The valleyfolk had lived in comfort for far, far too long.
Though records of the Great Collapse of Mistranor still circulated in books, in the tales of bards, and through the teachings of spellcasters, recounting just how terrifying and desperate that great destruction wrought by demons, devils, and dragonkind had been.
For humans, whose average lifespan was merely a few decades, more than five centuries was enough to smooth over the fear left by any calamity.
Until this day, when demons whose skin looked as though it had been eaten away by strong acid came shrieking over the cliffs, destroying everything in their path, setting their homes and granaries ablaze, and slaughtering every living thing they saw.
The humans of the valleys seemed, at last, to remember—
The fear their ancestors had once described: the fear of being ruled by that disaster, by those "monsters," and the humiliation of being wantonly ravaged and devoured like two-legged sheep.
At the very beginning of the fighting, the human lords of the valleys had not failed to try gathering their forces to resist.
But they swiftly discovered that before monsters like demons, neither farmers, soldiers, nor even the well-trained knights at the lords' sides could withstand a single blow!
The gap in Combat Strength was simply too vast!
Farmers armed with pitchforks might need to gather in groups of three or five just to deal with a single weakest proto-demon or a Quasit darting about everywhere.
One malformed demon could fight trained soldiers to a standstill, while dealing with a Quasit required at least a mid-rank knight.
The problem was that there were far too many of them, and they would never challenge anyone one-on-one. They swarmed forward together, attacking in packs, and the moment a weakness was exposed, they would tear their