Chapter 1045 - 865: Demon

The village chief sat opposite, also picked up his bowl, sipping porridge slowly as he casually talked about the village’s trivial matters.

This year’s wheat harvest was good, the water level in the old well at the village entrance was higher than last year, and a caravan passed by some days ago bringing salt and cloth.

His tone was calm and natural as he spoke, occasionally pausing to cough a few times.

The girl sat next to Duke, sipping her porridge in small bites, occasionally glancing at Duke with curiosity far outweighing wariness in her eyes.

Outside, the night wind swept across the wheat fields, with the rustling sound drifting through the stone wall crevices, intertwining with the crackling of embers in the stove.

This remote border village was as quiet as if it were asleep in the night.

The girl’s name was Ella, which Duke learned after helping to clear the dishes after the meal.

When she took the empty bowl from Duke, she smiled with her lips pressed together, revealing a row of neat white teeth, saying her name was given by her grandmother, meaning "Wheat Ear" in the native tongue of Osseron.

After speaking, she turned to wash the dishes at the stove, her long legs casting swaying shadows in the dim glow of the oil lamp in the stone house.

The village chief sat by the wooden table, his rough fingers rubbing along the edge of a repeatedly repaired clay bowl, continuing to talk to Duke in that old, slow manner about village affairs.

His topics were scattered, speaking whatever came to mind, from the lesser spring rains than usual to the ancient oak tree at the village entrance that had lived through many generations, and mentioning that although the royal family ruled the Osseron Kingdom, it was the lords who had always dictated matters on the borderlands.

The king’s edicts here were far less effective than a word from the lord.

Duke listened to these bits of idle conversation, occasionally nodding, occasionally asking a question, and gradually pieced together the outline of this land.

Here was a borderland where royal power had waned and lords held their own territories, with the Earl possessing absolute control over the villages on his lands, villagers providing grain and labor in exchange for the Earl’s protection.

When the old man mentioned the word "Divine Sacrifice," his tone suddenly changed.

He said that every year after the autumn harvest, the lord would send people to select young individuals from each village, who would be taken to the lord’s castle, allegedly to participate in the Divine Sacrifice, from which they never returned.

The lord’s messengers said they had "returned to the embrace of God," and only in this way could God return soon.

The old man’s voice paused here, his clouded eyes staring at the flickering oil lamp flame on the table, remaining silent for a long time before speaking again, "I’ve lived here for a long time; people are taken away every year but never return. If God truly needs them, why won’t they return to assure us of their peace? Those children, do they truly just disappear without a trace?"

Duke listened quietly, not interrupting or pressing further.

He discerned in the old man’s tone a complex emotion, long suppressed, mixed with faith and doubt.

He dared not question the lord’s words but also couldn’t convince himself his child had gone somewhere better than home.

Duke didn’t attempt to explain the truth that the Plane Will had already died, that God had long since disappeared, or perhaps never existed; he merely remembered this information silently in his heart.

The night outside had fallen completely, the chirping of insects in the distant fields rising and falling.

Suddenly, an urgent shout shattered the village’s tranquility.

The sound came from the direction of the village entrance, initially just a few people yelling, quickly followed by the banging of the broken bell hanging on the old oak tree at the village entrance.

The bell’s sound was dull and rapid, spreading through the entire village on the night wind; it was an alarm.

The old man jumped up, almost toppling the chair behind him.

Ella rushed over from the stove to support him, and the father-daughter pair exchanged a glance, their faces simultaneously displaying an expression Duke had seen countless times on the battlefield.

It was the expression of ordinary people facing an irresistible threat, a complex mix of fear, helplessness, and a primal urge to survive.

"Those things again," Ella’s voice was low, but Duke could hear her effort to keep steady, "They’ve been coming more often recently. It used to be months between their appearances; now they come every few days."

As she spoke, she had already turned to the corner of the wall, grabbing a pitchfork leaning against the stone wall.

The pitchfork wasn’t too heavy for her, but in the hands of a girl without even Level 1 Extraordinary Power, it likely couldn’t pierce even the skin of a real Demon.

As Duke followed them out of the stone house, the entire village was like a pot of boiling water stirred vigorously.

Adult men rushed out from their respective houses, holding axes, pitchforks, scythes, sharpened sticks, some even just grabbed a sturdy table leg.

The women quickly gathered the children and elderly into the largest stone house in the village center, barring the door with thick wooden beams.

A few young boys attempted to run towards the village entrance with the men, only to be dragged back by their mothers gripping their ears.

The high wall at the village entrance was the only defensive structure in this small village, though calling it a high wall might be an overstatement. In reality, it was merely a fence made of roughly hewn stones and logs, about the height of two people, with pointed stakes on top casting jagged shadows under the moonlight.

Outside the fence was a dark expanse of wasteland, the treeline at the wasteland’s edge rustling in the night wind.

When Duke and Ella reached the village entrance, several strong men were already standing behind the fence, holding torches, tensely watching the movements outside.