The day of the full moon, agreed upon with the Red Tiger family, arrived swiftly.
The moonlight shone brightly, and in the night sky, a flock of thunder owls silently circled. Under the moonlit glow, the Blackwood Forest stretched endlessly into the distance, like an army of silent, towering trees standing in the night, their branches intertwined, hands clasped, firmly guarding the earth beneath their roots.
The long Red River split the forest in two, its surface shimmering in the moonlight.
A saber-toothed panther was prowling its territory. Reaching the riverbank, it stopped and lowered its head to drink.
Under the moonlight, its blade-like teeth glinted, and the iron-blue patterns of its fur allowed it to blend seamlessly into the dense vegetation. Even as it leaned down to drink, its sharp ears remained upright, and its rock-crushing claws were ready to respond to any imminent threat—or more precisely, to any unwary prey.
Danger was not something the panther had experienced for a very long time. Earlier in the day, it had caught a whiff of an unfamiliar scent. Though faint and well-concealed, the panther's keen sense of smell picked it up.
However, the scent seemed days old, and despite all the prey it had hunted, the panther couldn't identify the creature to which it belonged. But it was certain of one thing: the scent wasn't appetizing. Whoever passed through its domain earlier should consider themselves lucky they didn't encounter its ruler.
In this vast territory, which required days of patrolling to circle entirely, the panther had every reason to believe it was the undisputed king. Any rivals had either fallen to its claws or fled elsewhere, leaving only prey and scavenging wild dogs to survive on its leftovers.
The saber-toothed panther's fierce, glowing eyes watched the water's surface as ripples spread from its tongue's lap. Suddenly, its ears twitched, swiveling sharply to one side. For a moment, a single leaf drifted gently to the grass.
The panther flicked its head slightly and continued drinking.
Without warning, as quick as a flash, a shadow shot out of the water, utterly silent and leaving no splash. A hand, sharp as a blade, plunged into the panther's skull. The fierce predator, still crouched by the water, didn't even have time to register the presence of the shadow that ended its life.
More dark figures surfaced from the water, moving silently toward the shore. Slowly, they spread out, dozens in number, with even more emerging from the river.
The leading shadow raised its blood-soaked hand, revealing tiger-like fangs as it licked the fresh blood before nodding to its companions.
In the moonlight, its obsidian-black eyes gleamed coldly.
In the blink of an eye, the shadows disappeared into the darkness of the forest.
The night remained as deathly silent as before.
A river tens of meters wide flowed nearby, branching into the Red River. At its fork, a small stream pooled into a shallow pond. By daylight, through the dark-red yet clear water, one could see the pond's floor covered in aquatic grasses. With a bit of luck, one might even catch a few tundra snowfish that had strayed from their spawning migration.
These large, delicious fish, which only migrated in winter, were a prized food source for the Forest Alliance.
By the campfire, everything seemed as usual. The same old companions sat around it, exchanging jokes. The beer, brewed by the dwarves, was as rich and fragrant as ever. The only difference was the roast on the fire: fresh bison meat, instead of the frozen rations from the cellar.
The moonlight…
For some reason, the Blackwood Forest's moonlight seemed less pure than in the valley, with a faint reddish hue.
"Boss," a giant figure with a sweaty, messy head of hair approached, holding a large helmet that could double as a pot.
This versatile tool, used as both battle gear and a cooking pot, had been dubbed a "cauldron helm" by Kent—a novel invention for the Redsoil Continent. The cauldron helm was filled with a thick broth made from bison blood, marrow, meat, and a mixture of unknown herbs and leaves. It was known as "Giant Strength Soup," a favorite among giants.
"Heh heh, boss, care for a sip? I've been experimenting with a new recipe," Fatty Bull said obsequiously. "If you like it, you can have two sips…"
"Bah! I ought to roast that big head of yours over the fire!" Kent laughed, pushing away the reeking, sweaty head. Luckily, he had already eaten two slabs of bison meat and had no intention of touching the Giant Strength Soup.
"Fatty Bull, why do the giants name all their dishes so strangely?" Splitting Blade chuckled. "I recall there were quite a few 'giant strength' dishes—Giant Strength Soup, Giant Strength Roasted Meat, Giant Strength Prawns… Wasn't there also something called Furious Fish Balls? Do you guys enchant your food with magic or something?"
"No, no, by the Light above, a bowl of soup doesn't need enchantments! Besides, no giant can wield magic…" Fatty Bull hastily waved his greasy hand, skewering a large chunk of bison meat from the pot with his knife before stuffing it into his mouth.
"Then why are they called that?" Kent asked.
"There's also Dragon's Breath Roasted Meat," Crow interjected with a grin, pausing his work. "I heard it's cooked using flames from a dragon's… uh… backside."
"Don't talk nonsense, you twig of a man!" Fatty Bull hurriedly protested. "Dragon's Breath Roasted Meat isn't made with dragon fire; it uses Dragon's Breath Chili from the marshlands. The meat gets so spicy, your mouth breathes fire… and your backside, too…"
Everyone burst into laughter.
Fatty Bull skewered another piece of meat with his knife and shoved it into his mouth. "Giant Strength Soup, Giant Strength Roasted Meat, Giant Strength Prawns… They're all giants' favorite foods. Eat your fill, gain more strength, and have more 'giant strength.'"
"Hey, Fatty, you should open a tavern someday," Crow quipped.
"Heh, I've always… always wanted to be a chef since I was young," Fatty Bull said, scratching his head sheepishly, his greasy fingers leaving shiny streaks across his bald scalp.
A giant chef running a tavern—it would probably need to be two stories tall just to fit.
The offhand remark struck a chord with Kent, who suddenly had an idea.
A giant-run tavern… now that would be a unique attraction.
"Giant Strength Soup is Fatty Bull's favorite. But first, we'd need to raise some cattle," Kent mused. "Capture some wild bison from Blackwood Forest, pen them in, let them breed… One year, one calf. Two years, two calves. Three years…" His fingers ticked off imaginary numbers. "We'd need quite a few years to get enough for a tavern."
"Fatty, don't forget to leave a few years for brewing ale," Splitting Blade said with a laugh.