Dylan charged in.
No scream. No bravado. Just a swift step, then another. He lunged at the hobgoblin, axe raised.
The creature tried to swing its mace, but Dylan dove to the side, rolled through the mud, and sprang up in one fluid motion. His blade struck—a sharp, powerful blow. It bit into the giant's shoulder. The metal didn't sink in completely, but the impact forced the creature back a step.
"That should slow it down." Dylan thought. Any sane creature would panic at the sight of its own blood.
But he'd made a mistake: thinking this monster was sane.
Instead of panicking, a cold grin twisted the hobgoblin's lips. Its gaze shifted to Cliff, filled with a chilling hatred Dylan had only seen in soldiers who'd broken down at the front.
The beast readied another strike, struggling under the weight of its oversized weapon. Each movement seemed to cost it.
Dylan didn't wait. He yanked his axe free, swept a horizontal arc, and struck again. This time, the blade hit the ribs. A clean cut—but too shallow. The chance to kill had slipped by.
The hobgoblin growled—surprised… and pleased.
Its filthy teeth flashed in a beastly grin. Then it counterattacked.
The mace whooshed through the air. Dylan raised his axe to block, but he knew instantly it wouldn't hold.
He tried to leap back—too late.
The weapon grazed him, but the spikes tore his flesh. His side split open. Blood gushed—hot and sticky.
Dylan winced and staggered.
"Shit," he muttered, a sharp burn slicing through his flank.
He gritted his teeth. His breath caught in his throat.
He faltered, then steadied himself. No way he'd fold in front of that sadistic thing.
He slid under another blow, swung his axe upward in a brutal arc, aiming for the throat.
But the hobgoblin stepped back, dodging with unnerving ease.
Pain slowed Dylan. Blood loss too.
The monster seemed faster. Or maybe it was just him—getting weaker.
He stepped back, panting, eyes locked on his opponent.
This wasn't looking good.
---
The hobgoblin approached slowly.
Not in a rush. Almost playful. It was savoring Dylan's agony.
Dylan tightened his grip on his axe, but his fingers slipped, slick with blood. His vision blurred. The ground swayed. He swallowed hard, fighting the dizziness.
The creature struck.
Dylan rolled aside. Just in time. The mace slammed into the mud, sending up a filthy spray.
"I can't win with strength…" he thought. "I need to be nastier than he is."
He faked retreat. Limped to the left, dragging a leg like a man on the edge of collapse.
The hobgoblin followed, drawn by the scent of weakness.
Then Dylan pivoted.
A flash of motion.
The axe whistled through the air, slicing into the creature's hamstring. A raspy cry tore through the air—almost a growl.
But the beast didn't fall.
It roared and swung its mace in a furious burst of rage.
Dylan couldn't dodge in time.
The blow crashed into his shoulder, hurling him into the mud like a rag doll. Something cracked. His collarbone? His ribs? He couldn't tell. The air fled his lungs. He lay there, face down, a second too long.
The hobgoblin's shadow loomed over him.
Then… the cold.
A shift in the air.
As if winter had crept into the scene.
A shiver ran through him.
With a final jolt, he rolled, grabbed his axe, and swung blindly.
The blade struck flesh. He didn't know where. Maybe a leg. Maybe higher. Blood spurted—thick, black, foul.
The hobgoblin staggered. Its mace dropped with a heavy thud into the mud.
It let out a long, guttural groan, then fell to its knees.
Dylan, still lying in the dirt, gasped. He watched it collapse face-first into the ground.
His axe was still lodged between its throat and chest. Blood still oozed, a slow fountain.
Silence fell—heavy, unreal.
Lying in the mud, Dylan looked up at the sky. Blue. Bright. As if none of the carnage around him existed.
He smiled.
"I won…"
His arm trembled. His muscles screamed. But he'd won.
It was a crazy gamble—facing a horde of creatures alone, betting everything on terrain advantage… Yet he'd pulled it off.
He could brag. A little. Just this once.
---
He felt a shadow fall over him, blocking the faint rays of sunlight filtering through the foliage. Face half in shadow, Dylan opened his eyes and squinted.
At first, he saw only a silhouette.
"What are you doing here?" asked a voice.
It was thin, almost brittle. Too young. Too calm.
Dylan blinked. A little girl. