Later, the inhabitants of the nearest village arrived and witnessed the astonishing scene before them. A group of around thirty people, mostly elderly, had climbed to the summit of the mountain. The monster they had long feared — and sometimes begged to leave them alone by offering sacrifices — lay motionless in its blood, which formed a lake at the top of the mountain where it had been king.
The King of Ouhkor was not just a brainless wild beast. Unfortunately for every living being around the mountain, it was also very intelligent.
This dreadful monster had settled up there for good reason. First, it knew that height meant power. Standing at the summit made it even more terrifying and closer to myth than it would have been below. Second, it knew humans were intelligent as well.
Taking advantage of that, the beast had ruled for years as a tyrant over the surrounding villages. Many had tried to flee, but the king of the mountain never let them go far.
They had no choice. If they wanted to survive, they had to feed the hungry beast. Day and night, the villagers hunted and killed to gather enough food for themselves… and the lores.
If the reserves ran out… the lores grew angry, and an entire village could be destroyed.
So the reserves could never run out. They could not suffer such a fate.
So…
For the good of the village…
What was one life worth against a hundred?…
Wasn't it a noble act?…
Niberlong knew it. He was an elder of the village of Toma. Every week, he had to climb and bring food to the King of Ouhkor. Since he was very young.
Deep wrinkles marked his face, worn by guilt, and his hands were covered in so much blood he no longer wanted to touch anything.
He spent his days resting on his cane, seated on an old wooden log as ancient as his own existence. His beard nearly touched the ground when he sat, and dust often covered his feet until they almost disappeared.
It often took several men from the village to wake the old sage. Niberlong spent most of his time observing the village. Sitting still, he never moved from his old log all day. Everything was the same — and yet different from the first time.
The clay houses, whose dry color sometimes made one want to eat them. The children playing ball under tunics made from mismatched fabrics. The sun making its usual path above the village. Smoke escaping from homes when food was prepared… and him, seated on his wooden log.
However, that day, a powerful roar echoed throughout the region. The King of Ouhkor roared. It roared in death. The cry made old Niberlong's heart pound, his eyes widening under its force. The whole village shook from the roar, and when it stopped, everyone raised their heads toward the summit. And for the first time in a long while, Niberlong truly looked at what was happening.
Red flowed from the crater — blood. It was blood. The blood of something enormous, pouring endlessly in great quantities. Normally a vision of horror. A mountain bleeding was not something one saw often. Yet beyond shock and disbelief, so strong his heart nearly failed, Niberlong felt… relief, for a reason he did not understand.
As if… everything had just ended.
Men of the village gathered, weapons in hand, ready to see what had happened. Even as they tried to keep serious expressions, Niberlong noticed none of them could stop themselves from smiling — a faint smile on faces that seemed to collapse in sorrow. But it was not sorrow. It was relief. Their faces almost broke into tears without releasing them, as if they needed visual confirmation before finally breaking, releasing the pressure, and stopping the torment of all those they had sent up there to die.
As they were about to leave, the old sage on his log shouted:
"Wait! Take me with you."
They climbed together, with old Niberlong, watching the stream of blood continue down, meter after meter, like a living trace of the event.
And at the summit — the red lake, the lores — and Niberlong, before a sight both terrifying and peaceful, cried like all the others…
They looked at the sleeping couple at the edge of the crater — a tall, muscular young man lying on the ground, while what seemed to be his companion slept peacefully on top of him as if he were a bed — and quickly understood who its killers were.
That was the beginning of the legend of the most famous couple in the world.
Rita woke up in a warm bed inside some kind of tent. She couldn't really tell if it had been hastily made or if the pieces of fabric had simply been damaged over time. Nevertheless, the bed was comfortable.
Her gaze immediately rested on the sort of roof the tent had. There were small holes letting the daylight through. Some beams landed directly on her face and some on her eye. Seeing this, she couldn't help but think back to the two gouged-out eyes she had left on the king of Ouhkor.
A terrible thought crossed her mind.
"If this beast hadn't underestimated us, it would probably have kept both of its eyes. The fight would have been much more complicated."
But the fight had already been a true hell without that. Rita's bones could testify to it. Every broken bone sent her atrocious pain that reminded her just how powerful the creature was. She couldn't move properly. However, she could already feel that she was healing.
She got up and left the tent to go see where Reno was.
The sun immediately struck her face. It was probably around the middle of the day when she woke up.
Outside, everything was more or less similar to Reno's native village. The women preparing things, the children playing, the warriors training on one side. Even if the layout wasn't the same, all the same elements were there. At the same time, it was rather normal in Nozras. There were no great stone edifices, signs of a grand history, no areas of ruins left by ancient civilizations. There had only ever been war and blood in this nation. No time to develop anything.
The villages were therefore underdeveloped in favor of training and weapons. Nothing else had importance in this country blinded by combat.
However, Rita still noticed that of all the villages they had visited, none resembled her native village.
Her native village was on a completely different level. Most houses were tents, yes, but there were stone buildings, the organization was far cleaner and straighter, the weapons were made of better materials, the clothes were high-quality fabrics often black and white as if high status only rhymed with neutrality.
Everything was more refined and cleaner, even paved roads.
Rita had quickly understood that her native village was the one that largely educated the emperor's descendants. Even if he himself hadn't favored his family for the race to the throne, Nozras had made sure his lineage survived and benefited from better gains. Him or the queen… because no one truly knew what lay in the tyrant's heart.
But while she was still wandering through the village, Rita noticed a second thing. This time, rather strange. There was a sort of wooden altar placed in a dark corner of the village. Around it stood two flaming pillars. The altar was slightly raised, no more than a meter, tons of branches were forcibly wrapped around themselves forming a reinforced wooden cylinder. Some black straps surrounded it, while it seemed to have a crown made of a plant Rita had never seen.
Rita approached the altar, rather curious. In Nozras, there was no one to worship except Nozras himself. However, no one had ever devoted a cult to him. Rita knew it very well. Nozras hated being worshiped. And although countless beliefs could have formed in this country, it was barely believable to see frenzied warriors go to battle for any reason other than pure pleasure and the throne.
So yes, this altar had no reason to be there. However, Rita wanted to know why it was there.
A simple cylinder could raise so many questions in a place like this.
Rita observed the altar for a moment, then after only a few seconds, she understood. Feeling the piercing gazes of all the villagers behind her like a bad omen. She understood. She understood why the altar was red with blood as well. Why the villagers imposed such pressure on her. She understood that what was happening here...
...had to remain here.
Rita froze in front of the altar, her face closed. Without a sound, as if the whole world had stopped moving. Then without a word, she turned around and walked as if she had seen nothing. The villagers did the same, returning to their activities.
While walking, Rita noticed an old man on a log. He watched the village, his long beard almost touching the ground. His wrinkles marked like riverbeds, his hands marked with blood.
She took a few steps while looking at him then turned her face away heading toward a tent.
"This man... this man has been dead for a long time."