WORLD PARADISE

Screams and cries pierced the night.

The village reeked of blood.

The very air had become thick with the metallic scent of death, seeping into the lungs of those who still lived. The fires that once burned as the villagers' last hope had been extinguished, leaving nothing but darkness for the monsters to roam freely.

The night crawlers feasted upon those whose doors had been left unprotected. Their grotesque forms twisted and contorted in the moonlight, their elongated limbs moving with an unnatural fluidity. Their mouths, lined with jagged, uneven teeth, worked tirelessly ripping, gnawing, and devouring.

The only sounds they made were the horrific symphony of their feast.

The snapping of bones, the wet squelching of flesh being torn apart, and the gnarled, guttural noises that slithered from their throats, an eerie blend of deep growls and chittering echoes, a language that only they could understand. It was as if the creatures spoke in hunger itself, a grotesque communication of gluttony and insatiable desire.

They did not cry out in joy. They did not roar in triumph. They only fed.

But one among them was different.

The Beast.

Larger, more intelligent, more terrifying.

Where the night crawlers feared flames, it did not. Where they were driven only by primal hunger, it spoke with understanding. It looked as if their leader, the embodiment of terror itself.

And it was merciless.

The Morning After the Nightmare, when the sun rose, it did not bring warmth.

The golden light that stretched across the village did not cleanse the horrors of the night. It only illuminated them.

Bodies lay in the streets, their limbs twisted in unnatural positions, their faces frozen in expressions of absolute terror. The earth had been soaked in blood, turning the dirt a sickening shade of crimson. The buildings, once full of life, were now desecrated walls smeared with handprints of those who had tried to flee, doors clawed apart by monsters that had broken through.

A putrid stench of rot already lingered in the air.

The village did not wake up to a new day.

It woke up to a graveyard.

The cries of grief filled the morning as the survivors mourned their loved ones. The chief, the priest, and all those who had been marked by the Beast were dead. Their homes, stripped of fire's protection, had become their tombs.

But it wasn't just those houses.

The homes where flames had been snuffed out, intentionally or accidentally were reduced to slaughterhouses. The night crawlers had left nothing behind but mangled corpses and despair.

Yet, despite the overwhelming tragedy, one person suffered more than anyone else.

Yami.

He had not only lost his parents.

He had watched them die.

And there was nothing he could do.

He was weak. Powerless. Helpless.

Even now, as he sat in the ruins of his home, his body refused to move. His heart had shattered. His soul had been branded with fear.

But his father's words echoed in his mind.

"Survive, Yami."

His trembling hands clenched into fists.

He needed to move.

The basement had always been there, but it had never been of much use. Dust blanketed the wooden floor, undisturbed for years. The air was thick and stale, filled with the scent of old wood and forgotten time.

Crates of useless items were stacked in the corners, covered in cobwebs. A small, rotting bed sat against the far wall, barely holding itself together—its frame weak, its mattress brittle with age.

Yami searched desperately, his fingers scraping against the dust-coated floor, his vision blurred by exhaustion and tears. His father had said there was a safe.

After what felt like hours, he finally found it.

A heavy iron box, wedged beneath the broken bed, its surface rusted with time. The key was nearby, hidden under a loose floorboard.

With trembling hands, he turned the key.

The safe clicked open.

Inside, wrapped in an old cloth, was a book.

The guidebook.

The Hakudo Madu, the twelve sacred ships of the village.

He ran his fingers over the cover, his breath shaky. This book… this was his only hope.

His only way to escape.

He read.

Hours passed, the world outside growing distant. He traced the words with careful fingers, his mind absorbing every instruction, every technique for sailing the legendary ships.

The idea of revenge never crossed his mind.

He knew the truth.

Even if he trained for years, even if he became the strongest warrior, he would never defeat the Beast.

It took more than fifteen warriors to bring down a single night crawler.

The Beast had controlled dozens with a mere whisper.

It was impossible.

All Yami had was a dream, to reach the World Paradise.

He could only pray that it truly existed.

His stomach growled.

He hadn't eaten since… before.

Before his mother died. Before his father was devoured.

Steeling himself, he pushed open the door of his ruined home and stepped outside.

The stench hit him first.

Rot. Blood. Death.

The streets were red.

Dismembered bodies lay scattered, their flesh torn apart. Flies buzzed around the remains, already feasting. The houses stood like empty husks, stained with blood and despair.

Yami forced himself forward, searching for food.

That was when he heard them.

The villagers.

Angry voices, filled with bitterness, grief, and the desperate need for someone to blame.

"All of this is his fault."

The name spread through the crowd like wildfire.

"Yami."

He stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding.

"Perhaps if he hadn't kept young Oda out so late, Oda would still be alive."

"His mother is to blame too. Maybe she knew she was going to die and wanted to take us all with her!"

"It was because of them that the Beast came here!"

"They should pay."

The logic was flawed. Irrational. Driven by grief and rage.

But that didn't matter.

They had found their scapegoat.

Yami didn't resist when they seized him.

There was no point.

His body was too weak. His spirit was already broken.

He barely even reacted when they declared his punishment.

He would be imprisoned until he turned sixteen.

On that day, he would be executed.

It was decided.

The only person who spoke against it was Nobizo, the old drunkard who always ranted about his adventures to the World Paradise.

"He's just a damn kid!" Nobizo spat. "How the hell can you blame an eleven-year-old for this!?"

But his words fell on deaf ears.

The villagers didn't care about sense.

They wanted justice.

And so, Yami was condemned.

Days passed.

Yami sat in the darkness of his cell, the guidebook clutched in his hands.

Five years.

That was all he had.

He didn't know what awaited him beyond that time. Death? Escape? A miracle?

No one could control fate.

But Yami had already accepted his own.