Ancient Hatred

Scorching red light illuminated the pitch-black night. The blaze was so fierce that the burning sky could be seen from several kilometers away.

Flames spiraled upward, and the choking smell of burning wood rode the evening wind straight at them, mixed with the stench of burning leather.

In the darkness, a party uneasily halted its march. These powerful hunters had just been sharing the joy of a successful return, but the strange sight in the distance had now stirred them into unrest.

This was a Tauren hunting party, a group of strong and wild beings. They had heads like cattle, yet possessed equal measures of wisdom and kindness.

It was said that when An'she's radiance lit the golden dawn, the Earth Mother's hand gently brushed across the plains. The plains answered her summons, and noble children sprang forth from the soil. From then on, the Tauren followed the Earth Mother's teachings, believed in the spirits of nature, and devoted themselves to preserving nature's eternal balance.

That was the legend of the Tauren's birth. Their history stretched far into the past; long before the Great Sundering, their ancestors had proudly held their heads high and walked this beautiful land.

Looking back into the distant past, during that earth-shattering catastrophe, they had also charged at the forefront, fighting the invaders without fear.

The world had paid countless generous sacrifices. In the end, the Tauren joined with innumerable allies and bravely drove the invaders who sought to destroy everything from their homeland.

Yet when faced with immense pressure to survive, even such a noble race had no choice but to make painful compromises.

This ancient land that had nurtured the Tauren for thousands of years was now undergoing some terrible transformation.

Three years ago, a sudden drought swept across the entire land. Vast stretches of crops withered, grasslands quickly dried up, and herbivores starved to death for lack of food. The wilderness was strewn with emaciated animal carcasses, and the air reeked of decay. This place had become a paradise for scavengers.

Then the drought continued into its third year. Even the devout Tauren Shamans, exhausting all they had learned, could not restore the land's vitality. The once-lively water elementals had become foul and turbid, as though the earth beneath their feet was slowly dying.

It was a disastrous autumn. It should have been the season of harvest, yet life had withered like a silent winter.

At the very front of the party, Cairne Bloodhoof stretched out an arm, sensing the subtle changes in the air.

A gust of wind swept past, leaving fine gray-black particles on the Tauren's broad palm. They were so tiny that they nearly blended into the night.

Cairne lightly rubbed them between his thick fingers, and the particles crumbled completely.

"Old friend, have everyone prepare themselves. The war... has begun."

Gripping his ancestral rune spear, the Tauren chieftain spoke in a deep, resonant voice, with barely contained fury churning beneath it.

Shaman Hamuul Runetotem nodded heavily. He pulled out an ancient kodo horn, raised it to his lips, and blew with all his strength.

A bleak howl rang across the wilderness.

The party fell silent, and that silence was even more terrifying than their earlier agitation.

Amid a succession of heavy thuds, antelope, prairie giraffes, and plains striders weighing hundreds of kilograms were discarded without hesitation.

Some Tauren hunters used shrubs and weeds to fashion crude camouflage for the prey. The remaining riders donned their hunting leather armor once more, drew their spears, or strung their sturdy wooden bows.

Before long, the desolate plains echoed with the deep growls of kodos and the heavy, powerful stomping of rapid movement.

The Tauren had always believed one thing about the land beneath their feet—this once-fertile and beautiful land was the shared home of all races. Thus, they never minded sharing the Earth Mother's blessings with other peoples.

These kind giants sincerely prayed for peace and coexistence.

Yet this beautiful wish had been cruelly trampled underfoot. It began with their evil neighbors, the Centaurs.

Centaurs were creatures with the upper bodies of humans and the lower bodies of horses. This superior physique granted them the terrifying gifts needed to dominate the grasslands. Their humanoid torsos contained powerful hearts that provided abundant endurance for long journeys, while their horse-like lower bodies gave them speed comparable to antelope.

The merciful Earth Mother had granted the Centaurs great strength, but not the heart to wield that strength.

Unlike their honest Tauren neighbors, Centaur blood seemed to carry a savage and brutal nature. They reveled in killing and plunder, taking pride in violence.

As the only two intelligent races widely inhabiting these great plains, their easily bullied neighbors naturally caught the Centaurs' attention. The string of tragedies that followed perfectly illustrated the law of the strong preying upon the weak.

Though the Tauren were far stronger than the Centaurs, they struggled to defeat opponents renowned for mobility and coordinated action on open ground. When attacked, they could not even fight back. The range in which the Tauren could operate was repeatedly compressed, and this, to some extent, fed the Centaurs' arrogant ambitions.

