Southern Jambu Continent, at the extreme south—a vast rainforest.
The miasma here was exceptionally heavy. Most places were shrouded in it from the start of spring each year, and only when winter arrived did it recede slightly and lie dormant.
This miasma was terrifying beyond measure.
Some had heard of worms growing from within one's lungs and bursting out through the chest.
Some had heard of people turning straight into bloody water in the blink of an eye.
Some had heard of people rotting all over, wailing without cease for seven days and seven nights before dying.
Others had heard of people bursting into flames on the spot.
It could be said that the living must not enter. Enter, and death was certain.
Yet in such a place—one that could be called a land of death—at the point where its miasma was densest, where even in winter its concentration merely fell slightly rather than dispersing completely, there was a tiny village nestled in a depression somewhere within the rainforest.
At a glance, this village was anything but ordinary.
Just the people in it alone were all towering, burly giants.
Not towering and burly in the figurative sense, but literally so. Their arms were as thick as water barrels, and their legs were just as thick.
Even the sort of leopard-eyed, bear-waisted man people imagined would look like a little runt standing before them—he could jump all he wanted and still not reach their waists.
They were casually over three meters tall.
Aside from the villagers' enormous stature, the most conspicuous thing was something like an altar standing at the center of the small village.
On the altar rested a bull skull.
It was enormous, utterly beyond comparison with any ordinary wild bull—fully as tall as a one-story building.
Beneath the