Bad News

As the last rays of the setting sun struggled to sink into the heavy outline of the western mountains, the village of Sauron was quickly enveloped in the deepening twilight.

The air was filled with the distinctive aroma of burning pine wood, mixed with the smells of livestock manure, damp soil, and the varying aromas of food wafting from the earthen stoves of every household.

In the distance, the sparse woods became a blurry silhouette against the dark blue sky, and the calls of a few crows returning to their nests added to the desolation of the mountain twilight.

On the edge of the village, three Sauron women were busy with the last tasks of the day.

With rough but sturdy wooden sticks, they drove a few clearly unwilling, slow-moving, motley cattle and sheep toward the crooked fence at the village entrance, which was barely bound together with sharpened wooden stakes and vines.

The livestock let out low mooing and snorting of discontent, kicking up dry dust with their hooves.

"That's strange," said Annie, an older woman with deep wrinkles on her face. She couldn't help but look again toward the dark forest to the west, her brows furrowed and the branch she was using to shoo away the livestock unconsciously stopped.

"My husband, along with Barton and Old Black, said they went into the mountains this morning to set traps and try their luck at hunting some wild animals. Usually by this time, they should have already returned carrying pheasants and rabbits, or at least empty-handed and cursing. But it's getting dark, and there's not a trace of them."

A relatively younger woman with high cheekbones grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, and laughed dismissively:

"Annie, you're being too cautious. Barton, Old Black, and your man—aren't they all seasoned hunters who've been roaming these mountains for decades? They could find their way home with their eyes closed."

"We're probably just lucky. We ran into a herd of deer or wild boar, but we chased them a bit too far and wasted time. If we could really bring back a big game, we could get a few more pounds of meat this winter and make some more fat."

The third woman, thin and with a shrewd and calculating look in her eyes, sighed, her voice high-pitched:

"It would be great if we could catch some big ones... Sigh, I was just thinking that it would be best if we could also catch a live Broomflower slave." She clicked her tongue, her tone full of regret.

"The one who died of illness in my family a while ago, although he was a bit thin, was quite capable at work. He was good at feeding pigs and chopping firewood. I wish I hadn't let him climb up in the rain to repair the roof that day. Now look what happened, he got sick from overwork and died a few days later. It's such a pity, all that money I gave him for two good skins."

In her view, the value of a slave's life was roughly equivalent to that of an old, carelessly damaged tool; what was regrettable was the cost and lost labor, not the life itself.

The three women chatted on and on about family matters, men and children, this year's harvest, and the increasingly difficult-to-catch wild game, their hands never stopping. Finally, they managed to drive the reluctant animals into the enclosure and bolt the simple fence gate with a thick wooden bar.

They dusted themselves off, said goodbye to each other, and then turned and walked toward their own low, wooden and stone houses with smoke rising from their chimneys.

Soon, wisps of smoke, some thick and some thin, rose from all over the village, rising straight into the darkening sky on a windless evening, carrying the distinct aromas of each household's food. Most of it was a porridge mixed with wild vegetables and a small amount of millet, while those in better circumstances might be able to smell a hint of salty, pungent cured meat.

However, as night completely engulfed the village and the stars began to twinkle in the sky, the fires in the stoves of Annie's, Barton's, and Old Black's houses went from hot to cold, and the porridge they had heated solidified into clumps in the earthenware pots. The three men who should have been home were still nowhere to be found.

Now, the three women's last shred of hope and comfort was completely extinguished.

People who make a living in the mountains and forests have an instinctive sense of danger.

One person might get lost, fall and get injured, or be attacked by a wild animal and not be able to return in time; but it is far from ordinary for three experienced hunters to go out of contact at the same time.

Annie was the first to get restless. She hastily wiped her hands, called over two other equally anxious women, and the three of them trudged through the darkness toward the largest wooden house in the center of the village.

The village chief, who was also their Lord, lived there— Derek.

Derek was originally a notorious veteran in the Sword Corps under the Great Chieftain Harald, known for his fierce fighting prowess and numerous scars.

Several years ago, his knee was shot through by Crossbow Bolt from the Goldspur during a battle, leaving him disabled and unable to charge into battle as before.

His Battle Group Commander, mindful of his past merits, bestowed upon him this small village of three hundred people, located on the edge of the border mountains, as a way to provide him with a place to retire and settle down.

Derek, with a limp, managed the small village, making a living with the villagers' offerings and the occasional trips he organized to hunt and gather mountain produce.

In the eyes of the villagers, this former veteran Lord, though a bit short-tempered, was knowledgeable, respected, and always able to make decisions when problems arose.

Three women, their voices trembling with tears, explained their purpose outside Derek's low wooden door. Soon, the door creaked open, and a middle-aged man, still burly but with a noticeable limp in his left leg and a prominent scar on his face, appeared in the doorway—it was Derek.

After listening to the three women's incoherent account—that the men had gone into the mountains before dawn and promised to return by evening, but were still nowhere to be seen after dark—his thick eyebrows immediately furrowed into a knot.

Derek wasn't one of those ordinary villagers who only knew how to farm and herd sheep; he immediately realized the seriousness of the problem.

Barton, Old Black, and Annie's husband were the strongest and most experienced hunters in the village, and they knew this forest as well as their own backyard.

The three of them traveled together, so even if they encountered a bear or a pack of wolves, even if they couldn't defeat them, at least one or two of them could run back to report the danger.

The fact that the three of them disappeared silently could not have been as simple as encountering a wild animal.