Arcadia, Territory of the Centaur Tribe.

On the vast continent of Arcadia, things were no longer as they once were. Since the opening of the Abyss rifts, everything had changed. The old conflicts had not disappeared, but they had lessened, replaced by a common concern that weighed on every tribe.

When the demons had crossed the barrier between the worlds to possess mortals, they were not alone....

Lost souls had taken advantage of this breach to return. Some had found their bodies again. Others, however, were still wandering, desperately seeking a vessel.

This threat had forced the tribes to rethink their priorities. The internal wars that once tore Arcadia apart had therefore calmed down.

In the Centaur Tribe camp, life went on, at least on the surface. Children ran between the dwellings, laughing freely. Their voices brought a lightness that contrasted with the surrounding tension.

Not far away, women were going about their tasks. Some were preparing meals around controlled fires, others were repairing weapons or watching over the youngest. Their presence did not go unnoticed. Their figures were marked by generous shapes, wide hips and an imposing chest. Their cow horns confirmed their belonging and their status within the tribe.

But today, the atmosphere was different. A form of respect floated in the air. It was a day of remembrance, a day dedicated to a hero who had fallen for the tribe.

Near a water point, slightly away from the central activity, two figures stood facing the camp. The water flowed gently behind them, its murmur barely perceptible.

Tork, a warrior with a face marked by several scars, gripped his spear with a firm hand. His jaw was clenched and his eyes did not leave a group approaching in the distance.

Beside him, Varda calmly adjusted her equipment, pulling on a strap here, checking the strap of her quiver there, without any haste.

The silence lasted several long seconds. Then Tork finally broke it, his voice heavy with dissatisfaction that he no longer even tried to contain.

"Look at them, Varda. Do you think this is normal?"

Varda turned her head slightly toward him, her expression betraying no particular emotion. Her fingers continued their work on her harness as she replied in an even tone.

"What about?"

Tork raised his chin toward the silhouettes slowly crossing the edge of the camp.

"They walk on our lands even though they hunted our brothers to sell them as slaves to humans. And then this damn alliance that the chief decided to sign, fuck, it pisses me off."

His fingers tightened around the wood of his spear. The veins could be seen bulging on his forearms.

Varda exhaled slowly through her nose.

"Normal? No. But it is clearly a necessity. The political situation is complex, Tork. You know very well that this alliance is our only chance not to be swept away by the waves of monsters coming out of the rifts, in addition to the unpredictable possessed."

She spoke calmly, even if one could notice some sadness. Her husband had died during a raid three years earlier in this same war. She never talked about it, but the emptiness was there, in the way she avoided certain subjects and clenched her jaws when the old conflicts were mentioned.

"That’s no reason. This alliance, I think it’s an insult to the memory of those who fell. We lost brothers and sisters because of them. And now we should share our bread with them because they’re afraid of demons?"

His voice had risen a notch. He pointed at the group again with the tip of his spear, a gesture that could have been threatening if the distance had not been so great.

Varda tightened the strap of her quiver, taking the time to adjust it properly. She buckled the strap, pulled to test its solidity, then proceeded to put away some arrows that were sticking out. All of this took several seconds, during which Tork watched her with growing impatience.

"No one said it would be easy," she finally replied. "We have no choice. Hatred is a luxury we can no longer afford. If we refuse to cooperate, we will be the next on the list of extinct tribes. The possessed make no distinction between the Centaur tribe and the Lycan tribe, Tork. To them, we are nothing but meat."

Meanwhile, in the center of the camp, a large hut dominated all the other dwellings. Sturdier, built with thicker wood, it was decorated with symbols painted on the main beams. It naturally drew the eye with the aura of power that seemed to emanate from it.

Inside, sitting cross-legged on an animal skin, the chief was meditating. Her back, perfectly straight, remained completely still.

Her tanned skin, glistening with a thin layer of vegetable oil, hugged long muscles shaped by years of combat. In the middle of her short black hair were two brown cow horns. From the aura she gave off, she was at least an S+ rank warrior.

Her angular face with high cheekbones had light scars. Her full mouth, naturally slightly open, let a steady breath pass through.

She was dressed in a rudimentary way: a simple dark leather loincloth and a crossed band holding her large breasts, but it hid almost nothing.

Her full and round breasts rose with the rhythm of her breathing. Not to mention her athletic musculature and abs... Her aura was quite dense and even though as a demi-beast she did not possess mana... A light demonic mana escaped from her body...

Then, she suddenly opened her eyes, sending a shockwave...

A subtle pressure immediately invaded the room. The lightest objects trembled on their supports.

The air seemed to vibrate.

She took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the space in front of her as if she were looking for something... or rather someone?

"Kaiser... I hope you are doing well..."

It seems that a lost soul in hell has managed to find a vessel in the world of mortals... She has braved all kinds of calamities to survive and here she is, back...