The rumors never reached the village. Sunlight rose in the east, washing over the waves that crashed against the shore, and stirred the world awake. Roosters crowed. Villagers stretched, preparing for another day. Year in. Year out. The time between centuries lulled them into complacency.

A fisherman staggered onto his boat, yawned, then rowed towards the horizon. His eyes remained locked on the shore. Decades honed his skills, allowing him to measure the distance travelled. He stopped. Nodding to himself, he fumbled with his equipment and prepared for his daily hull. Instinct told him, here, and no further. Farther out were monsters. Farther still was emptiness, the endless domain of Oceanus. And beyond that… He shook his head. Legends weren’t worth pursuing. Glancing once, he threw his first net.

Villagers were scheming.

Northward, a mercenary polished his sword. Ordinary in construction, the weapon decayed from rust, lacking the ability to self-maintain. Weapons of that sort were scarce. Here, at the world’s edge, none should be found. The man grumbled. A shopkeeper possessed such a sword, hanging it proudly behind his stall. Genuine? Perhaps. Not for sale—why taunt him then? If…he could start some commotion…and swipe it in the confusion, then maybe…

Homes crowded the village’s center. Dense, the area mimicked the complexity of a city. Anywhere else would have taken the label. Anywhere else, however, wasn’t here, and here was ruled through the remote. Quiet. Cold. And proud, the village and its people endured.

Within the center, a woman endured. Silent. Proud. She paced across the room, plotting. The midwives promised secrecy. Gossip was certain. Regardless, her mind steeled itself with conviction. Life. Death. The persisting question determined her—that child’s future. Scowling, she ground her teeth. Her hands cupped her face, fingers digging into flesh. The humiliation! Nearby, resting within the crib, was that child. A blanket covered it. What power or principality had she crossed to be punished with the birth of a Beast?

Westward, a monk stood upon continuous metal. Towering above, taller than a castle, the wall connected the mountainous territory from the north and south, stopping the gap that otherwise would have exposed the village. He whistled. The metal below him was resilient, possessing a hardiness that modern blacksmiths envied. The gate gleamed with morning light. The monk wondered whether the wall was like those of the capital, blessed with the ability to heal. Nothing had tested it. Good; peace was wonderful. One hoped such peace would reign eternal. Regardless, the wall stood, another remnant surviving from the past. Whoever built it had left their mark. The world was littered with their mysteries.

The village was cradled with fortifications. Enemies roamed beyond their gates and scavenged the land. Most were bandits, though some were Shamans. Most were human, though some were Beasts. The villagers avoided conflict; their home was poor, poor and well-fortified. Too poor and too fortified to justify raiding. So, the villagers lived, year after year, lulled into complacency.

The calendar read 1001. The sun was beginning its descent. The village of Gogmagoz faced extermination.

Early signs were ignored. Upon the wall were the guards, negligent, drinks in hand. They ignored the distant sound. They ignored the distant dot. From the horizon marched a shadow, a smudge against the land. Small. Distant. Gradually, it grew, heralded by the echoes of rumbling earth. The guards froze. Mistake? Illusion? One stumbled to his feet and raced across the wall where the belltower stood. Ringing, the alarm vexed the villagers with doubts: surely, the warning was false?

The giant was not alone. Keeping their distance, soldiers rode horses alongside the brute, brandishing flags overhead. Their emblem came into focus. Illusion? Mistake! Panic accelerated within the village. A woman fled her home, leaving behind a crying infant. Near the market, a man steadied his grip, clutching a stolen sword. The quaking intensified. The same question haunted all: what sin had invoked the capital’s wrath?

The giant marched.

Over the wall appeared its face. Eyes were sheets of light, shining the color of snow. It searched. Failure would extend beyond itself.

A hand reached out, almost human, then another. The wall groaned against the pressure. Tightening its grip, the monster tore, the air ringing with the screams of shredded metal. The wall was tossed aside. The villagers attempted to flee, helpless, aware of the soldiers surrounding them. Between the sheer mountains and endless ocean, their home had become a cage. So began the hunt.

By daybreak, it was over.

Trudging off, stained red, the giant retreated towards the capital. Its role was complete. Knights and soldiers would continue the hunt, combing through the rubble; forming a line, they would systematically starve any survivors. Ships would block the ocean. None would escape. Mercy was unforgivable, as a single mistake could damn them.

While marching, the giant stopped. Within its heart began a murmur. Resting there was a Key: the behemoth’s pilot. The giant craned its neck, staring towards the sky, then roared with triumph. Inside, the pilot only mumbled.