SS1 EP5 From predator to pray

Joseph now understood that he needed to focus on the present, not the past. His instincts kicked in, as if something intense was about to happen on the snowy battlefield. He was a little curious about the situation in the war zone.

"Well, hope that soldier sticks to the plan," Joseph mumbled, his voice echoing across the wild wasteland. His eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the faded village outside the brush. He started rushing toward the battlefield. His footsteps echoed loudly in the snowy plain, his breath quickening in the frigid air, exhaustion weighing on him.

As soon as Joseph arrived at the village, now turned into a maelstrom of chaos, his gaze sharpened. His eyes narrowed with disgust, a cold realization settling in as he watched the soldiers locked in senseless combat. The clash of iron swords striking against the spear-wielding soldiers' armor rang through the air. The spear-wielding soldiers thrust their weapons toward the sword-wielding soldiers' armor, aiming for a decisive strike. Their movements were chaotic and erratic, striking blindly at anything that came within reach, lacking both purpose and control. Each troop's actions now resembled children playing soldier in a village, their disorganized attacks driven only by fleeting satisfaction.

"Ayo, what the heck? Somebody teach them how to fight, please. The more I see this cringe-worthy battle, the more I want to wash my eyes!" Joseph exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief as he watched the shameful battle between the two different units.

As Joseph stood at the edge of the battlefield, he noticed something strange—

The villagers were hiding in the distance, peering out from behind the broken structures, their expressions masked with fear. Their eyes were filled with sadness, as if they would soon die hopelessly in the cold village. The village children clung tightly to their mothers, confused and terrified. Some cursed the Linx Empire's invasion, while others sang songs to worship their god.

Joseph's eyes widened with sudden realization. These were approximately forty-seven people who had been forgotten by both the kingdom and the soldiers fighting here. The boy clenched his fist, the frostbite affecting his skin, as he made his decisions. He couldn't stand by and watch them perish like this—he had something he could do.

He strode toward the crumbling structures, his boots crunching in the snow with each step. The nearer he came, the more the terror in their eyes became apparent. They were clearly waiting for someone who could offer them a hand.

When he reached them, he gave a small nod, trying to interact with them. The muscular villager, now the current village leader after the death of Oldman, stepped forward, his face etched with several years of hardship.

"Young warrior, are you here to... save us?"

Joseph listened but didn't answer immediately. Instead, he scanned the surroundings. He saw nothing but the broken buildings, the defenseless statues of villagers, and tearful children suffering in silence, the weight of the villagers' hope pressing against him.

"Sir, I'm not here to help you by attacking them," said Joseph, his voice steady but firm.

"But I will make them regret thinking you are their toys."

The villagers looked slightly puzzled. "What do you mean, young boy?"

Joseph gazed at the villagers, then snapped his finger. A little smirk appeared on his face as if he had a plan.

"Guerrilla warfare. We'll make them scream in agony. They may have weapons and armor, but we have numbers and terrain knowledge, don't we? Also, there are a lot of tactics to surprise them. That's why we have the advantage." A murmur of disbelief rippled through the villagers.

"How? We are just villagers. We don't even know how to fight." The leader told him.

Joseph held up a hand, silencing the noise of village murmurs.

"What do you think about those soldiers? The so-called 'demonic forces'? Nice joke, because the 'demonic forces' are just an antagonist in a fairytale. If you watch them carefully, you'll realize they are disorganized, fighting like children in a playground."

The villagers were encouraged by Joseph's speech. They gazed at the clumsy fight between the two different units. Those soldiers didn't even know how to hold their weapons properly, missing every attack as if they hadn't been trained.

The villagers giggled at the shameful soldiers, and their hope was restored.

Joseph saw that the villagers were ready to fight, so he explained his plan to them.

"Alright, I'll teach you to fight smart, not hard. We'll use the numbers and the snow to gain an advantage. We don't have much time; this battle has to end in seven minutes. We will gather anything to use as a weapon, such as shovels, hoes, knives, or anything else. You'll be our eyes. You'll be our hands. Without you, everything we plan will be a waste. And when the time comes, we'll strike."

The village leader seemed to absorb the weight of Joseph's words, nodding slowly. The villagers, too, started to look up, their eyes no longer filled with hopelessness but with a flicker of determination.

"By the way... Can women and kids participate?"

The mother of two starving children asked.

"Fight or die. Do you have time to ask?"

The mother nodded as if she already knew the answer.

Every villager brought out their own weapons, and they organized themselves into three groups.

♤ Battle forces – the villagers who would face the soldiers head-on.

♤ Long-range attack forces – those who would use long-range attacks to gain an advantage.

♤ Surprise crew – A group designated to ambush and surprise the soldiers.

The village leader saw that everything was ready, so he gave the signal and shouted,

"Villagers, go and bring our mother Brittany back!"

The villagers brought themselves to the snowy battlefield, determined to reclaim their motherland. The sound of boots crunching against the frozen ground echoed across the vast wasteland.

Meanwhile, Joseph led the long-range forces, searching for an optimal position to strike from a distance. One of them pulled back their slingshot, preparing to launch a stone.

On the side of the surprise force, some villagers concealed themselves in the brush, ready to ambush. Others remained in the village, acting as if nothing had happened.

To an outsider, it might have seemed as if they had abandoned their work, but this was all part of Joseph's carefully planned guerrilla tactics.

"The soldiers saw the battle forces—just fifteen villagers—and laughed maniacally. They dismissed them as little more than a joke.

