The setting sun was like blood, splashing over the village built of rammed yellow earth. The evening breeze carried the warmth of cooking smoke as it brushed over the villagers, bringing faint, contented smiles to their faces.
After a day of hard labor, the villagers carried hoes and farming tools on their shoulders, bore baskets on poles, and walked through the web of village houses toward their warm little homes.
There were their parents, their wives and children, and meals already cooked and waiting.
What should have been an ordinary, cozy evening was torn apart by earth-shaking hoofbeats.
On the horizon, a vast black mass of Barbarian cavalry appeared like evil ghosts crawling out of hell, their curved blades flashing with bloodthirsty cold light beneath the dying sun.
Their warhorses snorted heavily. Wherever their iron hooves passed, grass snapped and dust billowed.
Without any warning, they charged into the village like a pack of wolves that had caught the scent of blood, roaring wildly.
"The Barbarians are here! Run!"
No one knew who let out that shrill cry first, but it was immediately swallowed by hoofbeats and screams.
The once-peaceful village instantly became a living hell.
The Barbarian riders swung their curved blades, hacking down anyone they saw and killing everyone they encountered.
An old man's staggering figure was crushed beneath the hooves. His cane flew far away, terror still lingering in his clouded eyes, yet his body had already been cleaved in two, blood gurgling into the soil.
The children's cries were the most piercing. They hid in their mothers' arms, only to be yanked out by the Barbarians and lifted into the air like chicks.
A curved blade swept past, and their tender bodies split in two. Blood splashed across the Barbarians' savage faces, but they only burst