Foolish People

A woman with long braided hair observed the canyon from afar, her eyes scanning the edge of the cliffs. Her group had climbed atop the plateau a few days ago; the climb usually didn't take long, but they had to make a detour to avoid being detected. Passing through the canyon wasn't an option, as it would be akin to throwing themselves in the wolf's mouth, so they had to use another path miles away. It had been an arduous hike, but what could they do? They had to reinforce the seal placed upon the burial ground of the daemon, and the only way to ensure their safety while doing so was to do it from atop the cliff. Because the daemon was trapped below, it shouldn't be able to reach them if they worked on the plateau. That thing could not leave its burial ground. At least, not yet.

On the other hand, its familiar spirit could. But the woman wasn't afraid of it as she could handle that ugly creature with a wave of her hand. It was too young to know how to defend itself against a shaman's spells. However, it was unbelievably strong for such a young thing, and getting rid of it was nearly impossible. Still, it was a piece of cake to mislead it and throw it off her tail. It was as easy as taking a candy from a kid.

But even so, she could not shake off the anxiety that had been plaguing her since earlier. It was gripping her heart, making her chest hurt. If she were honest, she would rather not be here, thanks to a variable she wasn't sure she could control. 

'I hate it when things don't go according to plans, and I'm not sure things will unfold as they should with that man in the picture…' The thought crossed her mind as she remembered the elders' warning.

According to Burg, the White Moon tribe's chief seemed to have sided with the monster below, and there was a possibility he would fight by its side. She had been stunned by the news: she could not comprehend how a proud werewolf could go so low as to abide by an abomination's words. It was repulsive, enough to make her stomach churn. What the hell was wrong with the White Moon tribe's chief's head? He had responded to the call to help them solve the disappearance case and stop it from recurring. As such, he should have stuck to his job and gotten rid of the daemon, not fraternized with it. It was basic decency.

Or what? Was he angry that a few people were sacrificed to protect the elders? It wasn't his business. These people were useless, and they were better off dead, anyway. What the heck was Allen's problem, then?

His actions sparked hatred and disgust in the shaman's heart, enough that she wanted to get rid of him right away. Only, she couldn't. After reporting to the elders that one of their scouts spotted the man entering the canyon, Burg had ordered her and her followers to stay put for the time being. They had to assess the situation first and weigh the pros and cons. Killing the White Moon tribe's chief was the same as waging war on their tribe, and the elders weren't sure they could come out unscratched from an all-out battle with the White Moon tribe. They weren't opponents that could be looked down upon, and they had to tread carefully.

Days passed before, at last, the shaman received the authorization to resume her task and kill the man if the need arose. For now, the real danger was the daemon, and they had to deal with it first. If Allen were to die in the process, they could do nothing about it. In the worst-case scenario, they could always blame the daemon for his death and try to turn things around to their advantage.

It was the best news she had heard in a while! Still, one thing bothered her and kept her on her toes: she knew practically nothing of the man. 

Each generation of the White Moon tribe's chief was shrouded in mystery, and the outside world knew barely anything about them. But thanks to Allen's little display back at the tribe when he arrived, she discovered a critical piece of information, allowing her to devise a plan tailored to deal with people like him. That foolish brat shouldn't have shown off, especially not on enemy territory. 

Considering what the elders had told her, the White Moon tribe's chief appeared to be a powerful shaman, one who could play around with oaths as he pleased. With that in mind, she requested a few dozen warriors to accompany her, even if they had to call them from another shabby tribe. They could not use their own warriors, for their tribe members were unaware of the daemon's existence, might have reservations about taking down the White Moon tribe's chief, and ask a bunch of unnecessary questions. The elders didn't want to have loose ends to tie up later.

All in all, everything should be fine as long as she had sturdy werewolves around her to ensure her safety. Shamans were physically weak, especially when their spiritual energy was off the chart. It was inversely proportional. And to boot, no matter how strong, every shaman needed time to prepare their arrays and launch their spells. She only had to strike before he could finish his incantation. She was a shaman herself, and she knew her weakness well. 

With that in mind, she prepared in consequence. They were ready to bring Allen down if he dared to try to stop them from reinforcing the array. She was sure he would stay put after seeing her group if he knew what was good for him.

And yet, she could not shake off the feeling that something terrible was about to befall them. Her instinct was sending alarm bells ringing in her head, warning her about an unseen danger. Even so, she decided to ignore it. It was probably just the stress playing tricks on her mind. And with the current situation at hand and Corriel becoming a loose cannon, they had to end the daemon's attacks now. Things were going downhill too fast, and they needed to regain control. 

