Chapter 10 The woodcutter

"Collection"

The fleeing woodcutter and his group of refugee brothers sat around the fire in the hotel lobby. They are uneasy and sleepless.

"Is the guy we saved a monster?" A man said in a very low voice. His voice was like a candle in the wind, and the crackling of charcoal even overshadowed his words. Or...other...those guys?"

"Let's care who they are." Another middle-aged man didn't drink, but his tongue was knotted as if he were drunk. He slapped himself hard - a particularly loud crack - and the pain made his tongue a little more obedient. He glanced at the hall in panic, "What should we do?"

No one knows what to do.

The brothers looked at each other and their eyes were full of fear.

"How can they lock us up with those people?" Another person said, "We are not monsters! Do the people in this village want us to die and feed the monster?

"We are going out." Then another person said their desire. We are going out."

The woodcutter did not move. He looked at the quiet, dark stairs and stared at the ceiling above his head. He knew that the man he rescued was above him, separated by a wall. He couldn't help shaking his legs.

He couldn't help doubting whether he had done something wrong and brought the monster back to the village from the wilderness.

If he is really a monster... the woodcutter finds that he can't imagine it anymore. There is no need for him to imagine. Along the way, the destroyed villages he passed have shown the end in front of him. He was just afraid that in case the village also encountered that kind of disaster, it was all caused by him. He can't atone for it even if he dies.

The woodcutter feels that he should do something. Anyway, he should do something, even if it is a trivial matter. Otherwise, he can't eliminate his inner guilt at all. He grabbed the logging axe that had been at his feet for many years, and the hard oak handle had been polished. The familiar touch and heavy burden temporarily suppressed his beating heart,

At this moment, his refugee brothers gathered at the door.

They patted the locked door in panic and crazily. The door frame rattled and shook, and the dust fell straight with the tremor. Let's get out!" They shouted. The sound echoed in the hotel. The woodcutter turned his head and looked at the stairs behind him. They must have woken up, and he suddenly thought uneasily that we woke them up.

"Damn it, let's get out!"

"Be quiet, you idiots." The militiaman yelled at them outside the hotel. If you make trouble again, I will throw you all into the cell!"

"We are not prisoners!"

The militia hit the door panel with the hilt of the sword, "Go back to sleep." It's up to the village head to decide whether to let you go or not. It's useless to tell us.

A man suddenly shouted. Then put us in the cell!" He shouted, "I would rather be a robber and be regarded as a prisoner than stay here!" Don't lock us up with monsters!"

The woodcutter felt a pause around for a few seconds, but the noisy shout seemed to directly overturn the roof.

Everyone wants to be a prisoner, and he can't help but feel sad about it: when has the world become so sad? Because even his heart was willingly bound with fetters, and even willing to be tied to his neck with ropes, and dragged ugly and subserviently into the dungeon. Even in the face of torture tools is better than this unknown fear.

"Don't be whimsful and open." The militiaman was shocked and speechless. This...it's impossible."

"Then let's go out." The refugees grabbed the chair and smashed the door panel one after another. We will die here, you cold-blooded men!"

"Open this door and we'll go out by ourselves!"

The woodcutter was surrounded to the door. He looked at the brothers shouting beside him and hesitated for a moment. I have to admit that the quiet second floor, the dark stairway brought him great pressure. Their noise added to his anger and irritability. He felt that he could hardly think. He raised the logging axe.

However, he felt the weight, and the heavy mountain seemed to have gathered on his axe. He tried to resist this inexplicable power, but no matter how hard he tried, the axe could not move as if it had been pulled in his hand by a natural power giant... It was not until sweat came from his head that he suddenly woke up and soaked his clothes in cold sweat. This power can't come from anything else. It may or may only be... monster...

The woodcutter twisted his stiff neck with difficulty. He saw the white gas exhaled from the mouths of the people around him turn into white frost.

The room with the fire was exhausted with a polar cold, and the room suddenly became silent. In the thrilling fear, they trembled, wrapped their clothes tightly, and looked at each other in fear.

The oil lamp on the table went out. The flame of the candle turned into a smoke. The flame in the fireplace was also suppressed into a cold blue fire, dying.

"What happened?"

"Soldier, talk." A man is about to cry. Please, talk to me."

There is silence outside.

