Unia: Echo of Harmony

Under the blood-tinged glow of a moon struggling to break through dense clouds, the killing field was steeped in the pungent aroma of fading lives. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and dust, the darkness interrupted only by flickering flames that cast long, twisted shadows. Amidst this chaos, a man moved with lethal precision, silent and fatal, each step exuding an unwavering confidence.

Ruy Fuerte—once a nameless villager, now a name that struck terror into the hearts of many—strode with the precision of a seasoned executioner, every motion calculated to bring about an end without hesitation. The warlord’s sword, a harbinger of demise, gleamed in the dim light, and with a swift, effortless motion, he severed the throat of the nearest target—a horned giant—its head falling away as its body crumpled in the throes of death.

With detached interest, he watched as the head rolled across the gore-soaked earth, coming to a halt at his feet, revealing the twisted face of the latest victim. Its wide-open eyes frozen in sheer horror, like those of a cornered beast, its lips parted in a silent scream, and teeth bared in a final, desperate effort to resist. The figure's pale, greenish skin, crisscrossed with ruptured veins, looked waxen under the light, the dark streaks that seeped from its neck mingling with the dirt and ash, transforming what was once a living being into a grotesque element of the landscape.

Ruy, who had earned the name Fuerte for his unyielding frenzy and brutal prowess in combat, did not merely live by war—he breathed it. The scent of blood and the clink of coins were his only comforts, weakness his only enemy, and poverty his greatest fear. These Horned folk, peaceful and modest by nature, embodied everything he despised. Wherever he found them in the world, they opposed violence, saw no point in strength, condemned wealth, and respected modesty—values that the man despised with every fibre of his existence.

As he stared upon the broken, inert shell of one such nature-forged entity at his feet, his heart swelled, not with pity or remorse, but with a disgust so potent he could almost taste it. With a sneer of disdain curling his lips, he spat on the face of the fallen giant and turned his gaze away, eager to resume his grim routine.

He moved with a deceptive leisure, as if merely strolling through the gardens of his estate, but each step stained the grass beneath his feet with crimson. The giants fell before him one by one, like sheaves of wheat under the sharp slice of a sickle. The gasps of terror and the final breaths of the dying merged into a single, continuous chorus, drowned out only by the sound of his own ragged, eager panting.

Another arc, another sharp crack of splintering bones, another life snuffing out. The wounded victim tried to crawl away, leaving a scarlet trail in its wake, but Ruy pursued it with cold, calculated steps, the crunch of branches under his boots heralding its inevitable demise. The hornbearer let out a choked sob as the man stopped beside it, towering above like the reaper itself. With two quick, devastating chops, he split the victim’s head open, reducing its skull to a formless mass.

Primal satisfaction surged through him as he straightened up, wiping the thick, warm fluid from his eyes, smearing it across the cheekbones and chin. His gaze swept over the surrounding chaos: burning houses, their timber frames groaning under the weight of the flames before collapsing into smoldering heaps; the mutilated bodies of the antlered beings, once peaceful inhabitants of this forest, now strewn across the ground, their innards soaking into the soil.

But where others might feel revulsion, Ruy felt only joy—an almost childlike glee that pulsed within him with every swing of his sword, every future he extinguished. Though the world around him was soaked in carnage, none of it belonged to his men. They were all seasoned soldiers, each knowing their craft. They moved in unison, like a pack of wolves, massacring the non-humans without regret or mercy. These denizens of the woods, though gifted with mightiness of nature, were helpless before those who found pleasure in butchery and were thus easily exterminated, plundered, and enslaved.

Their peacefulness stirred no compassion in Ruy—on the contrary, it fueled his hatred, stoking the flames of his savage hunger. To him, their docility was nothing but a mirror reflecting the very weakness he loathed. The more they cowered, the more his contempt deepened, seeing in their submission an invitation for annihilation. He sought to obliterate that weakness, to drown it in bloodshed and erase it.

As Ruy's hungry stare swept across the slaughterhouse, searching for the next victim, he noticed the door of a nearby house slowly creaking open, silhouetted against the flames. From the depths of the fire emerged a massive figure, its fiery glare blazing with anger hotter than the flames around it, and its powerful hands clenched into fists, as if they carried the collective grief and wrath of its kin. A low, thunderous voice echoed across the forest, the words heavy with ancient sorrow and rage:

“אבי אבי חיה באדמות האלה. אני לא אתן לך לטמא את האדמות הקדושות האלה!”

