Ninety-Nine K Memories

Certainly, here is the translation of that part of your novel into English.

The heart of the town of Trevalia was consumed by despair; the wind carried with it the acrid smell of massacre and the distant cries of those still fighting or dying.

In the center, where the old council building stood, a slight, hunched figure insistently pounded on the heavy wooden door.

Enya, an old woman with hair as grey as ash, kept her gaze fixed on the entrance as her knuckles struck again and again, driven by an urgency that seemed to consume her. Behind her, her two grandchildren clung to the skirts of her dress, trembling in silence, while her daughter-in-law watched with wide, disoriented eyes, tightly clutching a kitchen knife.

—Open up! —Enya pleaded, her voice broken and her eyes flooded with tears—. Please, let us in!

The door finally creaked open, revealing the exhausted and bloodied face of Garrik, the eldest and most respected of the town's councilors. His expression, which usually radiated calm and authority, was now marked by deep lines of pain. He had a wound on his arm that dripped blood through a makeshift bandage, and his worn tunic was spattered with dried blood.

—Quick, inside —Garrik said in a barely audible voice, stepping aside to let them pass.

Enya needed no further invitation. She grabbed her grandchildren and pushed them inside, followed by her daughter-in-law. Crossing the threshold, she was met with a spectacle that chilled her soul. The large hall, where the most important decisions of the town had so often been discussed, was unrecognizable.

Terrified children wept in the corners, comforted by women who could barely contain their own tears. Some old men dragged heavy wooden tables and shelves, barricading the windows while their hands trembled with fatigue.

The place reeked of fear: a mixture of sweat, ashes, and the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.

Enya looked at Garrik, searching for answers, but what she saw on his face left her breathless. His eyes, usually firm and serene, were bloodshot, as if he had recently wept. A man like Garrik, known for his fortitude even in the darkest moments, now seemed a shadow of himself.

—Where… where are they? —Enya's voice broke as her gaze swept over those present.

Something was missing. Someone was missing. Her chest tightened as a horrible suspicion began to take shape—. Where is your family, Garrik?

The old man closed his eyes, as if the words were knives piercing him. When he opened them again, his expression was a mixture of helplessness and a pain so deep that he could barely stand.

—They didn't make it —he said in a thread of voice, barely audible above the chaos of the hall.

Enya felt her knees buckle, and she had to lean on one of the tables to avoid falling to the floor. Her mind refused to accept what she had just heard.

—No… it can't be… —she stammered, looking at Garrik in disbelief.

The old man avoided her gaze, unable to bear the weight of his pain in front of the eyes of someone who knew him so well. He took a step back, with a dark resolve in his movements.

—Now that you are here, you must take charge of all of them, Enya. —His voice was a whisper—. The children… women and old men… everyone here needs someone strong. Make them feel like they have a reason to go on.

Enya saw him head towards the door. Something inside her broke, and she ran towards him, grabbing his arm tightly.

—What are you doing? —she exclaimed, in desperation—. If you go out, you'll die!

Garrik turned slowly towards her, with a calmness that was almost terrifying.

—If I don't go, Enya, someone else will have to. Some father, son, or brother will go out there, and those beasts will devour them just the same. But at least I can try… to distract them. Maybe, if they have enough of me, the rest will have a chance.

Enya looked at him in horror, unable to process what she was hearing.

—Don't talk like that! —she pleaded, tears running down her cheeks—. You are needed here! They need you! I need you!

—I have nothing left to lose anymore. —Garrik's voice was an empty echo—. My daughter, my granddaughter, my son-in-law… I saw them die. I saw how those things… —He stopped, unable to finish the sentence. His lips trembled for an instant, but he quickly regained his composure—. If it weren't for an outsider who appeared out of nowhere and killed one of those beasts, I would be dead too. And, deep down, I already am, Enya.

—My family was my reason to live. They were all I had. —He paused, taking a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure—. I can't stay here, waiting for us all to die one by one. The only thing left for me to do is protect the little that still lives in this town. If I can give them even a few hours of respite… then it will make sense.

The old woman pressed her lips together, unable to stop him as Garrik gently released himself from her grip. With firm steps, he opened the door and went outside.

—Garrik… —she whispered, unable to hold back the tears.

Enya remained motionless, feeling the weight of helplessness crush her. Other old men closed the door behind him, barricading it carefully.

As tears continued to fall down her cheeks, a disturbing idea began to form in her mind: the outsider. Garrik had mentioned a stranger who had appeared and killed one of the creatures.

“Could it be… an Adept of the Arcane? But how was it possible? In all the history of Trevalia, never has one set foot in the town.”

She looked around, at the terrified faces of the children and women, at the exhausted old men, and felt a faint hope ignite within her, though mixed with incredulity and distrust.

…

The sky of Trevalia was stained with an ominous orange-red. The sun, in its last breath before hiding behind the hills, cast elongated shadows that seemed to dance over the ruins of the town.

Garrik, standing with the old scythe in his hands, felt the weight of the moment like an anvil on his chest. The growls of the beasts were incessant, a funereal chorus that mingled with the heart-wrenching cries of the villagers being massacred.

Each cry was a direct stab to the old man's soul.

