Little Rascal’s eyes shone radiantly, filled with boundless enthusiasm and excitement. Ignoring his grave injuries, he rushed forward hastily. Upon the rocky hillside shimmered a golden bone implement—an immense pair of golden shears—glowing with mystical radiance and exuding a rare and potent energy that trembled the hearts of all who would sense it.
“A dreadful treasure indeed!” Little Rascal expressed his joy as he scooped up the shears, flipping them in his hands to inspect every angle carefully. Shrunk in his grip, the artifact now fit inside his tiny palm with its body a radiant and dazzling gold. Clearly, no words were needed; this was undoubtedly an unmatched valuable treasure of immeasurable worth.
Its weight spoke far above any metal’s, while each component—the upper and lower jawbones from some mythical monster—had been shaped and polished into brilliant pieces, gleaming flawlessly. Indeed, the craft was as grand and beautiful as if wrought by a master artist, his lifeblood poured wholeheartedly into forging golden serpents entwined about each other. The artistic rendering appeared neither keen nor sharp at first touch—rather, their surfaces were as smooth as silk—yet in battle they unleashed destruction powerful enough to sever mountain peaks effortlessly, evidenced by ancient swirling markings along both edges.
Upon closer inspection were faded and ancient motifs etched faintly against the golden sheers—an echo from the ancient past—a fierce dragonbeast called qiulong. Not mere magical script but rather beautiful ornamental reliefs carved upon the artifact hinted towards unfathomable origins. When Little Rascal channeled a flicker of his inner force, the bone instantly replayed images—their tribe’s destruction wrought by this terrifying weapon.
“This is the tool that wrought such calamity upon the many villages.” His hypothesis proved true; there was no question—the shears were, without doubt, an ultimate doom-inflicting artifact, capable otherwise impossible to create such annihilation. With merely a flick of this tool, all in its path shall wither without resistance.
Little Rascal put the weapon’s power to trial—the scissor glided forth, with its distinctive hum—it bisected a low stone ridge before him. His own eyes widened—its power was no less than he imagined.
However one significant caveat was evident—it nearly drained his entire body’s energies in that single strike leaving Little Rascal wobbling as his limbs became weightless like leaves in the winds.
“This takes too much power to cast casually,” he muttered to himself. Understanding filled him instantly. This was how the guardian beast—while wielding such an object—tiringly poured great energy, suffering great after-affects and, ultimately, bodily disintegrated beyond any salvation.
“And furthermore,” he reasoned within, “unlike the Pangolin I was raised in body, its original kind with which this artifact harmonized—my body differs from their essence entirely, making revival via my power nonsensical indeed.”
The shears brought him protection instead; no danger or ill effects arose despite its deadly capabilities while allowing its beauty and glow. It pulsed brightly and vanished in a golden streak into one of the active “volcanic peaks” within him, amidst bubbling golden “magma” as though being nourished by the lifeblood of heavens and earth while Little Raval gathered it into his being.
As the mist faded, the hillside returned to tranquility, while silvery moonlight illuminated the scarred wastelands below. Torn asunder, trees uprooted and shattered into splinters, only remnants of nature marked the site.
A low howl of agonizing cry resonated at a distance. The battle had taken a grueling toll not merely on Little Rascal, having brought low the very battlefield’s foundation; an army of ruthless marauders bore deep repercussions of this duel.
For the Pangolin guardian was no lightweight opponent, launching massive charges that flung rocks with destructive force, wounding dozens—perhaps thirty ruffians fell by accident as the warzone escalated in chaos.
When all clouds dispersed, figures stirred from boulders afar like frightened vermin. Eyes hollowed, minds stunned—they gaped at the outcome as though witnessing the collapse of a divine myth.
That divine guardian slain before their helpless gazes shook every belief solidified for generations. They had assumed no mere child stood a chance surviving. Now they watched it crumble as the youth before them—some reincarnation of a celestial terror by their beliefs—had triumphed over such divinity.
“You…” they shrieked fearfully at first words, “you killed the guardian! A walking myth from the ancient times reborn!”
Faces drained of blood, bodies wracked with fear, they knew—they had been left with no protection in these treacherous wastelands. It’d spelled doom inescapable if left abandoned here among the beasts with no power left.
