The battle was over, but the scars it left were raw and painful. The villagers lingered on the blood-soaked battlefield, their eyes vacant as they tried to comprehend the weight of their loss. Among them, Aiden stood at the center of it all, trembling from exhaustion and emotional strain. His small hands still gripped his sword, though it hung limply at his side, its blade streaked with blood.
His breaths were shallow, his body swaying as his legs struggled to hold him up. Ciara perched on his shoulder, her golden eyes scanning the battlefield with calm detachment, though her fur was slightly ruffled from the tension.
Before long, Aiden's strength gave out, and he collapsed into unconsciousness. Ayleen, standing nearby, rushed to him, catching his small frame in her arms before he hit the ground. She cradled him gently, brushing the blood-streaked hair from his pale face.
Ayleen looked at Orin, her eyes locking with his in a silent exchange. Her expression conveyed what she didn't need to say aloud: Handle things here. I'll take him home.
Orin nodded solemnly, his grip on his sword tightening as he surveyed the broken villagers around him.
Ciara jumped down from Aiden's shoulder, landing gracefully on the bloodstained ground. She glanced at Ayleen, her golden eyes flashing briefly before she turned away, her tail flicking with disdain. She began trotting toward the village on her own, clearly unwilling to let anyone other than Aiden touch her.
With a tired sigh, Ayleen adjusted Aiden in her arms and began carrying him back to their home. Though her steps were slow and labored, she never faltered, her maternal instincts driving her forward.
As Ayleen disappeared from view, Orin turned his attention back to the villagers, his voice firm but steady. "Listen up!" he called out, his commanding tone cutting through the heavy silence.
The villagers turned to him, their faces pale and haunted.
"To those of you who didn't fight—mainly the women and elders—I need your help," Orin said. "Go to my smithy and retrieve the blades I've stored there. Use them to begin processing the beast carcasses. The monsters' flesh can attract predators if left untouched, and we can't afford an infestation of scavengers or disease spreading in the aftermath."
Some villagers hesitated, their fear and fatigue evident, but Orin's authoritative presence gave them no room to argue. Slowly, they nodded and began heading toward the smithy.
"To the men still standing," Orin continued, his voice firm but kind, "gather the bodies of our fallen comrades. They deserve to be laid to rest properly. Carry them to the village center."
He paused, glancing at the orcs' massive carcasses that littered the battlefield. Their sheer size made it impossible for most villagers to move them.
"I'll handle the orcs," Orin said, his voice steady. "Seven, Eight, you help the villagers however you can."
Seven and Eight, still shaken from the battle but otherwise uninjured, nodded immediately.
"Yes, sir," they replied in unison, dispersing to assist the villagers.
As the villagers began their grim task, Orin moved toward the orcs' corpses. Each step he took seemed heavier than the last, but his resolve remained steadfast. Summoning his aura, he hoisted the massive bodies one by one, dragging them to a central pile.
The villagers worked in silence, their movements slow and deliberate as they carried the lifeless bodies of their loved ones. The weight of their loss hung over them like a dark cloud.
Once the beasts and goblins were gathered into a towering heap, Orin ignited a torch. He held it high for a moment, his face grim, before throwing it onto the pile.
The flames roared to life, consuming the mountain of flesh. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, but no one turned away. The villagers stood in solemn silence, their eyes fixed on the inferno as it burned away the remnants of the nightmarish battle.
"Now, let's honor the brave men and women who gave their lives to protect this village," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow.
With the help of the villagers, he carried the fallen to the cemetery just outside the village. The graves were dug quickly, the dirt soft and damp from the battle's aftermath.
The villagers gathered around as Orin and the others carefully laid the bodies to rest. The atmosphere was thick with grief. Women sobbed openly for their lost husbands, fathers, and brothers. Elderly parents wept over the loss of their children, and children clung to each other, their young faces streaked with tears.
A total of 73 lives had been lost. Among them were 48 men, 15 women, and 7 elders, all of whom had fought bravely to protect the village.
The graves were shallow but respectful, marked with simple wooden crosses. As the last body was buried, Orin stepped forward to address the grieving crowd.
"These men and women," Orin began, his voice steady but filled with emotion, "were not warriors. They were farmers, smiths, traders, and parents. Yet when the time came to protect their home, they stood tall. They fought with courage, with honor, and with the love of this village in their hearts."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "They gave everything so that we could see another sunrise. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten. They are the reason we are still here, breathing, standing, and holding our loved ones."
Orin took a deep breath, his expression resolute. "Let us honor them by rebuilding, by ensuring that their sacrifice was not in vain. And let us remember—always remember—that we stand here today because of their bravery."
The villagers bowed their heads, many sobbing quietly as they paid their respects. The flames of the monster pyre still burned in the distance, casting a haunting glow over the solemn scene.
As Orin's speech ended, the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon. The soft golden light illuminated the village, revealing the full extent of the destruction. Houses were damaged, fields were torn apart, and the bodies of the fallen still lingered in everyone's minds.
The villagers looked around, their weary faces etched with the realization of how long they had been fighting for their survival. The night felt endless, but now the sun rose, bringing with it a glimmer of hope.
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Far from the village, in the heart of Dermon City, One knelt in a dark room lit only by the faint glow of a communication crystal. The crystal pulsed with an ominous light, and a cold, emotionless voice echoed from it.
"Report," the voice commanded. "Why was the artifact activated? Its use was not sanctioned."
One lowered his head, his voice measured. "There was... a complication. Thirteen was eliminated by an unknown force. We sent others to investigate, but they have yet to return. The artifact was used as a failsafe."
There was a long pause, the voice on the other end seemingly deliberating.
"This is unacceptable," the voice said finally. "Our plans cannot afford delays or exposure. Ensure that no further mistakes are made. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my lord," One replied, his voice unwavering.
The crystal dimmed, and One rose to his feet, his expression unreadable. "The village is insignificant," he muttered to himself. "But if they continue to interfere, we will deal with them."
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Back in the village, Ayleen gently laid Aiden on his bed, tucking him under the covers. His small face was pale, his breathing shallow as exhaustion took hold.
Sitting beside him, Ayleen brushed a strand of hair from his face, her expression softening. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, whispering, "Rest now, my little warrior."
Downstairs, Orin entered the house, his face grim as he surveyed the damage and devastation. He glanced up at Ayleen, who met his gaze with tired but resolute eyes. No words passed between them, but their shared understanding spoke volumes.
Outside, the village remained solemn, the smoke from the pyres rising into the dawn sky—a somber reminder of the night they had endured.