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The village was small. A handful of mud houses, a broken well, and a crooked mosque. The land around it was dry, dust clinging to every step, thorn trees rising from the earth like broken teeth. At night, the stars were sharp and clear, but the people did not look up. They listened instead.
Because in the hills nearby, something moved.
Kofi sat by the fire with his brother, Adu. The fire was weak, only twigs and dry grass, but it was enough to keep the night from pressing too close. The others—three men and one woman—sat in silence with them.
They were hunters, though their faces carried no pride. They had been chosen, not because they were brave, but because no one else would go.
The snake had taken two children. A boy first, caught when he went to fetch water from the stream. His screams had carried across the fields until they ended too suddenly.
The second, a girl, had been found in pieces, her small hand clenched tight around nothing. After that, the elders sent for hunters.
But there were no real hunters left. Only men who still had the strength to carry spears.
“I heard it is longer than the river,” Adu whispered. His voice trembled, though he tried to make it sound like a joke.
“Don’t speak of it,” Kofi said. He stared into the fire, watching the flames eat the dry wood. His hands rested on the spear his father had left him before he died. The tip was dull.
The woman, Abena, tied a cloth around her wrist and said nothing. Her child had been the second one taken. Her face was carved from stone now, her eyes fixed only on the dark where the hills rose.
The oldest of them, Mensah, cleared his throat. “We move at first light,” he said. His voice was rough, like someone dragging a stone across the earth. “It hunts at dawn and dusk. We catch it when it returns to the rocks.”
Nobody argued.
Morning came slowly. The air was still and heavy, the sun rising weak behind a curtain of dust. They walked together, five shadows carrying sticks and spears, their footsteps crunching on dry earth. No one spoke.
The hills were waiting.
When they reached the stream, Kofi saw the broken grass where the boy had been taken. The earth was torn, smeared dark with old blood. The water trickled past as if nothing had happened.
Abena knelt there. She touched the ground, her fingers brushing the stain. Then she stood again, her face colder than before.
They climbed the rocks in silence. The land was sharp here, edges of stone jutting out like the ribs of a giant. The air smelled of rot.
And then they heard it.
A sound like skin dragging over stone. Slow, steady. Heavy enough to shake dust from the rocks.
Kofi’s chest tightened. He gripped his spear so hard his palms bled.
The snake slid into view.
It was larger than any of them had imagined. Its body was black, scaled like wet iron, thicker than a tree trunk. Its head rose higher than a man, its tongue flicking out, tasting the air. Its eyes were pale and empty, like two moons without light.
Abena did not scream. She ran forward.
Her spear struck the snake’s side but bent like grass. The serpent moved faster than thought. Its mouth opened wide, and in a heartbeat she was gone, swallowed whole, her scream ending inside its throat.
Kofi froze. Adu shouted something, his spear flying, but it only scraped against the monster’s skin. Mensah turned to run.
The snake fell upon him, coils wrapping around his body, bones snapping like dry sticks. His voice broke into nothing as the life was squeezed from him.
Kofi’s legs shook. His brother grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “We can’t fight it!” Adu shouted. His eyes were wide, wet with terror.
But the snake’s head turned toward them. Its mouth dripped blood. Its body slid across the rocks, crushing everything in its path.
The hunters had come with hope. By the time the sun climbed higher, there was no hope left. Only the sound of stone breaking under the weight of something too old, too strong, too endless.
Kofi and Adu ran. They did not look back.
Behind them, the hills echoed with the cries of the dying.
The village waited, praying for their return.
But the hills had already chosen who would live and who would not.
The two brothers did not speak as they fled the hills. Their lungs burned, their feet stumbled on stones, but fear carried them down faster than breath could keep. The sound of the snake faded slowly behind them, though in their ears it never truly stopped.
When they reached the stream again, Adu collapsed by the water, gulping it down like a man dying of thirst. Kofi stood, his chest heaving, his spear still in his hand though he had no memory of holding it. His arms trembled. His whole body trembled.
“Abena…” Adu whispered, his face wet with more than water.
Kofi turned his eyes away. He could not look at his brother. He could not bear the image of her vanishing into the serpent’s mouth, nor the sound of Mensah’s bones breaking.
“We cannot go back,” Kofi said at last. His voice was empty, flat. “It is death there.”
Adu raised his head, dirt smeared across his skin. “And what of the village? What do we tell them? That we ran? That we left them?”
Kofi had no answer.
When the brothers returned, the village gathered around them. The people searched their faces, counting how many stood where five had left. Their silence was heavy. Mothers held their children closer.
An old woman asked, “Where are the others?”
Kofi lowered his eyes. “Gone.”
The crowd murmured, grief and fear twisting together. A man spat into the dust. “Then it cannot be killed,” he said.
Another voice, thin and sharp, rose. “We must leave. Abandon this place before it takes us all.”
But the chief, his back bent with years, shook his head. “And go where? The land belongs to us, the graves of our fathers are here. If we leave, we are nothing.”
His words were brave, but his eyes betrayed him. He was afraid.