Yet nothing prepared the band upon facing these impossible outcomes as all expectations dissolved like illusions broken.
Could that boy really wish to erase them? Kill all?
“Do you intend… to kill us all too?” one stammered, unable to hide his terror. These bloodstained men—untroubled by past slaughter—recoiled in fear as they faced death.
“You have killed our men too?”
Fear chilled in their souls—their own words echoed back in disbelief. One child, slaying more than a dozen hardened warriors; even hunting down their guardian to this desolate terrain. Could he really wipe them entirely, wiping the entire scourge clean? The thought alone was horrifying enough.
In their eyes now, only a demon of vengeance remained.
“No… I did not kill them all… Nor will I exact my wrath upon each one.”
At those words—a mixture of relief flooded their hearts.
“Are those others alive? That entire thirty or so?” the warlord questioned anxiously.
“No, devoured into these very wilds, their deaths assured,” said Rascal.
A chilling truth struck deep like a knife.
“A mercy beyond comprehension—showing none by allowing the merciless a lingering death.”
A village chief’s saying guided him—extend no lenience for scoundrels left unchecked would doom even more innocents. He rose an arm as crystalline fangs formed in strands. Pearly white and translucent were they, the first artifact he ever obtained when that cursed beast of Beicun fell to him.
A sharp whizzing followed—the sound of forty-two glowing projectiles launched into the crowd.
Gasps of terror, then sickening plosive snaps—the radiant teeth struck true. The warlords convulsed violently as life-energy poured freely from ruined cores. Their limbs rendered limp; their combat essence erased from mortal coils.
“Howl and cry all you’d like; in these wilds left helpless, your end awaits by savage predators.”
The leader ran to escape. Fate had willed otherwise.
Rascal focused—a blinding trail shot forth. Enthralled tightly around his prey and, upon a single forceful twist from Little Raptor—every magical essence within obliterated instantly.
“Aaagh, nooooo!”
But their pleas rang unanswered—within minutes dozens collapsed onto the ground—bleeding, gasping for breath amidst their terror, as all illusions of might faded.
From beginning to end not a single blow for final doom was given—leaving them instead for survival of those untamed wilderness beasts.
With final commands given and their future sealed—questions followed. Where did these rogues stem their bloodthirst and to whom had they pledged allegiance?
Initially resisting, they cracked.
They spoke of Little Western Heaven. However their knowledge remained shallow—the order they’d followed simply sent to find a fabled Divine vault. Gold, known also as black metal, was to serve in disarming ancient glyphed arrays surrounding these riches, it seemed.
Among rival criminal groups, only they claimed to possess the rare strength and such mighty a Guardian as the mighty Pangolin—the origin of which now pointed toward these “Little Westerner” masters.
All threats subdued, all perils passed, Little Rascal’s body sagged—exhaustion overcoming mind and muscles, falling limply down to rest, and eventually lie in absolute repose.
Every limb bloodied—multiple piercing wounds, nearly shattering the spine itself—he held against collapse till now.
With spirits freed, foes shattered, there were no more urges left. No call nor ambition beyond this stillness as glyphs shimmer in response.
His body pulsed softly as healing arts took over. Cacophony of tissue reform resounding beneath torn skin while he stifled pained groans—a fight perilous enough to nearly bring his death’s approach.
For hundreds of exchanges he stood unwavering before collapsing into this final moment—every heartbeat echoing willpower against certain doom.
The blood stopped, muscles knit anew.
Cries interrupted.
“Grrshsh!”
A tiny fluff creature appeared. With chitters pointing toward nearby where the enemy’s monstrous mounts had all fallen under its tiny might. Witnessing Rascal’s weakened state the puff-ball squealed, dramatically feigned a fainting, exclaiming—yet again—it would lose precious lifeblood. So pitiable was this creature’s whimper, like a condemned one’s plea.
Little Rascal grimaced: “Stop the exaggerated howl. I never said feed me that precious blood of yours…”
Retrieving from within folds of his tattered clothes—a small flask. Inside—a single pill gleaming with fragrance poured forth in its gentle hum upon touching air.
