become part of our village."
Straightening his back, the chief addressed the crowd below in a loud, firm voice."Neighbors, come in one at a time. The bandits are after our village. If we survive this ordeal, I'll personally cook porridge for all of you!"
As the gates creaked open, chaos erupted.
"Go! Hurry inside! The bandits are coming!" someone shouted from the refugee crowd. Panic ensued as people surged toward the gates, jamming them open. Before the villagers could shut them again, the bandits' vanguard broke into a gallop, their weapons gleaming ominously in the firelight.
"Close the gates! Quickly!" the chief shouted, his forehead drenched in cold sweat. He rushed forward, trying to calm the frantic refugees."Don't panic! Listen to me! Enter one at a time, or we'll all perish!"
But fear had taken hold, and his words fell on deaf ears. Screams and desperate cries filled the air as the refugees trampled one another in a mad scramble for safety.
The bandits charged, their war cries mingling with the thunder of hooves and the metallic clang of weapons. A skeletal woman clutching an infant was knocked to the ground, trampled underfoot by a shirtless man who used her as a step to push forward. More refugees screamed,"Let us in!" only to turn and flee when the bandits grew near.
Faced with the ruthless assault, the chief clutched his amulet tightly, realizing too late that he had fallen into the bandits' trap. The refugees were genuine, but the bandits had hidden among them, using their desperation as a weapon. Now, those same refugees were trampled into the mud beneath galloping hooves.
A group of brave young villagers leapt from the walls, brandishing long bamboo spears against the onrushing cavalry. Clouds of dust swallowed the battlefield as the fragile spears snapped like twigs beneath pounding hooves. Blood sprayed across the dry ground, blooming like crimson flowers.
The Chief's trembling fingers dug into his amulet, nearly embedding it into his palm. His voice cracked as he shouted,"Drop the stones! Seal the gate!" Massive rocks tumbled down, crushing bandits, refugees, and horses alike in a gruesome cacophony. The gate was finally blocked, but the cost was staggering. The young men who had jumped to defend the village were gone, cut down one by one by the marauding bandits.
Suddenly, a whistle cut through the chaos. A bandit toppled from his horse, an arrow protruding from his chest. The impact hurled him to the ground, where he was trampled into pulp by the stampeding horses behind him.
The Chief turned in astonishment. Bows and arrows were strictly prohibited, and the village's hunting bows were weak and designed to preserve animal hides. This shot had power and precision beyond anything he'd seen.
"Who could it be?" he muttered, his eyes scanning for the mysterious archer.