The night was dark and the wind was high, with flashes of lightning and the roar of thunder.
In the deserted village, corpses lay strewn about, blood flowing like a river; all were elderly Wind Hoof villagers with necks twisted off.
A man with white hair and bull horns sat on a blue stone by the roadside, his body constantly exuding a mercury-like black stream that engulfed the surrounding blood and corpses.
His face was aged, his frame robust. Like the people of Wind Hoof Country, he had bull hooves and wore worn armor, exuding a wild and ancient aura, making others wary of underestimating him.
He took a deep breath, and the corpses within the black stream instantly decayed and melted, transforming into energy that was absorbed into his body through the black stream.
After a moment, he frowned in dissatisfaction, black electric sparks crackling between his two horns.