'Haha, ten bastards and five chicks? Ridiculo...'"

The spear-wielding soldier didn't even finish his word. The man with the hoe immediately took his life. The blow severed his neck, and his breath escaped as he collapsed to the ground.

Other soldiers saw that, they were furious and charged at the villagers.

The War of Independence had begun. The villagers who hatred toward the soldiers who occupied their motherland, Britanny, armed with nothing but farming tools, struck at the soldiers' armor. The sound of their ragged blades cutting through the air rang deafeningly in the chaos. Yet, the soldiers kept underestimating them, failing to notice the chaos unfolding around them. Both sides—one fighting for survival, the other lost in confusion—still clashed with each other, caught in a senseless battle.

It was almost a ridiculous sight: villagers who had never been trained for combat mobilizing with more precision than the soldiers themselves, who couldn't even decide whether to fight each other or take on the villagers.

From behind the distant plain, Joseph intensely watched the chaotic battle unfold between the shameful soldiers and the villagers. His gaze hardened, narrowing with each passing moment of chaos. With a single nod, he signaled the villagers to launch their attack. They nodded back, eyes locked on the enemy. With precision, they drew their slingshots back, stones pulled taut, ready to strike.

The stones hit the soldiers' heads, sending a few stumbling backward in surprise. The sword-wielding soldiers and spear units were momentarily confused, unsure of who had attacked them. But instead of halting their fighting and focusing on the villagers, the sword-wielding soldiers simply blamed the spear units, accusing them of throwing stones.

The villagers, however, didn't waste any time. They seized the opportunity, charging at the soldiers and cutting down nearly ten of them in swift, decisive strikes.

The spear unit leader mumbled softly,

"No way, they're stronger than I thought. I need to do something."

With a malicious grin, he abandoned the battlefield and rushed toward the perished village.

At the edge of the village, near the brush, he noticed two six-year-old boys playing in the snow, oblivious to the chaos of the battlefield.

"Hehe, you're not being careful at all. Watch out... You'll be the reason I win this war."

The spear unit leader mumbled, an evil smirk spreading across his face.

As he ran through the snowy ground, his eyes were fixed on the two children, ignoring his soldiers caught in the warzone.

When he reached the two little boys, he yelled at them with a loud, aggressive voice, "Hold everything! Come with me!" "No! Why do we have to come? I'm not your slave!" The boys refused, their voices strong, their hands gripping tightly to whatever they held, a defiant fire in their eyes. "This is not a request; it's an order." The spear unit leader snarled, his fingers reaching for their hands, determined to seize them and use them as hostages for leverage.

However, the unit leader, who thought he was very clever, had just fallen into a trap.

As the little boys saw the threat approaching, one of them quickly stabbed his knife into the soldier's arm, his action driven by his fear to be taken slavery likes other children. The spear unit leader grunted, both from the searing pain and the shame, as if his honor had been stripped away, his voice which filled with the trauma echoed across the coldness of snow covered land.

The other boy noticed the leader who he hated was momentarily stunned by the attack. He shook a small device in his hand—a whistle—and sent a signal to the villagers hidden behind the brush. It was time for the ambush.

Now, the predator had become the prey. The spear unit leader of the Linx Empire was surrounded by weak villagers. A slight hiccup escaped his lips as his hands pressed together in desperate prayer, seeking a blessing from a god who had long forsaken him.

"Oh lord , please help me, amen"

The villagers emerged from the brush, their eyes filled with the burning hatred for the man who had slaughtered their elderly leader and enslaved their children. One by one, they stomped on his body, each blow a silent testimony to their fury. He lay there, broken and helpless, unable to defend himself, a man undone by his own cruelty.

"Haha, damn fool! You've turned our mother, Brittany, into a land of horrors, a dark age! But don't worry, she has a gift for you." The villager's voice dripped with hatred, his gaze sharp as if he were sending the spear unit leader straight to hell.

"Yes, open your mouth wide and let your doom come forth," another villager spat, her eyes cold with disdain.

In the hands of yet another villager, a bottle of poison glistened menacingly.

The spear unit leader realized his fate. He tried to resist, but his voice cracked as he defiantly muttered, "But—today, I'm not hungry."

His defiance was met with a sharp slap.

"Slap!! Open your mouth, you scumbag!" the muscular villager barked.

"Bu—" The soldier barely managed to finish his words before his mouth was forcibly opened. The women villagers giggled by a shame of the soldier who used to plunder their village before the man with a bottle poured the poison down his throat without hesitation.

The poison burned his throat, each drop a torturous agony. The spear unit leader screamed, his cries echoing through the air, his body writhing in unbearable torment. His suffering mirrored that of a slaughtered animal—helpless, resigned to its fate.

But the villagers showed no mercy. Annoyed by his screams, they covered their ears, murmuring to one another.

"Did I scream like this when you took my son? When you tortured me?" one of them hissed, stepping forward. She stabbed another soldier's arm, her face twisted with bitter defiance. With a cruel motion, she poured snow into the leader's wound. The icy cold seared through him, and the combined pain of frostbite and poison made him feel as though he were trapped in the very depths of hell.

"Please," the man who had poured the poison said, his voice a hollow attempt at reassurance. "Take it easy. This is nothing... just the usual before execution."

But his words offered no comfort. The pain in the leader's eyes, and the coldness in the villagers' hearts, filled the air with a sense of inevitability.

Okay I'm started scaring while I write this episode, it's much darker than my 16 years old brain thought.