The Village Where the Windmills Burn
A cool breeze blows across the fields where the windmills turn. It is a peaceful, mundane life: sheep graze on the grass scattered across the meadow, and a shepherd boy lies on his back, a blade of grass between his teeth, acting the part of a lazy idler. That is, until he feels a subtle vibration through his back.
An earthquake? No. It is the rhythmic thud of a four-legged beast in full sprint. The shepherd scrambles to his feet, eyes widening as he spots it: a wolf, its coat a chaotic blend of white, brown, and other hues, galloping toward him with a long, dark crimson mane that ripples like wings. It is significantly larger than any ordinary wolf, perhaps a bit bigger than a dog. But it is only one. It poses no real threat.
"Heh, I can handle one little thing like that."
He picks up a stone the size of his palm from the ground nearby and readies his stance to hurl it at the approaching beast.
Whoosh!
BOOM!!!
Suddenly, a fireball flies out of nowhere, striking the shepherd dead-on.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Baaaa!"
"Baaaaa-a-a-a!!!"
With his entire body engulfed in flames, the shepherd writhes in agony, letting out blood-curdling screams. The sheep, startled by the sudden burst of fire and their master’s shrieks, begin to wail. In an instant, the peaceful field of turning windmills transforms into a living hell. The panicked sheep, having no idea where to flee, scatter in terror. The shepherd, who should have been the one to control them, collapses, his screams silenced by the searing pain of his burning flesh.
As the shepherd falls, the wolf trots past him. Only then does the shepherd realize: what he had mistaken for the wolf’s red mane was actually the cloak of a rider perched upon its back. His life, hanging by a thread, is incinerated by the flames consuming his body, and the last thing he sees is the windmills, engulfed in explosions and fire.
The wolf, carrying its rider, passes the burning windmills and the panicked flock, ignoring the plump, well-fed sheep entirely. In this hellish landscape where flames soar and the blue sky is stained black, a strange phenomenon occurs: wherever the wolf’s paws touch, white frost forms, only to melt instantly in the heat. Unlike the frost beneath its feet, the murderous gaze of the rider and the wolf, fixed on the village beyond, does not melt in the slightest.
In a heartbeat, the wolf and its rider reach the outskirts of the village. These strange outsiders begin their performance as a form of greeting.
The interlude begins—a song of ice and fire.
Crackle! Whoosh!
Walls of ice encircle the village, turning it into a stage. Everywhere the wolf passes, raging flames erupt, forcing the residents who were living their peaceful lives to scream at the top of their lungs. It is a cacophony of high and low notes, a chaotic mess without order or rhythm—truly, the definition of dissonance. Yet, because everyone is singing in a state of unified terror and panic, trapped in the same living hell, it becomes a strangely compelling performance.
It is an interactive art piece where the audience, who should have been mere spectators, are dragged onto the stage to dance and sing. But there are no joyful shouts or excited cheers here. They are replaced by agonizing screams and terrified shrieks.
"First, that one?"
The rider on the wolf’s back does not point out directions or give commands. She simply watches the direction the wolf runs, occasionally asking a question. The wolf, its eyes darting left and right without rest, catches sight of something and charges with ferocious speed. The wolf, which had been darting around the village, creating ice and flames, lunges toward its target and sinks its teeth precisely into a man’s neck.
"Gah!!!!"
Pinning the man’s shoulders down with its front paws, the wolf bites into his throat, driving the sharp, jagged spikes of its collar into his flesh. Then, it bites into his leg and drags the man along as it resumes its sprint.
Leaving a trail of blood, the wolf crashes into a child who had been sitting and crying in a state of panic. Whether or not the man’s back and neck are torn open by the jagged rocks protruding from the ground, the wolf keeps dragging him.
While the wolf drags the man, the rider on its back, still wearing the hood of her dark red cloak, pulls out a small wand. The body of the wand is made of wood. Any twigs that might have once sprouted from it have been cleanly cut away, and the rough, black-brown bark on its surface has been shaved off entirely, leaving a smooth, white surface of uniform thickness and length from end to end. At the tip of the wand, a round, red gemstone glows like a flickering flame.
