At the height of summer, the warm seawater nourished countless algae and plankton, and Metapetatto Bay teemed with life.
Hermitaur roamed the sandy shores, while schools of fish darted through water as clear as glass.
Fishing required little skill. All it took was a small boat and a net cast at random over one of the dense shoals; in less than half a day, the hold would be brimming with fish.
Before dusk, the young, able-bodied fishermen would sing crude sea shanties, shoulder the catches that promised them a comfortable life, and set off along the path back to their village.
Only one small skiff remained adrift in the bay. An old fisherman sat at the bow with a pipe clenched between his teeth, angling. Nearly eighty, he had long since passed the age of retirement and could have stayed in the village playing with his great-grandchildren and enjoying his twilight years.
But after a lifetime spent battling wind and waves, he could never settle down. Fishing, whether by net or line, was more than a livelihood to him; it was an essential part of his life.
His hands shook uncontrollably even when he tried to light his pipe. Only when a fish took the hook did they become steady and strong again.
"Grandpa! Don't stay out too late tonight, or Grandma will scold you again!" a burly young fisherman called from the beach. "Oarfish live in the deep sea. How could one possibly enter the bay? Your eyes must've played tricks on you in the dark!"
"Keep that racket down! You're scaring the fish!" the old angler shouted back irritably. "My eyesight is still fine. If I say I saw one, then I saw one! When I haul that oarfish home, I'll wave it in all your faces!"
Seeing that his grandfather would not be dissuaded, the young fisherman merely grinned and said no more.
His own chubby baby boy was only two months old. He needed to hurry home with the catch, process it, and hang it out to dry before nightfall. When the merchants came, the dried fish would fetch a better price, allowing him to buy nourishing food for his wife and child. That was what truly mattered.
The fishermen returning from the sea all headed back to the village, leaving only the old fisherman angling in the bay.
The warm evening breeze blew across the sea, and the old fisherman gradually nodded off, failing to notice even when a Gastronome Tuna dragged away the fishing rod beside him.
—--
Large raindrops struck his face, jolting the old fisherman awake.
He glanced up at the sky and guessed it was already well past midnight. At some point, dark clouds had covered the once-clear sky, and the sea had grown rough. If he had not dropped anchor while fishing, there was no telling where the waves might have carried him.
He slapped his head in annoyance.
He could forget about catching an oarfish in this weather. The old fisherman worked the oars and, after considerable effort, finally made it back to shore.
After securing the boat, he put on his straw hat and set off unsteadily down the road to the village.
The fishing village lay on the coast only a few hundred meters from the bay. He had walked this road tens of thousands of times. Darkness posed no problem; he was certain he could find his way home even with his eyes closed.
All he had to do was cross the beach and round the sea cliff. Then the village lights would come into view.
"The old lady's going to nag me again," the fisherman muttered to himself as he rounded the sea cliff.
What awaited him was not the familiar village and its fishing lights, but scattered wooden splinters and an enormous crater.
The old fisherman's legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground. He stared blankly at the ruins for several minutes before scrambling up and stumbling, half crawling, toward where the village had once stood.
The village was gone. The warm home that had always leaked was gone. His wife of many years, the companions who had worked the sea beside him, the children, and the newborn baby were all gone without a trace.
His hoarse, rasping cries echoed along the shore, only to be swallowed by the wind and rain.
—--
Serl could hardly bring himself to meet the skeletal old fisherman's eyes.
When the man had first burst into the Metapetatto Guild Hall, everyone present had been startled.
His clothes were in tatters, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like a vengeful spirit that had crawled back out of hell. He had emptied a bag of coins onto the counter and demanded in a chilling, rasping voice that the culprit be reduced to bones.
Guildmarm Noya received him personally.
—--
The sum was not small, but neither was it particularly large. At most, it met the standard payment for a 4★ quest, but this had ceased to be a question of money.
When Guildmarm Noya learned from the old man that his village had vanished overnight, that he had been away at the time, and that every one of the dozens of other villagers, from elders to infants, was now "missing," without a single survivor...
Noya immediately dispatched the Metapetatto Guild's elite Vanguard Hunting Party aboard an Airship to investigate.
Her years of experience had taught her that many 4★ or 5★ Monsters were capable of destroying a village. But making one silently "vanish" overnight without anyone escaping the attack...
That could not be explained by any ordinary Monster attack.
As the head of a local Guild branch, Noya had only one course open to her. She had to send her best Hunters to verify the basic facts of the incident, then immediately report to Hunter's Guild headquarters and request support.
—--
Two days later, the Vanguard Hunting Party returned to Metapetatto.
The Hunters had located and surveyed the ruins of the fishing village, where only a few fragments of buildings remained, but had found little of value.
Traces were difficult to preserve on the soft sand where the village had stood, and Metapetatto's frequent summer storms made the problem even worse.
The Vanguard Hunting Party had turned over practically every piece of wreckage and examined every inch of ground, yet in the end, the Hunters could draw only vague conclusions such as "enormous size" and "destruction by immense force."
Seeing the crushing disappointment in the old fisherman's eyes, Serl could only steel himself and tell Noya, "Guildmarm, with our strength alone, identifying the culprit or finding its location would be difficult, never mind Hunting it. We need support on every front, not just from Hunters, but more importantly from scholars and investigators skilled at analyzing this kind of incident. There are many similar fishing villages along Metapetatto's western coast. Another attack could happen at any moment."
All trace of Noya's usual playfulness disappeared. She quickly sent people to warn the coastal villages and organize evacuations, then said gravely, "I've already drafted the letter to headquarters. Add a few lines about what you found at the site, and we can send it by courier."
Serl considered the matter for a moment, then offered a suggestion. "We should also consider notifying the Elder Dragon Observation Team and academic organizations such as the Royal Academy. They may have information we lack. Even if they don't, we'll need the scholars' expertise in any follow-up investigation."
"Boss, what if we write directly to Francesca?" Buck suddenly asked. "We could ask her to help persuade the people at the Royal Academy. Best case, she might even bring the Knowledge Seeker itself here. That Airship has heavy firepower. If the culprit really is some kind of supermassive creature, it could prove useful."
Serl frowned slightly.
To be honest, this did not follow standard procedure. If handled poorly, it might expose Francesca to undeserved criticism and resentment.
But when Serl looked at the old fisherman, now supported off to one side by Lillian and little more than a corpse kept upright by the desperate hope of vengeance, he finally sighed.
"I'll write to her, but how Francesca handles things on her end will be entirely up to her."
P.S. This is a quest description. It's pretty grim.