Chapter 1: The Cannibal Tribe

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In the ancient age, there existed a mysterious land perpetually shrouded in murk and gloom. Within this sinister realm dwelt a people feared by all the world beyond its borders — the Halaha tribe. As though cursed by darkness itself, they had descended into a state of madness and grotesque savagery.

The entire tribe was afflicted by a terrible plague known as the Halaha Virus. The bodies of its members twisted and contorted under the merciless torment of the disease, while their minds teetered on the edge of collapse, dragged down into an abyss of suffering.

No one could say precisely when it had begun, but a monstrous and horrifying rumor had quietly spread through the tribe — that by offering the blood of living persons as sacrifice to the gods, one might find deliverance.

Seduced by this belief, the tribespeople grew ever more frenzied. Any outsider who strayed into their territory was subjected to brutal torment and slaughter. They were convinced that the blood of children held a power far more potent than that of adults — the ultimate remedy for their terrible affliction. And so, whenever a child was captured, they would perform their dark rites and ultimately consume the victim in a manner too dreadful to name.

On this particular day, led by their chieftain, Halaha hunters ranged across the desolate open plains, scouring the land for prey. They spotted a troop of ancient apes foraging among the mountain forests, utterly unaware of the danger lurking in the thickets nearby.

Through the gaps in the dense undergrowth, pairs of blood-red eyes were fixed upon the prey — a pack of enormous, ravenous wolves.

The leader of the pack was a beast of formidable size and ferocity. Grey bristling fur covered its body, and it measured a full two meters in length. Its four powerful legs were braced and ready beneath it. The massive jaws and unusually elongated face lent it an aspect both hideous and savage. Its fangs — extraordinarily developed, sharp as the blades of a scythe — jutted out beyond its upper lip, as though poised at any moment to reap all living things.

To take this particular prey, the pack had lain in wait for a long while, tracking their quarry for several kilometers. Now the apes had descended to the rolling foothills of the plain, where the gentler terrain would allow the wolves to press their advantage of speed to the fullest. The moment had come to launch the assault.

Just as the pack leader gathered itself, on the verge of giving the signal to attack, something unexpected occurred. A pair of small children, dressed in soft garments woven from grass, appeared without any warning in the open ground between the wolves and their quarry.

The slightly taller of the two was a little girl, her face alight with innocent delight as she chased a beautiful butterfly dancing before her. Behind her toddled a small boy, not yet steady on his feet, babbling and chattering as he stumbled along, doing his best to keep up with his elder sister.

This sudden development threw the beasts into momentary confusion. As one, they turned their eyes toward the pack leader, awaiting his command.

The leader, for its part, showed no inclination to provoke a confrontation with humans. By its reckoning, these two small children would not begin to satisfy the hunger of the entire pack — hardly worth the risk. And so it held its ground, making no rash move. It merely lifted its great black nose — prominent and round as a dark fruit — and sniffed at the air ahead, seeking whatever information the wind might carry. Its two coarse-furred, pointed ears rotated slowly, like finely tuned instruments of detection, missing not a single sound from any creature nearby. Its fierce wolf-eyes gleamed with cunning and wariness.

Seeing that no order to attack had been given, the rest of the pack likewise held still by unspoken accord, and a brief, charged silence fell over the wolves.

Then, at that very moment, several young apes that had been playing carelessly drifted away from the main group, wandering unknowingly into the wolves' striking range. The pack leader seized upon this perfect opportunity. It suddenly threw back its head and let out a long, thunderous howl — "Awoooo!" — a sound that crashed through the valleys like a peal of lightning, shattering the stillness in an instant.

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In the space of a heartbeat, the wolves launched themselves forward like arrows loosed from a bow, hurtling toward their prey at speeds approaching a hundred kilometers an hour.

The two children were struck dumb with terror. The little girl reacted swiftly — she threw herself over her younger brother, pressing him beneath her as she crouched low to the ground, her small body trembling with fear.

But the charging wolves had eyes only for their quarry and paid the children no heed whatsoever. They thundered past on either side, and the earth they kicked up nearly buried the two small figures entirely.

At this most desperate of moments, a volley of stones came flying from the flank, and then a band of Halaha warriors — faces hidden behind masks — came surging out like tigers descending from a mountain. Each man brandished clubs, javelins, and rocks, shouting at the top of their lungs as they charged ferociously at the wolf pack.

Caught entirely off guard by this sudden assault, the wolves broke into chaos. Enormous and savage as they were, even they could not stand against such a fierce and overwhelming onslaught. One by one they tucked their tails and fled, slinking away into the nearby mountain forests.

Having achieved their true purpose, the Halaha warriors seized the two helpless children. As they marched back to the tribe with their captives, the entire settlement erupted into a frenzy of jubilation. Twisted, contorted faces broke into grins that sent a chill to the bone — expressions like those of demons risen from the abyss, radiating malice and dread.