Instant anger surged the rodent—furious squeakes erupted, hopping wildly gesturing in furious protest.
“Alright, fine, the potion uses your blood. But I had already stored some in past, before our journey. We don’t need fresh.”
Gulping the curative pill—it erupted in waves—an intense surge of energy reconnected torn tissues, reviving his vitality.
Elegant fluff launched forward suddenly, wrested the jar—only too late realizing—it’s now empty.
He cried in rage before throwing it angrily off into the forest.
“This mixture was compounded not freshly; using prior stored supplies—would it ease your heart?” he cautiously proposed.
Golden paws shook in anger as it pointed at him fiercely—uttermost protest.
Little Rascal stood soon—wholly rejuvenated—the fiery “volcanoes” atop his three summits once more ablaze as their molten energies flowed into his restored frame—brimming vitality renewed.
Their enemies’ steeds numbered mostly destroyed or scattered—but three tens yet remained.
Their purpose was clear—heavier beasts now bore forth the slain Pangolin guardian’s immense corpse—an irreplaceable prize.
“Handle whatever remains behind. I leave their affairs with you,” Little Rascal commanded.
The miniature beast shrieked towards distant woods. Moments later, looming silhouettes stirred; creatures lurking at bay, awaiting eagerly this promised feast of blood. The enemy, with finality confirmed: none would escape the fates dealt.
Minutes beyond departure, ahead emerged his clan’s elder—the elder’s expression etched of equal parts fear for a beloved grandson alongside boundless relief.
He saw the young prodigy—alive!
“Little grandson, are you well?”
Eager tears forming within those aged depths.
Upon catching gaze of the slain beast—forty monsters hauling forth the butchered and shattered corpse—
The Chief’s joy could not be contained, nearly bringing warm tears down his lined cheeks as the elder wept openly, pride bursting as his heart swelled. His child no longer was that baby in need of a guardian, now grown to carve his own destiny across heavens above. The elder’s once anxious mind had settled as hope flourished again.
Reunited, they retraced their path.
Within further dozen miles, familiar faces appeared in distant—Shi Linhu, Shi Fujie and more seasoned men all approaching their direction; worry melted into roaring cheers that shook mountains anew.
The men stood frozen then broke out in cheers—“What’s this we witness? The legendary guardian felled by our boy?!” Joy returned in floods with no more hesitation, spirits lifted immeasurably. Together, the victors returned triumphantly homeward.
Silence surrounded the stone village. Peace prevailed as every person yet remained hidden, waiting afar until the danger cleared the village’s horizon.
“Quickly call everyone home before nightfall.” This news—no longer meant delay till daybreak—it must be proclaimed immediately. To ease each worry that festered unseen.
“See the others, Elder! Rest now, I’ll catch some sleep.”
The boy’s sleep ran immeasurable depths; dreams cradled his unconsciousness until the red tinge of evening light touched his waking eyes once more—his second birth.
The village stirred anew.
A delicious scent danced in air while joy resonated in every home as people flooded in with laughter and warmth.
Ladies bustled with glee—elders sharing in the festivities; all cooking great portions of that divine guardian meat with radiant, nourishing glow.
Within cauldrons, bubbling stews sparkled like auroras, rich with energy beyond imagination.
Children chased one and other joyously in a game of endless delight—feasting upon flesh never to have been imagined, now offered by their hero.
“Little Rascal, what bravery—you actually vanquished a divine being?”
“Uncle Xiao Haoway, guide me one day,” exclaimed Bei Feng, his eyes alight with sheer admiration.
As for men within prime—striding forth as if dancing in winds, every slice or chunk stored and prepared carefully—golden blood vital in potions to follow while bones and organs preserved in secret for later alchemical usage for generations’ benefit.
Wise elders remained busy tending their roles too. Most sacred blood and muscle tissues collected with the utmost reverence for their ritual preparation.
For their family and village, having brought down that golden guardian meant a true golden bounty, capable of unlocking potential beyond reckoning.
That night saw none but joy, laughter circling campfires where roasted delicacies brought cheer unending throughout a village forever warmed and changed anew—through one young hero’s courage.
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