"You look nervous, Karen." 

A snarky voice said, drawing her attention to her left where a man about six foot tall stood. His body was rippled with firm, bulging muscles, and although his arrogant personality was grating on her nerves, she couldn't deny his presence reassured her. He was one of the best warriors from the Sun tribe, and he was said to be able to crush saber tigers' heads with his bare hands. He wasn't to be trifled with.

"You're imagining things."

"I guess you're right. With me around, you have nothing to fear," the man chortled, showing off like a peacock in front of Karen. "Everyone sings the Black Moon tribe's chief's son's prowess, but he's nothing compared to me. I'm telling you, I can flatten him with a mere slap! So, count on me to protect you. Nothing will happen."

"Oh, really?"

An amused, languid voice echoed, freezing Karen on the spot. Before the warrior by her side could react, he was sent flying, and his body crashed a few meters away. Everything happened so fast that no one managed to react, and their eyes landed on the warrior, whose head was now twisted backward. 

"Oh my, I feel like a fool! I know better, and yet I entertained the hope that he'd put up a fight after hearing him boasting about his skills so much," Allen shrugged, eyeing the dead man with a hint of mockery flashing across his mesmerizing eyes. "But how disappointing. His senses were so dull that he never noticed my presence until too late. Was I being too careful…?"

Karen felt her heart drop as she slowly turned toward Allen, who stood barely a foot away. His relaxed posture and nonchalant smile seemed out of place, considering the dozens of warriors still left. The whole lot had simultaneously turned their attention toward him. They were highly trained, and although the sudden death of their comrade took them aback, they weren't stunned for long. One yelled to Karen: 

"Fall back!"

The order finally snapped Karen out of her stupor, and she did as told. She retreated behind the warriors, who positioned themselves in front so she could prepare her incantation safely. They looked at each other and nodded before launching a counterattack. They didn't know what trickery Allen used to get rid of their comrade, but now that he stood before them, he was defenseless. No way in hell would they give him the time to incant a spell. They wouldn't act brainlessly like the White Moon tribe's chief, who seemed overconfident in his skills. So what if he was a powerful shaman? He was nothing but a weak–

A bang resounded as Allen hit the abdomen of the first attacker with his knee, and the man bent over to throw up. The moment he did, Allen grabbed his head and twisted his neck. A crack later, and the man lay lifelessly on the ground. Allen followed suit by targeting the closest warrior to him, hitting her with his open hand, his fingers digging deep and crushing her windpipe. And again, she ended up with a broken neck like her bretherns in a split second. 

Allen didn't stop there, not allowing them time to process what was happening. He kept up the pace and went after the next warrior. The pattern repeated again and again as he avoided each attack that came his way. He moved by an inch every time, and the hands and feet passed near him without so much as grazing his body.

Standing aside, Karen felt fear creep on her, and she soon forgot about the incantation on the tip of her tongue. She crashed on her knees at one point, her whole body shaking as the last warrior fell atop his comrades' bodies. Everything happened so fast that she barely registered the White Moon tribe's chief's movements. Her eyes couldn't keep up. The way Allen fought wasn't something even the most seasoned warrior could do, and it should be impossible for a shaman. His breathing was still and even, and there was no sign of him having physically exercised himself, even though he had just brought down a whole party made of veteran warriors to their deaths. Karen could not believe her eyes. But the stench of blood was too pungent for her to deny reality.

"What kind of monster are you…?"

"Hm? Oh, well, the kind that people usually try not to anger," Allen shrugged as he dusted his hands, stepping over a corpse as he made his way to Karen. "Sadly, you and the elders you serve were foolish enough to hurt someone dear to me, and you'll have to pay hell for it. Now, let's go. Someone has been eager to meet you." 

Ultimately, werewolves were simple beings: they bowed and submitted in front of overwhelming strength, for power was everything in their world. Without it, you died, but with it, you ruled over everyone. And so, Karen lowered her head and showed her throat in submission, scoffing at herself. Who said Allen was a foolish brat? She should have listened to her instinct. She was the foolish one, and so were the elders. After seeing the man in action, she had no doubt he could wipe out their whole tribe with a wave of his hand. 

'The real danger here is the daemon. Don't mind the White Moon tribe's chief too much and concentrate on your task,' Burg told her the last time she sneaked into the tribe. If only he knew how wrong he was… Now, they had angered something that should have been left dormant. Whether they were in the right or the wrong didn't matter, not in face of overwhelming strength.