The battlefield was cleared and set in order. The inseparable trio—Ramii, Hudyn, and Katuo—did not linger, but went straight to Mr. Rono’s house.

  His timber dwelling stood alone at the edge of Diang, not far from the Hunchback Horse Graveyard. The path to the house was a long, winding slope, blanketed in ferns and moss. Along the way, the three friends had to weave through overgrown branches and thick bushes. Mr. Rono had told them to let the plants grow wild, so the path might appear forsaken. He wanted his haven to remain hidden from all, save Ramii and Hudyn. As for Katuo, he naturally knew the way by heart, since he was his grandson and lived there with him.

  Mr. Rono was home early. He sat in the armchair by the window and waited for the children. His right leg rested on a small stool. In his left hand he held a large mug of ale and tapped it absently against the stump of his missing leg. Though he had lost that leg, he walked without much trouble, relying on a wooden leg of his own making.

  His eyes were half-closed as he leisurely watched the chickens pecking at the ground in the yard. A basket of ripe, luscious fruits had been set on the table for the children, beside a large chessboard intricately carved from ebony by him. The lush, fruit-laden garden was one of the reasons Ramii and Hudyn loved visiting his home. Mr. Rono had cultivated and tended the garden for thirteen years, the exact age of Katuo. Now, his grandson could help with many tasks, both in the house and out among the trees.

  When the three children returned, he had already drained his third mug of ale. Mildly inebriated and lost in memories of his glorious days, Mr. Rono began recounting war stories. Over a decade ago, he had been a general in command of the infantry. The city of Diang had only known peace for the past ten years. Before that, it endured countless life-and-death battles.

  The greedy Lord Jokun of the North always cast his covetous eyes toward the southern land of Bidueng. This region was hardly prosperous or fertile, riddled with deserts and vast stretches of barren wasteland. Yet, deep beneath its arid soil lay what he coveted most: rare silver ore and precious black jade. Before being defeated by Lord Ronan’s host, he relentlessly marched his skilled and numerous troops southward to pillage, incite conflict, and claim territory.

  Stories brimming with hard-earned experience, vivid details, and clever schemes poured straight into six attentive ears and three gaping mouths. To show the kids the lasting scars of war, Mr. Rono pointed at his lost left leg, taken by a rusty arrow, and then at his missing left ear, sliced off by a sworn enemy.

  “Hah, that one-eyed knave paid me back with his right ear!”

  Mr. Rono slammed his ale jug down on the table, and the chess pieces bounced and tumbled to the floor. He spoke of treacherous, cowardly foes and the brave comrades who had stood by his side. The more he talked, the more his voice rose with renewed vigor.

  He even recalled the debt of gratitude he owed Ramii and Hudyn, for they had saved Katuo from drowning—back when the boy had tried to follow the older children into the river. But when the story reached his son, fallen in battle, and his son’s wife, who passed away not long after Katuo was born, his tone faltered, then faded. He rose, fetched more ale, and drank more heavily than before.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  If it weren’t for Katuo and the fruit garden his son had planted and left behind, Mr. Rono would have chosen a more isolated place to live, far from people. Since retreating into seclusion, he had avoided nearly everyone, save for the children and an old acquaintance at the Drunken Pinecone tavern, where he stopped by only every few months to buy ale.

  Only after meeting Ramii and Hudyn did Mr. Rono’s house grow warm and filled with laughter. His greatest joy now was the children. He played war games with them and taught them everything he knew, including battlefield skills, farming, gardening, carpentry, and even chess.

  He let Katuo roam freely with his two friends, for he knew the boy was happier with company. When they weren’t around, he kept himself busy in the garden. He planted potatoes and raised chickens. He carved medals and chess pieces, and he fashioned swords, armor, and toys for the children. “Keep working hard, and you won’t have to think too much,” he often told himself.

  All three kids, especially Hudyn, were wildly enthusiastic about wrestling, swordplay, and spear-fighting lessons from Mr. Rono. Though he taught them every technique within his ken, he strictly forbade using them to provoke quarrels, as many such maneuvers could maim or kill. Of them all, Ramii was most captivated by tales of war. He could listen to Mr. Rono’s real-life experiences over and over without ever growing bored. It was those storytelling sessions that laid the groundwork for their battle game.

  They had been playing this game together for over four years now, ever since Ramii and Hudyn were both ten. Though the two were the same age, Hudyn had always seemed like Ramii’s big brother, with a face older than his years, dark skin, a sturdy build, and standing a full head taller than him. Katuo, meanwhile, was like the little brother, the thinnest and smallest of the bunch.

  At first, the battle game was merely a way for the trio to act out Mr. Rono’s stories, with only a handful of kids joining in. Over time, they roped in more and more friends, and the number of players kept growing. In time, War of Humans and Demons became the game the children of Diang loved most.

  ~~~

  ‘Let us pause a while,’ says O.

  “Eh? Why so? Is the tale finished already?”

  ‘Ah, certainly not. O but fears your hand and neck may tire. O sees you nodding and shifting your head as you write.’

  “Oh, it is but a few pages.” The young friend plucks a grape from the cluster upon the table and pops it into his mouth, shakes his head, and then plucks another. “The shaking is only a habit. I thought O’s tale was some folk tale or fable. Little tales, you know."

  ‘The story will run long yet, so you may take your ease.’

  “All the more reason not to dawdle in a long tale. Come now, O, go on. What will the children do next?”

  ‘It is precisely because the tale is long that O would have you rest and not hurry so. Write steadily each day, small passages shall suffice.’

  “As though I would abandon it halfway,” the scribe says, a touch of irritation in his voice. “Did I not promise to set down the whole of O’s tale from beginning to end? Then it shall be written through—end to beginning if need be.” He spits the seed out through the open window before him.

  ‘Oh, dear friend, O meant no such thing. Your help is already most precious to O. Very well then, O shall continue. The next part of the story is this:’

  ~~~