That night, the village did not light fires. Darkness swallowed the houses, each family hiding in silence. The children were told not to cry, not to cough, not even to whisper.
Still, the snake came.
The ground trembled first. Then the roof of a hut broke like paper. A woman screamed, cut short. Men rushed with torches, but the fire showed them nothing but the snake’s black coils sliding through the homes. Spears struck, shouts rang, but none of it mattered.
By dawn, three houses were gone, flattened into the earth. Six people missing.
The village stood in smoke and dust, eyes hollow, no tears left to shed.
Kofi sat on the edge of the well, staring into its darkness. His brother crouched beside him, whispering broken prayers.
“It is not an animal,” Kofi said at last. His voice was soft, as though speaking too loud might summon it. “It is something else. Something that has always been here. It waits for us to forget, and then it comes.”
Adu looked at him, his eyes red, his mouth trembling. “Then what do we do? Tell me, Kofi. Do we wait for it to take us too?”
Kofi had no answer. He only stared into the black water below. The reflection of his face stared back, hollow and small.
The sun rose higher. The villagers began to gather again, whispering of curses, of gods forgotten, of sins unpaid. Some said the snake was no beast but a spirit sent for their blood. Others said it was the land itself, punishing them for staying too long.
But Kofi thought of Abena, her spear striking the scales, her body swallowed like nothing. He thought of her child, left with no mother.
For the first time, he wondered if the village had already died.
Perfect — we’ll keep the focus on Kofi and Adu’s eyes, their despair, their fear, and their slow march to the inevitable clash. The pacing will stay heavy and deliberate until the moment of the monstrous fight, then shift into brutal, detailed motion. I’ll start building toward that climax now, but without rushing.
Chapter Three – The Hills Tremble
The days after the serpent’s return were not days at all. They were hours of silence broken by screams, nights stretched thin with fear.
Kofi and Adu did not leave each other’s side. They did not speak of Abena. They did not speak of Mensah. Words were weak against the weight of the thing that lived in the hills.
The village grew smaller with every sunrise. Faces disappeared. Homes became piles of mud and broken sticks. People began to look at one another with suspicion—each family wondering who would be taken next, and if it mattered anymore.
At night, Adu would whisper, “Why us? Why our village?” And Kofi would turn his face away. There was no answer.
It happened when they were sent to gather wood far from the stream. The elders still clung to rules, still ordered tasks, as if routine could keep the serpent away.
The brothers carried bundles of dry sticks on their backs when they heard it—first the deep groan of earth moving, then a roar that shook the air.
Kofi froze. His bundle slipped from his shoulder. He gripped Adu’s arm. “Did you hear—”
Another roar cut him off. Louder. Closer.
Not the serpent’s hiss. Not the scraping sound of scales. Something else.
The two of them crept up a ridge of rock, hearts pounding, and peered down into a dry ravine.
The snake was there.
But it was not alone.
Facing it was a tiger. Massive. Its stripes burned orange in the sunlight, its muscles rippled like steel under skin. Its teeth gleamed white as it snarled, tail whipping dust into the air.
The serpent raised its head, towering, its pale eyes narrowing. The tiger leapt first.
The fight tore the earth apart.
The tiger slammed into the snake’s neck, claws ripping through scales. Flesh opened, black blood spraying like rain. The serpent coiled, thrashing, slamming its body into the ground with the force of a falling tree.
THUD! CRASH! Stones split, dust rose in clouds.
The tiger bit down hard, teeth sinking deep near the serpent’s throat. The beast’s growl rattled the ground. The snake screamed—a low, endless sound like a drum made of bone. Its coils wrapped around the tiger’s body, squeezing, crushing.
“Mother of God…” Adu whispered, his whole body trembling.
Kofi could not look away. His spear felt useless, like a twig in his hand.
The tiger fought like fire. Every strike of its claws tore strips from the serpent’s scales. Its roars shook the ravine, echoing across the hills. The serpent wrapped tighter, bones cracked under the pressure, but still the tiger bit, still it clawed.
For a moment, it seemed the tiger would win.
But the serpent’s head lashed down, faster than lightning, and sank its fangs deep into the tiger’s shoulder. The great beast roared one last time, thrashing, before its voice broke. The coils tightened, twisted, and with a sickening snap, the tiger’s body went limp.
The serpent threw it aside.
The victor.
But wounded.
Kofi’s eyes widened. The serpent’s chest—if such a thing could be called a chest—was torn open where the tiger’s claws had struck. The wound was deep, pulsing, and for the first time the brothers saw what lay beneath.
A heart. Dark, beating, fragile.
Adu whispered, “Do you see it?”
Kofi nodded. Hope, small and sharp, sparked in his chest. The monster could bleed. The monster could die.
The brothers returned to the village with fire in their words. They told the people what they had seen: the serpent weakened, its heart bared. Some said it was madness. Others said it was a sign from the gods.
In the end, hunger and fear made the choice. The village could not run forever.
So they prepared. Spears sharpened. Torches bound. Men and women alike armed themselves with whatever could cut or burn.
