It had been some hours since the battle against the crimson fox, and Bahamut had almost recovered. His regeneration had helped him heal most of his injuries. Ren lay beside him in his bunny body, his breathing faint, but still there.
Bahamut's face contorted in pain as he tried to move. He pushed himself way past his limit, and he was experiencing the consequences. Further to the side was the body of the beast they'd killed. It was still fresh and without flies on it. It seemed the battle had finally driven all the beasts away. If even a Tier 2 died, how would a Tier 1 fare here?
But only these two knew what they had to go through to achieve this victory.
"Ren... buddy," Bahamut called to the sleeping bunny, trying to wake him up. They had to eat to regain a bit of strength. But Ren didn't respond. Bahamut tried again and again.
After five minutes, Ren still wasn't up, making him a bit worried.
"System, what's wrong?"
[Replying Host...]
[Ren appears to be in a coma. His body couldn't hold on to the Tier 2 power for long, and he lacked certain qualities of Tier 2, prompting his body to go into hibernation and coma.]
"Are there any side effects?"
[Not much. The only bad side effect is that this is his new body forever. The rest would be exposed in due time, but currently, his soul is fully adapting and assimilating to his body structure. He should be alright afterwards.]
"When would he wake up?"
[I'm sorry, but that is unknown.]
"Mm. Thanks," Bahamut said as he finally managed to stand on his feet. He took a step forward and stumbled, falling on his knees. Blood flowed from his mouth as he accidentally bit his tongue from the fall.
GRUNT!
With ragged groans of pain, Bahamuth forced himself upright, his body trembling as though every bone protested the motion. Each step toward the beast's carcass was slow and agonizing, but driven by a primal hunger he could not suppress.
Kneeling beside the slain monster, he dug his bare hands into its cooling flesh, tearing free a thick, steaming chunk of meat. Without hesitation, he sank his teeth into it. Hot blood smeared across his face, dripping down his chin as his hands became slick and red.
The stench of iron and death filled his nose, his stomach lurching violently as nausea clawed at his throat. For a moment, he gagged, nearly vomiting the gore back out. But he swallowed it down, shoving past the revulsion. Again and again, he ripped more flesh free, devouring it with a savage determination.
Each bite felt less human, each swallow a step deeper into something feral. The taste of blood clung to his tongue, thick and metallic, as his body shook, half from weakness, half from the intoxicating surge of primal strength beginning to stir within.
In the end, he collapsed from exhaustion onto the beast.
...
The village of Farronhold rested in a wide valley where golden fields stretched to the horizon, dotted with grazing cattle and wildflowers swaying in the wind. Unlike human settlements, the architecture was a blend of nature and craft, timber houses reinforced with clay and stone, their roofs thatched with woven grass and fur pelts. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the scent of roasted grains and spiced meats.
Beastkin of all shapes and sizes bustled through the streets. Broad-shouldered cow-folk carried bales of hay and barrels with ease, their horns adorned with carved charms or rings of polished bone. Nimble rabbit-folk darted between them, their long ears flicking as they bartered, traded herbs, and carried woven baskets overflowing with carrots, greens, and wild berries. The air rang with the cheerful barks and calls of the dog-kin, ever-lively and warm, who manned stalls, sharpened weapons, and guided travelers with wagging tails and open smiles.
Children of mixed lineages scampered underfoot, puppy-eared youngsters chasing rabbit kits, while small calves with budding horns looked on with patient curiosity. The town pulsed with an earthy rhythm, grounded in hard labor yet alive with warmth, a place where beasts and kin alike thrived in shared harmony.
And yet, beneath the laughter and simple joys, there lingered something more, a quiet strength in their eyes, a readiness that spoke of claws and hooves sharpened not only for work, but for battle, should the peace of Farronhold ever be broken.
In a house surrounded by lush gardens and beautiful flowers, a young cowgirl sat on the staircase, staring out at the bright sun. Her black eyes glimmered with the thirst for adventure as the wind blew. Her short black hair swayed in the wind as she sang a beautiful song.
Birds tweeted and sang along with her, enjoying the peace and calm it brought.
Hopefully, this peace would last long...
"Alana! Lunch time!" a sweet, motherly voice resounded, prompting the cowgirl to stop singing and turn to look back, a cute smile on her face. She jumped and ran inside the house to have lunch, her cute voice loud with happiness as she shouted, "LUNCH!"
Alana bounded down the steps and burst into the dining room with a little too much enthusiasm, nearly skidding across the wooden floor. The scent hit her first, warm and comforting. Stewed root vegetables, fresh bread still steaming, and thick slices of grilled meat seasoned with herbs from the garden outside.
Her mother stood near the hearth, a tall cow-woman with gentle eyes and soft brown fur along her arms. She wore a simple apron dusted with flour, her tail swaying lazily as she stirred a pot.
"Careful," she said with an amused chuckle. "If you break your neck before lunch, your father will never forgive me."
"I'm fine," Alana replied, grinning as she slid into her seat. Her small horns, barely curved yet, were polished carefully every morning. She swung her legs beneath the table, humming the last notes of her song.
A heavy step sounded from the outside. The door creaked open, and her father ducked inside, broad shoulders brushing the frame. His horns were thicker, marked with old scratches, and his arms carried the solid strength of years spent working fields and defending borders. He set down a bundle of tools by the door before washing his hands in a basin.
"The fields are calm today," he said as he took his seat.
Alana leaned forward eagerly. "Did you see anything interesting? Travelers? Warriors? Maybe someone from the capital?"
Her father laughed, deep and warm. " Just farmers and traders. Not every day needs excitement."
She pouted slightly, then perked up as her mother placed bowls before them. Steam rose, fogging the air with rich smells. Alana clasped her hands together instinctively, eyes shining.
"Thank you for the food," she said quickly.
They ate together, the clink of wooden spoons and the crackle of the hearth filling the room. Outside, sunlight spilled through the windows, painting soft patterns across the walls. Alana talked between bites, words tumbling over one another as she described the birds that had sung with her, the way the wind felt like it was calling her name.
"I want to see the world one day," she said suddenly, quieter now.
"The mountains. The deserts. Places where legends come from."
Her parents exchanged a glance. Her mother smiled first, brushing a thumb across Alana's cheek.
"The world is wide," she said. "And it can be kind. But it can also be cruel. Adventure is not just songs and sunsets."
Her father nodded. "Strength is not only in muscles and horns. It is in knowing when to stand firm and when to protect what matters."
Alana listened carefully, chewing slowly now. She nodded, even if she did not fully understand.