Early morning. That hazy hour when most people began their routines—boiling stale water, sweeping dirt floors, lighting weak fires for their only meal of the day.
Then came the scream.
Loud. Panicked. Full of terror.
It cut through the quiet like a rusty blade. But no one flinched. Not anymore.
Years ago, the villagers had been startled by it. Some thought someone was being murdered. Others thought it was a beast attack. Now, it was just part of the morning. At first it was annoying. Later, it became a running joke. These days, it was simply background noise.
The source? Stanley.
Every single morning, for the last ten years, Stanley woke up screaming. Not a cry or a groan—a full, blood-curdling scream, as if he were watching death itself drag him out of bed.
The villagers had given him a nickname: The Fat Rooster. Because, like clockwork, his scream echoed through the cracked stone and moldy thatch of the village as the sun rose, replacing the rooster that had died long ago.
Inside his shack, Stanley jolted upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat, panting like a hunted animal. His heart slammed against his ribs. He clutched his chest, gasping, wild-eyed.
The nightmare again.
Still.
Ten years and it hadn't left him.
He sat there in the dark, waiting for his breathing to steady. His sheets were soaked. His massive belly rose and fell with labored effort. He didn't remember the last time he'd had a peaceful sleep.
He pushed himself off the mattress and shuffled toward the corner they called a bathroom. On the way, he caught his reflection in the cracked, grimy mirror.
Sunken eyes. Yellowed skin. A face bloated by years of stress and filth.
"Fucking hell," he muttered at the mirror. "I hate this goddamn life. Can't sleep. Can't eat in peace. Ten years since that cursed panther dumped that runt on me, and I still wake up to his face in my dreams."
He slammed his fist against the wall. "Every time I see that damn kid, I see him—that monster's eyes, that grin. FUCK!"
Before he could rage further, the door burst open.
Wayla stormed in, skeletal and sharp-featured, her tangled hair sticking to her face in clumps. Her eyes were like two pits of contempt.
"Can you shut the fuck up, you useless pig?" she barked, slamming the door behind her. "Your damn screaming woke the chickens—and we don't even have any!"
Stanley growled, not turning around. "Go to hell, Wayla. You and the whole damn village. Let them hear. Maybe they'll finally come put me out of my misery."
Wayla rolled her eyes and sneered. "I forgot. It's your sacred duty to wake up the neighborhood, Fat Rooster."
She flopped down onto the creaky chair by the table, pulled out a crust of dry bread, and muttered while chewing, "Be patient. Only five more years and we're done with that brat."
Stanley lumbered to the table and dropped into the other chair with a grunt. He reached for a chunk of bread, nearly snapping it in half with his grip. "The nightmares are getting worse. I feel like I'm dying a little every day."
Wayla didn't look up. "Good. Maybe you'll get skinny. Maybe I'll stop gagging every time your fat-ass belly touches me at night."
Stanley snorted. "You're one to talk. You've got the body of a scarecrow and the breath of a swamp hag."
Wayla raised her chin. "At least I don't snore like a dying walrus."
"Least I don't have fleas."
They sat in silence, chewing stale bread and hating everything around them.
After a while, Stanley asked, mouth half-full, "Where's the brat?"
Wayla shrugged. "Gone when I woke up. Probably looking for food."
Stanley grunted approval. "Good. Saves us the trouble."
Wayla's tone turned slightly uneasy. "Are you sure that's smart? What if he eats something bad? Poison mushrooms? Spoiled meat?"
Stanley waved her off. "He's not normal, that one. I don't know where he came from, but something about him… he's not the type to die easy."
He leaned back, smirking. "Actually, I've been thinking—when he turns fifteen, I'll sell him. Pretty face like his? Nobles would pay a fortune. Boys like him don't stay virgins for long in their courts."
Wayla's eyes sparkled for the first time in months. "With that money, we could finally buy a permit. Move to a real city."
Stanley chuckled darkly. "Exactly. We'll be rid of this shithole and that cursed child."
The village itself was a forgotten scar on the kingdom's map.
The lord who owned the land had long since abandoned it, seeing no profit in managing a pit of outlaws and beggars. No paved roads. No guards. Just wilderness and danger on all sides.
To the north were cliffs and highland badlands. Rocky terrain plagued by winged nightmares—double-headed vultures, swarming scarabs, mosquitoes the size of cats. Even the toughest warriors avoided it.
To the south stretched the mana-sick forest. Thick. Alive. Humming with nature. Beasts ruled it. Sentient things, twisted by the forest's will. Decades ago, a noble's expedition had tried to map it. They came back in pieces. Two cities were wiped out by a retaliatory beast wave.
To the west was desert. Hot, dry, and barren. No gold, no water, no monsters worth hunting. Nobles deemed it unworthy of funding any further expeditions.
So the village remained. Wedged between death on all sides. Left alone.
Over time, it attracted the worst of the worst. Murderers. Slavers. Exiled nobles. Cultists. All huddled together in this filthy pit. It earned a name: The Village of the Tarnished.
There was no honor here. Only survival.
A lone merchant came once a month, charging five times the value for food or medicine. The villagers bartered anything they had—sometimes even people.
Yet Stanley thrived.
Despite the nightmares, despite the child, despite the hate aimed at him from all directions, he survived. He knew how to play the game—stealing, blackmailing, cheating. He didn't care who he hurt, as long as he came out on top.
The villagers mocked him. Laughed when his flab jiggled. Called him the Fat Rooster to his face. But they never touched him. Stanley knew everyone's secrets. He kept favors in his pocket like knives under his pillow.
But ever since that night—ten years ago—everything had changed.
The beastman's shadow had never left his mind. He could still feel those yellow eyes watching him.
He had sacrificed food, favors, even part of his soul to keep that child alive. A small thing. Quiet. Always watching.
And though the thought had crossed his mind more than once—to dump the boy into the southern forest and let the beasts handle it—he could never bring himself to do it.
Because he knew.
If the boy died… the beastman would return.
And this time, he wouldn't leave empty-handed.