Tongue

In the dead of night, the torchlight illuminated the violently dug graves. Strangely, most of the graves still contained scattered bones, with only a few showing no remains at all.

"The bodies that disappeared were all from new graves!"

Contemplating the scene before him, Roy's mind conjured an image of an extremely greedy, bloodthirsty monster – a ghoul.

If ghouls were the cause of the disturbance in the graveyard, it would be a tricky situation even for a Witcher, let alone this group of ordinary people.

"There's danger here, everyone leave!" As Roy's urgent words fell, a strange whistling sound reached everyone's ears, like someone cracking a whip through the air.

One second, two seconds.

The burly Butcher suddenly grunted, like a fish caught on a hook, his limbs jerking backward and spasming open, then being pulled forward as he staggered two steps.

At this moment, the torches in their hands illuminated a long, flesh-colored object flashing across the night sky – it shot out from the darkness like a phantom, like an arrow piercing the Butcher's shoulder and tearing a gaping wound.

Pusig, who was the first to recover, swung his Steel Sword upward, but the object detached itself and retreated into the darkness beyond the torchlight.

"What the hell was that?!" The men, in a panic, formed a circle, shielding the injured man in the center.

The Butcher was sweating profusely from the pain, his teeth nearly ground to dust. He desperately clutched the massive wound, but blood still gushed out like a spring. His body began to weaken, his life draining away rapidly. He already sensed his impending doom.

"I can't make it, you guys run! Don't mind me." After speaking, the Butcher shoved everyone away and charged into the night alone.

Old Jack, the eldest, scanned his surroundings, a fierce glint in his single eye.

"Run! Every one of us that gets away counts. Only by staying alive can we have a chance to settle the score with this thing!"

The group fled with him.

Roy, dragged along by the blacksmith for a while, finally calmed down, still trembling. "That thing definitely wasn't a ghoul, what on earth was it?" He suddenly looked back, catching a vague glimpse of a hunched, humanoid creature. It lacked the streamlined physique of a leopard; it even appeared bloated, its belly protruding like a woman six months pregnant, yet it ran faster than a leopard.

It circled them relentlessly, leaving trails of afterimages in the dark graveyard, like a gust of wind, darting about while emitting sharp, piercing cries like an owl. It taunted them, reveling in the hunt.

"Collects corpses, hunched like an old woman, spits a long tongue, lives in graves." Connecting these clues, Roy vaguely formed a guess. Old Jack, seeing his distracted state, couldn't help but slap him hard. "Stop spacing out, Roy, hurry up and run, don't think about anything, just run!" With that, Roy mustered his last bit of strength and sprinted towards the graveyard gate!

So close, just a step away from escaping this hellish graveyard.

A shadowy figure descended from the sky with a swishing sound, abruptly blocking their path. Its face was covered in scabs and flesh tumors, hideous and utterly repulsive.

Its skin, a dark greenish-black, exuded the stench of a corpse, covered in mottled scales. Its limbs ended in sickle-like claws, coated in a thick layer of blood and gore.

The evil witch from fairy tales, the old woman disfigured by fire, the monsters from nightmares – none could describe its horror.

It opened its deformed arms towards the four of them, smiling and revealing a mouth full of uneven black teeth. Its disgusting body was like a mountain of flesh, insurmountable.

It's over!

Despair surged through them simultaneously, but they were unwilling to surrender!

Old Jack, the blacksmith, and the Night Watchman gripped their Steel Swords. Roy pulled out his hand crossbow, gritting his teeth as he nocked an arrow tipped with wolf's blood.

Just then, a figure suddenly lunged from the side, slamming into the monster at the waist and, catching it by surprise, pinning it to the ground.

The Butcher, drenched in blood, his expression frenzied, desperately held the monster's gaping maw.

"Go quickly, find a Witcher! Avenge me, avenge Brandon!" His eyes bulged, tears of blood streaming down.

This poor father had guessed his son's fate and resolved to die. With his only family gone, what was the point of living?

As soon as he spoke, the monster violently broke free and kicked him away like a sandbag. He fell to the ground, his life or death uncertain. Still unsatisfied, seemingly solely focused on the Butcher, it completely ignored Roy and the other three, lunging towards the fallen man.

Its deformed claws danced like blurs. In the flickering torchlight, flesh and blood flew as it tore the Butcher apart.

"Old man, playing the hero yourself while leaving me a coward?" The blacksmith, Pusig, suddenly raised his Steel Sword high, his ruddy face filled with resolve. "Boss, you guys take Roy and leave! Skellig only has men who die in battle, no cowards who retreat!" Without waiting for the other three to react, Pusig charged back into the graveyard without hesitation, his sword thrusting towards the rampaging demonic shadow's back.

Old Jack and the night watchman grabbed Roy, who was struggling to aim his crossbow, from either side. "Let's go, child, don't let their sacrifice be in vain."

Roy stopped struggling, dejectedly lowered his crossbow, a lump forming in his throat, and fled the graveyard with the two men.

The three ran at full speed, not daring to look back, until their bodies felt like they would fall apart. The bright lights of Kaye Village appeared in their sight.

The light was like a signal flare, instantly igniting the fatigue and pain lurking within Roy. His mind felt muddled like paste, his legs went weak, and he suddenly fainted.

"Roy?" Jack quickly helped him up. Seeing his flushed face and closed eyes, he felt his forehead – it was burning hot. Having spent the better part of the night in the wilderness in the cold, without sufficient rest, expending a great deal of physical and mental energy, coupled with the stress from the wolf and that terrifying monster, Old Jack could completely understand.

"He's still just a child," Thompson sighed, carrying Roy back to the village on his back.

The village chief, around fifty years old with white hair, along with several villagers, came out to meet them. Seeing the three covered in dirt and looking disheveled, a deep bitterness spread across his aged face. He stammered, trying to inquire, "Fletcher and Pusig..."

"They're not coming back." Jack rubbed his temples, his wrinkled face etched with pain, mixed with a hint of fear.

"Village chief, you were right, the wilderness at night is too dangerous. We went to the graveyard to look for Brandon and were attacked by a terrifying monster. You must warn everyone immediately and forbid anyone from going near the graveyard."

Old Jack paced back and forth, hatingly saying, "Ordinary people can't deal with that monster; we must hire a Witcher!"

"Tomorrow, send someone to the city to post a notice!" Several villagers who heard the commotion nodded quickly. "We absolutely must not let that thing harass the village."

Tonight was destined to be sleepless. The village chief woke up every household to issue warnings.

The once peaceful and serene Kaye Village was thrown into chaos by this sudden accident.

Meanwhile, Roy was taken home by Jack and remained unconscious with a high fever.