In the open ground at the center of the settlement, preparations for a grand and ghastly ceremony of sacrifice were already well underway. An enormous bonfire blazed and roared, its fierce flames writhing like monstrous serpents of fire, licking hungrily at the black sky above and bathing everything around in a lurid, hellish crimson.

Tribespeople clad in outlandish garments, their faces daubed with strange and unsettling patterns, whirled and leaped around the fire in frenzied dance and song, their lips moving in low, droning incantations — sounds that seemed to rise from the very depths of some infernal pit, enough to make the blood run cold.

The two children lay bound with ropes beside the fire, tossed there like lambs awaiting slaughter. They stared in wide-eyed terror at the monstrous spectacle around them, their eyes filled with despair and helplessness, tears streaming without cease down their faces, their small bodies shaking violently with fear.

Yet the Halaha paid no mind to the children's terror and anguish. Clutching gleaming blades, their eyes burning with madness and greed, they waited with barely contained eagerness for the rite to begin — certain in their delusion that the blood of these two children would at last lift the shadow of disease that had hung over them for so long.

Meanwhile, concealed by the cover of night, a band of Longshan warriors lay in silent ambush. They had tracked the Halaha all this way with a single purpose: to rescue these two innocent children.

Nuka, chieftain of the Longshan, stood tall and powerfully built — a figure as imposing as a great mountain. His black hair, cut to medium length, streamed freely in the wind, full of wild and unrestrained vigor. His bare arms were taut with muscle, their lines sharply defined, and across his bronze skin were painted the mysterious and commanding totems of his tribe, as though they told of ancient and legendary deeds. He wore garments fashioned with care from animal hide and soft leaves, and around his waist was a belt of tough beast-leather, sturdy and enduring. On his back was slung a razor-sharp Longshan chopper, its blade catching the light with a cold gleam, a testament to his strength and valor. Across his chest, a tortoiseshell breastplate shimmered in the firelight like an impenetrable shield.

His gaze was as keen as a hawk's, radiating an innate resolve and courage. The red-and-black mask he wore lent him an air of inscrutable mystery, making him appear formidable and commanding, a presence that filled the air around him.

At the very moment the Halaha were on the verge of beginning their sacrifice, the Longshan warriors burst from the darkness like soldiers fallen from heaven, striking with overwhelming force and fury.

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The Halaha were caught completely off guard. No one had anticipated such an attack. In an instant they scattered, abandoning all order as they fled in disarray.

Nuka knelt and looked the two children over, speaking in the ancient Longshan tongue: "A-wu. Miru. My dear ones — are you all right?" His voice was full of tenderness.

The little boy called out with sweet familiarity: "Aba..." He seemed entirely unaware of what had just nearly befallen them.

Nuka turned to the girl and said, with a trace of reproach: "Miru, did we not agree? You were not to come and play in this area."

The little girl said, her expression aggrieved: "He wouldn't listen to me."

Seeing her unhappy face, Nuka broke into a smile despite himself and said gently: "All right, all right. This is not our territory. Let us go home quickly."

At that very moment, a voice slithered out from the shadows — cold and treacherous: "Since you have come all this way, my Longshan guests need not be in such a hurry to leave." At the same instant, several dozen Halaha warriors clad in animal hides leveled their spears and closed in from every side, surrounding them completely.

The Halaha who had been driven off in the sudden assault had rallied under their chieftain and come back to fight.

Nuka rose slowly to his feet. Through the eye-holes of his mask he took in the scene clearly: this was a Halaha hunting party far more numerous and powerful than his own group. Their leader was a man of imposing build, draped in a black cloak, gripping a gleaming bronze battle-axe in one hand. The blade was carved all over with strange runes, as though they recorded the tale of many a savage triumph.

Nuka signaled his people to lay down their weapons, then crouched low in a gesture of submission: "Halaha chieftain, I know we should not have crossed into your lands. I ask only that you pardon our transgression."

The Halaha chieftain showed no sign of letting the matter rest. He fixed his gaze on Nuka and said: "Well now, Chieftain Nuka — words alone will not settle this. You must pay a price." Even as he spoke, his two bulging, toad-like eyes remained fixed and covetous upon the two children.

Nuka looked at the Halaha chieftain — his hair fallen out, his eyes protruding grotesquely, his skin tinged a sickly green, his muscles wasted away, his entire aspect that of a walking corpse — and felt a wave of revulsion and dread. Inwardly, he steeled his resolve: no matter what it cost, he would not allow these children to fall into the hands of such monsters.

The Halaha chieftain raised one arm, and two of his warriors lunged forward like starving wolves upon their prey, reaching out to seize the children.