He knew those cries. He could put faces to them: the young woman who had barely learned to spin wool, the blacksmith who always joked with him in the market, the boy who laughed as he ran after the chickens. Now all those faces were being erased by monstrous claws and teeth, turned into mutilated memories.

He gripped the scythe with both hands. It was not a weapon, just a worn-out tool, but at that moment it was his only companion. His gaze, once clouded by pain, now burned with a deep and primal hatred. Rage supplanted fear; frustration, resignation.

If he was to die this day, it would not be as a helpless old man. It would be as Garrik of Trevalia, the man who once protected his people with firm words and just decisions, and now with whatever he could wield.

Then he saw them.

Two beasts emerged from the shadows, enormous and terrifying, advancing with the confidence of undefeated predators. Their dark, muscular bodies seemed sculpted for killing, and their eyes gleamed with an inhuman hunger. Their fur, blackened by the blood of their victims, dripped as they approached, and a guttural roar rose from their throats, as if accepting the challenge Garrik presented to them.

—You won't take me without a fight!

The old man shouted with all the fury his chest could contain and ran towards them, swinging the scythe like a crazed warrior.

The first beast jumped with lightning speed, dodging Garrik's clumsy attempt to attack it. Before he could react, the creature rammed into him with devastating force, sinking its claws into his torso and throwing him to the ground.

Garrik screamed in pain, but his rage did not subside.

—Damned! Monsters from hell! —he bellowed, his voice broken and full of despair.

He frenziedly bit one of the claws holding him pinned, as if his anger could compensate for his impotence.

The second beast, meanwhile, completely ignored the fight. It raised its head, sniffing the air, and then turned towards the council building. Garrik followed it with his eyes and felt panic chill his veins.

—No! —he cried, his voice torn—. Don't go there! Please, no!

The beast, indifferent to his pleas, began to advance. It could smell the humans hiding behind those walls: the sweat, the blood, the fear. It was all a delicious symphony for its senses.

—Look at me, damn it! Come for me, I'm here! —he roared, pounding his fist on the ground as he tried to free himself.

Garrik tried to break free, but the first beast sank its claws even deeper, tearing a scream from him that echoed in the square like an echo of agony.

With a cruel and deliberate movement, the creature bit Garrik's arm, tearing it off with monstrous ease. The scythe fell to the ground with a hollow sound, irrelevant to the magnitude of the horror that was unfolding.

Garrik screamed in pain, but more than that, he screamed in impotence.

—NO! —he pleaded through tears, as blood gushed from his mangled shoulder—. Please, no! Let them live! Take me instead, damn you!

But the pleas only seemed to fuel the cruelty of the beast advancing towards the council building. It could smell them now, closer than ever: the huddled humans, the fear saturating the air, the promise of a feast.

Garrik, half-fainted from blood loss, gathered every fragment of strength he had left and shouted again, in a tone that was more a desperate prayer than a challenge.

—Please… no… not them…!

The second beast ignored everything. With a deafening roar, it lunged at the council door, its claws crashing against the wood with a crash that resonated inside. Inside, the survivors screamed in terror. The women hugged the children, the old men tried to reinforce the barricades with their fragile bodies, and Enya, with wide eyes, stared at the door as a chill ran down her body.

"Two or three more blows," she thought, "and it will all be over."

On the ground, with his life rapidly escaping his body, Garrik murmured in a thread of voice, full of guilt and despair:

—Forgive me… I couldn't… I couldn't protect them.

His eyes closed, but the crashing of the door remained etched in his mind as the last sound he heard.

The beast did not stop and slammed into the door with a brutal impact, splintering the reinforced wood and tearing screams of panic from within. Its bloodied snout opened, letting out a guttural growl as it backed away to prepare for another onslaught.

But before it could move, something changed in the air. A whistle cut through the night, and with it, a swift figure emerged from the shadows.

The silver flash of a blade sliced through the air with surgical precision, cutting the creature's neck in a fluid motion. The beast growled, trying to dodge, but the blade had already found its target, leaving a deep gash from which dark, thick blood gushed. It had barely finished turning towards its attacker when a second blade sliced through the air, sinking directly into its eye with a dry impact.

A choked roar turned into a strident screech as a luminous energy began to radiate from the embedded blade. The creature shuddered violently, its body trembling with uncontrolled spasms.

—Death has its style… and yours is to end in pieces —said the figure, in a low voice charged with a dangerous disdain.

With those words, the energy within the blade exploded with a brutal burst, causing the beast's head to disintegrate into a cloud of blood and gore that stained the door and nearby walls.

The monster's body collapsed, lifeless, with a dull thud.

The survivors inside the building remained motionless, in a silence steeped in awe and terror.

Outside, the figure straightened up, holding the two knives in his hands: dark weapons, with a silver sheen that seemed to pulse with life of its own.

He was a young man, no more than twenty-three years old, with messy black hair and green eyes that shone with intensity. His face and hands were covered in dried blood and sweat, but his clothes, strangely, remained spotless, as if the chaos around him could not touch him.

The second beast turned towards him, emitting a low, menacing growl while its eyes gleamed with a mixture of fury and caution. It crouched, ready to attack, but the figure showed not a hint of fear. Instead, he smiled, in a cold and lethal curve that did not reach his eyes.

—Your turn. Make it interesting.