One evening, as the valley grew dim with twilight, a beggar approached the tribe.
The tribe had just arrived after a long and fruitful journey. Their animals were strong and well-fed, their wagons brimming with goods. Their songs of triumph echoed through the valley.
But they were greedy. Their hearts were as hardened as the iron tools they carried.
When the beggar humbly asked for a morsel of bread, they mocked him. When he begged for shelter, they drove him away with curses and threats.
The shaman, sensing danger, warned them. His voice quivered as he pleaded, but no one listened. The tribe laughed and carried on with their feasting.
Before the beggar left, he stood at the edge of their camp, his shadow long against the dying light. He raised a hand and cursed them in a voice that chilled the air.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
That night, under the cover of darkness, the Ejderha came.
It was a massive, ancient beast, its scales the color of the earth after a storm, its breath carrying the scent of ash and decay. Its wings didn’t flap like those of a bird—they groaned like the bending of ancient trees. When it roared, the sound shook the valley and turned the tribe’s triumphant songs into screams of terror.
The Ejderha swept into their camp, its glowing eyes searching for its prey. It took seven children, its claws delicate but unyielding as it carried them into the shadows.
The tribe was left broken. The wails of the mothers filled the valley, their sorrow as deep as the earth itself. Fathers stood silent, their faces etched with grief and guilt.
Year after year, the Ejderha returned. Seven children each time—sometimes sons, sometimes daughters.
The tribe, desperate to end the curse, searched for the beggar in every corner of the land. Through forests, across rivers, over mountains, they looked. They called his name, begged for forgiveness.
But the beggar was nowhere to be found.
And the Ejderha never stopped coming.