When the night fell silent, Kofi and Adu stood together, at the front.
“We end it,” Kofi said.
Adu nodded. His voice was low, but steady. “We end it.”
...
The cave was a wound in the earth. Its mouth yawned wide, jagged stone teeth biting into the night. The villagers stood before it, torches burning, faces pale with fear and resolve. The air was heavy with the smell of rot drifting from inside.
Kofi and Adu stood at the front. Their spears were nothing more than sharpened sticks, but their hands clung to them as if the wood itself carried hope.
The chief whispered something to the ground, an old prayer no one remembered the meaning of. Then he raised his torch high.
“Tonight, we end it,” he said. His voice shook, but the fire made it seem strong.
And together, they stepped into the dark.
The cave swallowed the light. Shadows bent, stretching like claws. Bones crunched under their feet—ribcages, skulls, spines piled deep into the earth. The serpent had fed here for years, maybe longer.
The sound of its breathing filled the hollow. Slow. Heavy. Each breath rattled the stones, carrying the stink of blood and old death.
Kofi’s throat was dry. He squeezed the spear so tight his knuckles bled. Adu walked beside him, jaw clenched, eyes wide but unblinking.
Then the torchlight found it.
The serpent lay coiled in the dark, its black body rising like a hill of flesh, scales glistening wet. Its chest was torn, blood seeping slow from the gash the tiger had given it. The heart beneath pulsed faintly, a shadow within the wound.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the chief raised his torch.
“Now!”
They rushed.
Torches flared, spears stabbed. The serpent’s eyes snapped open—pale moons burning hate. Its body erupted, uncoiling with the force of a storm.
CRASH! One sweep of its tail shattered three villagers against the wall. Blood sprayed the stone. Screams filled the cave.
The serpent reared, its head slamming down. A man vanished between its jaws, crushed, torn, swallowed. His torch clattered to the ground and died.
“Hold! Hold!” the chief shouted, but his voice was drowned by shrieks.
Kofi and Adu drove their spears into the wound, wood scraping against wet flesh. The serpent howled, its coils smashing down. A woman was caught—her bones snapped like twigs, her body folded in half.
Stone rained from the ceiling. Dust filled their throats.
The villagers fought like desperate animals. They climbed the serpent’s body, stabbing, hacking, burning with torches. The beast thrashed, slamming itself against the cave walls. Men fell, crushed into red paste.
Adu’s torch seared its flesh. The smell of burning scale filled the cave. The serpent screamed, shaking the ground, and threw him off. He rolled across stone, blood running down his arm.
“Kofi!” Adu shouted.
His brother was still standing, spear in both hands. His face was set like stone. He thrust the weapon into the open wound again, deeper this time, and black blood exploded, soaking him.
The serpent’s massive head whipped around, its pale eyes locking on him.
KRAAASH!
It struck.
Kofi was lifted from the ground, its skull smashing into his chest. He heard the crack of his ribs, felt his body shatter. Blood gushed from his mouth. He collapsed, coughing, his spear still buried in the beast’s flesh.
“KOFI!” Adu screamed.
He crawled toward his brother, but the serpent’s coils fell between them, smashing the earth. Villagers died screaming all around—skulls caved in, spines broken, bodies swallowed whole. The cave reeked of blood and fear.
Kofi turned his head, blood bubbling at his lips. His voice was a whisper drowned by chaos.
“Finish it… Adu… finish…”
His hand still clutched the spear, pressing it deeper into the serpent’s heart. His eyes closed. His chest stopped rising.
And he was gone.
Something broke in Adu.
He screamed, a sound that tore his throat raw, and seized the spear from his brother’s dying grip. Rage blinded him, grief drove him. He ran up the serpent’s body, slipping in blood, climbing higher and higher.
The serpent roared, thrashing, smashing villagers to pulp against the stone. But Adu did not stop. His legs burned, his arms shook, yet he forced himself upward.
The heart pulsed below him, exposed in the torn chest. It throbbed like a drum, each beat echoing in his skull.
Adu raised the spear high.
“FOR KOFI!”
He drove it down with all his weight.
THUD! The spear sank deep. The serpent screamed, convulsing, slamming into the walls so hard the cave split. Rocks fell. Men and women died under the rain of stone.
But Adu held on. He drove the spear deeper, twisting it, his hands tearing open, wood splintering. The heart burst beneath the point, spraying hot blood across him.
The serpent gave one last cry—a sound that seemed to carry the death of centuries—before its body collapsed, shaking the world.
The cave fell silent.
Adu slid down its body, broken, soaked in blood. His chest heaved, his eyes wild, tears and sweat mixing with gore.
He staggered to his brother’s side. Kofi lay still, his face calm, almost peaceful. Adu knelt beside him, pressing his forehead to his, whispering through his tears.
“We are free, brother. We are free.”
Around them, only a handful of villagers remained, staring at the corpse of the monster. Half their number gone. But the serpent was dead. Its coils lay still, its chest torn open, heart destroyed.
Outside, dawn began to break.
For the first time in many nights, the village could breathe.
But Adu knew the price would never leave him.