Ruy paused, a flicker of curiosity sparking in his otherwise cold eyes. This conqueror had killed so many of these wood folks that they had long since become mere fodder for his blade, their demise as routine as a shadow following him. Over time, he had even come to understand fragments of their language, its guttural sounds and harsh syllables becoming common to his ear, and these specific words were particularly familiar to him. They spoke of ancestors and sacred lands—concepts he laughed at, always ending the same way: with another end, another victory. Yet this one, with its fiery gaze and defiant stance, intrigued him.

But as soon as the antlered giant's speach faded into the night, the forest itself trembled as if responding to the desperate plea of its child. The earth split open with a low, rumbling groan, releasing a mass of vines that erupted from the soil like the grasping fingers of a vengeful deity. For a fleeting moment, Ruy’s heart faltered, gripped by an unfamiliar wave of anxiety that froze him in place. These woodborn, gifted with the essence of nature, were known to embrace death rather than inflict it. But what if this one was different?

Holding his breath, the man watched as the vines lashed his troops, striking with the ferocity of a cornered beast. One by one, they fell, ensnared by the relentless grip of nature's wrath, their bodies dragged down by the unyielding strength of the living tendrils.

Yet, no one perished—the wounds they sustained brought no end. The anxiety that had momentarily seized Ruy vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a sneer of contempt - this aged horned non-human was no different from the others.

The sword in his hand gleamed with a sinister light, reflecting the flames of the burning village, as if it were a part of him. A smirk twisted his lips as he charged at the giant, his movements fluid and lethal.

The vines surged toward him, eager to ensnare, but Fuerte was faster: he twisted and turned, weaving through the attack with feline grace, each step a calculated part of an intricate dance with mortality. When the vines snapped at him, he sliced through them with ease, sending severed tendrils collapsing inertly to the ground.

Ahead, through the writhing walls of vegetation, he caught glimpses of the figure that commanded them. Too far to pierce, but close enough to discern its aged features. The closer he got, the more clearly he could see the face of his adversary. What he had first perceived as anger in the being’s eyes slowly transformed into mere sorrow. And what he had mistaken for hatred now appeared to be pity.

A fire ignited within Ruy, hotter and more intense than any battle fury, as if the harmless forest-dweller before him had suddenly become his natural enemy—not through physical threat, but through the danger of a completely different kind.

Every muscle in the man’s body tensed like a drawn bow, ready to unleash all his ferocity in one devastating strike. With a powerful lunge, he closed the distance between them in an instant, his sword cutting through the air in a swift plunge, aiming for the heart. The blade met no resistance, piercing the thick, tough skin and sinking into the flesh as effortlessly as slicing through water.

The giant froze, but there was no cry of pain, no contortion of agony on its face. Instead, the forestborn’s sight shifted upward, its arms outstretched wide, while lips filled the air with a whisper too faint for its executioner to hear. Fuerte stood still, inexplicably drawn to the dying words, but before he could decipher the faint murmur, the forester fell, crashing to the earth like a felled tree, sending up a cloud of dust. Even in its final moments, its eyes remained fixed on the sky, the corners of its lips curved into a serene peaceful smile.

Ruy, his breath deep and heavy, stared down at the motionless corpse, but the satisfaction he usually felt after a kill eluded him. Instead, there was only a gnawing confusion, a void where triumph should have been.

Yet, this unfamiliar feeling quickly gave way to emotions more suited to his nature—hatred and disgust. This denizen of the woods, capable of commanding the very forces of nature, had died without a proper fight, its gaze was locked on the heavens above, not the ground below. Envy and indignation boiled within the conqueror's chest; the thought of such power residing in the hands of a non-human stirred a storm of fury within him.

Gritting his teeth, Ruy snarled, "¿Por qué un don así cayó en manos de un miserable como tú?" He spat the words with venom, his voice thick with contempt. Like any warlord before him, Fuerte was convinced of his own exceptionalism, certain that if he had possessed such power, he would have bent the world to his will, leaving no corner unsubdued, no soul untouched.

The battlefield fell silent, the only sound the crackling of burning wood and the occasional groan of a dying structure. But that silence was soon shattered by a mournful wail, echoing through the smoldering ruins of the village. The man’s eyes narrowed, a cold interest flickering in their depths as he turned toward the sound. Through the swirling clouds of dust and smoke, a figure emerged—a young antler-crowned woman, her steps slow and shuffling.