They stared, as if they were immobile by magic and dared not move. The terrible silence surrounded them, but the sudden scream of horror broke the silence and made them cry almost at the same time. But in addition to making sounds in their throats, they horribly found that even the simplest movements were extremely difficult, as if there was an invisible chain that tied them up. Many of them tried their best to put their hands into the buckle and took out their amulet, so these people finally got out of the paralysis. However, their first reaction was not to open the door, but to use their immobile companions as a shield and hide behind them. They squatted on the ground, trembling, and stared at the door of the hotel with wide eyes in horror.

Outside the hotel, the militia's screams have turned into low whining and begging sobs. Monster, monster--" The woodcutter who couldn't move and closest to the gate heard their voices clearly. Is the monster outside? He was stunned and didn't even know that the axe slipped from his palm to the ground.

A sudden sound of iron hoof echoed in the air, like the sound of winter thunder, which was the stable and ferocious knocking sound of a galloping horse. Then a huge shadow covered the doors and windows. The militia cried in panic, but the cry was cut off and was frighteningly short.

Then, the sound of iron hoofs gradually faded away.

The room was silent for several minutes until the flames in the fireplace burned again. This emergency made everyone short of breath, and they all lost their things. But no one went to rekindle candles and oil lamps. All eyes stared at the closed door, and the only sound was whispered prayer and heavy breathing.

The sticky red** flowed into the pub from under the door. The men grabbed the legs of the chair beside them, as if it were the sword of the Holy Samurai of Andal, and several women raised the amulet in front of them. The woodcutter swallowed his saliva with difficulty. He bent down and picked up the logging axe at his feet tremblingly, and suddenly felt that it was as heavy. He slowly raised his arm, and the bright blade was aimed at the position of the door bolt. He paused and no one stopped him. So he split it heavily... Wood chips flew, and a piece of wood swirled past the corners of his eyebrows. The door that locked them opened. Two headless bodies fell into the dirty dust. Their heads were left in the middle of the street, and the black meat was half hidden in the sacred silver moonlight.

Women screamed in fear, and men cursed. The chair was knocked over, and the woodcutter leaned his back against the wall, opening his mouth as if the fish had left the water. Some people began to cry and some people vomited. A man rushed into the bar crazily, broke the barrel and drowned himself into the barrel. The scorching wine made his twitching stomach hot. He sat down in the brandy dripping on the ground and trembled even more.

It seems that it took a long time for the woodcutter to summon up the courage to look outside again:

A row of huge horseshoe marks have been spreading... It's not like a mortal horse... The woodcutter swears that he has never seen such a big... footprint. He forced himself to raise his head: at the end of the footprints, there was a village where the lights went out and hidden under the dark.

Is this village dead? Did they survive? The woodcutter couldn't believe it. He swd his best and swd the door.

The huge noise slightly recalled some of their splea. They curled up by the fireplace and squeezed together like penguins. They could feel each other's shivering and cold bodies as if they were frozen.

"Just now... what the hell is that outside?"

Everyone shook their heads at the same frequency, and they didn't even dare to look, let alone anything else. The woodcutter saw a little clearly. In the foggy black tide, the figure suddenly appeared. The shape of the figure is not strange, but a person riding on horseback. He didn't know what it was, and he didn't want to know who the knight was. He is a monster! That's all he knows! And he may... maybe killed everyone in the village. Except for them... no, there are also...

The woodcutter suddenly raised his head and stared at the dark stairs.

From the beginning, they shouted, they smashed the door, they scolded the militia, and then the knights appeared and they screamed... All the voices did not wake them up. They also seem to be... dead? Just above their heads. The woodcutter suddenly realized that the hotel he had previously thought was safe was no longer safe.

"Upstairs, upstairs..." Another person also realized this. He pointed to the dark stairs with trembling fingers and stared at the woodcutter with frightened eyes, and could not say a complete word.

Everyone is getting tighter. They held their breath and curled up in the corner, looking at the broken gate creaking in the cold wind, and looking at the silent stairway, panicking all day long. They don't know what else will come out of the shadows. The woodcutter summoned up the courage to stand up and planned to see it alone.

"Don't go!" Several hands grabbed his clothes. We...we need your...axe."

The woodcutter had to sit down again. He can't live without it either. In this long night, this cold logging axe is the only thing he can rely on. Although... he deeply doubted whether the mortal weapon used by ordinary people could hurt the knight. Through the window, the woodcutter finally took a look at the sky: it was dark. He prayed deeply that dawn would come soon.