Unfortunately, even exceptional racial gifts could not make disaster show mercy. In some ways, this catastrophe favored the Centaurs even more. Once accustomed to effortless plunder, they could no longer return to the tedious, exhausting life of herding and farming.

The ravaging drought had driven the Centaurs into despair as well. The pressure of survival forced them into increasingly bold attempts, and their targets escalated from lone travelers to groups of Tauren, then to small caravans.

Three bloody massacres had occurred just last month. No survivors were left behind.

Out of caution, Cairne had sent some of the Bloodhoof Tribe's young and able-bodied members on this large hunting expedition.

So many elders and children still needed protection. This party of fewer than a hundred was already the last strength Bloodhoof Village could muster.

And against the prairie tyrants who vastly outnumbered them, what could a force of fewer than a hundred possibly guarantee beneath the hooves of iron cavalry?

But the Bloodhoof Tribe had no way back.

Tauren hunters searched the grasslands desperately every day. They brought back less and less prey, while the wounds on their bodies only grew more numerous.

The withered grasslands seemed to hold no more opportunities, only danger.

In spring, the chieftain dug up six jars of buried beans and distributed them among everyone with a sigh.

Every household received a handful, which they boiled with yellowed grass roots into a large pot of gruel.

The beans tasted terrible, carrying a moldy, damp flavor, but everyone still ate happily. After all, it had been a long time since they had last eaten their fill.

After enduring two harsh winters, even the last of their food had run out.

Hunger was agonizing.

But more painful to Cairne than hunger were those tormented faces.

Every night, those helpless faces appeared before his eyes and kept him from sleeping—the hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, backs drier than the ridges between fields...

He had seen a young man tortured by hunger tightly clutching half a shriveled corncob. His stomach growled, yet he could not bear to eat a single kernel.

His rough fingers stroked the shriveled kernels again and again before he tucked the cob back into his clothes, as though it carried some heartbreaking hope.

That was his dinner, and probably his breakfast and lunch as well. Cairne knew that he had a frail wife bedridden at home and a son who had only just turned six.

But their chieftain could do nothing except secretly give away more than half of his meager rations.

The food was gone.

Even though they had rationed it with the utmost care, it was still gone.

Tightening their belts further would not help. Now, even calves of seven or eight secretly wiped tears away as they stared into empty bowls.

This could not continue!

The chieftain made his decision. He knelt before the meditation stone and begged his ancestors for forgiveness—forgive him for the choice he was about to make against his heart.

They would cross the great plains and head for the moisture-rich western coast, to a place no hunter had ever set foot in.

They had once obeyed the Earth Mother's teachings and left that fertile land to all the spirits of the wilderness, so that nature's cycle could continue.

But that oath had been broken. Though it violated the Earth Mother's way, Cairne could not stand by and watch his people die.

Everyone had planned for this hunt for a very long time. Many had made painful sacrifices. Even Cairne's friend, Hamuul Runetotem, the seer of the Bloodhoof Tribe, had cast aside his ancestors' teachings and joined them alone.

Everyone had prepared for the worst. They all understood that this was a gamble staked on the fate of their entire tribe.

Yet these giants had all miscalculated. Though they had judged their enemy with considerable malice, they had still overestimated the opponent's shameful character.

They had never imagined what atrocities those scoundrels would commit in this late autumn, just before the cold currents arrived.

Cairne suddenly recalled that difficult choice: remain trapped in one corner and hope things would improve next year, or take a desperate risk and seek a sliver of survival for the entire clan.

It had troubled him for a long time, but now it seemed there had never truly been a choice.

He slowly raised his head. Mu'sha and the Blue Child hung high in the sky, their silver radiance shining over the land as it always had.

Legend said Mu'sha was a merciful goddess who appeared with tranquil moonlight, soothing mortal conflicts with songs of peace. When her children heard her song, they could escape war and slaughter. Another legend said Mu'sha was the shadow moon that devoured light, forever bringing destruction to her enemies through the cruel night.

The chieftain heard the Earth Mother's whisper. The breeze softly chanted an ancient ballad, telling the story of the moon goddess—something that had happened in the distant past, or perhaps a prophecy of the future.

Upon this land forever illuminated by starlight, noble lives multiplied and survived, composing songs of glory again and again, yet they were always caught in struggle, generation after generation, with war never ceasing.