Orange flames begin to form and compress in front of the gem, and the rider points it toward a target.
Fwoosh!
A streak of orange light erupts, incinerating a father who was trying to lift his fallen child. Not stopping there, the beam continues forward, colliding with a house and causing another pillar of fire to rise amidst an explosion. Everywhere she points the wand, crimson flames soar. Where the wolf runs, pure white ice forms, only to melt into water and turn into white steam—a composition of red, white, and black.
"Please, forgive me! Spare me!"
It was a pathetic tone for a grown man to use. Both the wolf dragging him by the leg and the rider on its back look at him with eyes full of disgust.
The wolf runs for a while before arriving at a shop—a man’s shop where, in the chaos of the village, he had opened the door so violently that one of the hinges had snapped, leaving the door dangling. The wolf tosses the man inside.
Clatter!
The man flies into a shelf holding tongs, hammers, saws, and hoes, and the heavy, sharp iron tools rain down upon him.
"Aaaack!!! Spare me! Please!!! What did I do wrong!!! I’ll give you anything!!!!"
The wolf glares at the man, who pleads, crying out in resentment and frustration, wondering why he, who had lived a diligent life, must suffer such agony. The emotions in the wolf’s eyes are mostly 'contempt' and 'rage.' The wolf continues to growl, showing no sign of sparing him.
Meanwhile, the rider on the wolf’s back pulls out a small piece of paper and a brush instead of her wand, draws a picture, and flicks it toward the man. The man finds hope in that. If he praises the drawing, he might save his life. He desperately grabs the paper, flips it over, and examines the contents.
"It’s a wonderful drawing! The harmony of the red is truly magnificent!"
In truth, he didn't even look at it properly. He knew nothing about it other than the fact that there was a lot of red. But he groveled desperately.
"Ha."
The rider on the wolf scoffs, finding him truly insignificant. Surprisingly, the voice is that of a young girl. Only then does the man realize that the attacker riding the wolf is a woman. She looks down at the man, her golden eyes sparkling from within the shadows of her hood. There is no emotion in them. Conversely, the wolf, which had been glaring at the man with eyes full of suppressed murderous intent, still finds him utterly disgusting, but its killing intent has softened slightly. To be precise, it had intended to kill a pathetic creature, but since the being is putting on a display of cowardice beyond imagination, its gaze has shifted to one of disdain and disgust—the kind of look that suggests he isn't even worth killing.
Regardless, the wolf, looking at the man with a slightly changed gaze, turns its body and runs off with its master. Just as the man feels relieved that he has survived, the content of the drawing on the small paper catches his eye.
It is a mess. It is not a drawing, but a level of scribbling. Even if a seven-year-old had drawn it, it is so chaotic that one would hesitate to offer the usual polite praise of "well done." There is something resembling a person lying on top of a canvas smeared with bright red paint. Above that person-like thing, there are many short black lines drawn—perhaps meant to represent rain, or perhaps something else entirely.
As he asks himself what this could possibly mean, or perhaps directs the question in his heart toward the wolf and rider who are leaving as if their business is finished, flames suddenly begin to rise all around him, even without an ignition source.
"Wh-what is this!"
He tries to get up while holding his neck to stop the bleeding, but his body won't budge. He has minor injuries from the scythes, saws, hammers, and knives that fell on him, but nothing serious enough to keep him from moving. The wound on his neck isn't fatal as the teeth didn't reach anything critical, and though one leg is broken at an odd angle, it isn't enough to keep him pinned to the ground. He should be able to move, however slowly. Just as he is about to scream, asking why he can't move, he feels the agony of a branding iron being pressed against his skin.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The flames rise with unnatural speed, and the tongs, saws, hammers, and knives that fell on him heat up with unnatural quickness, beginning to burn his body. They sear his skin black, melting through the leather, reaching the flesh beneath, and carrying the heat all the way to his bones. As everything fades in the midst of the terrible, scorching pain, the man finally realizes the meaning of the drawing.
The red was blood and fire. The black lines that looked like rain were the various iron tools. It meant he would melt and burn to death on the iron tools heated in the fire.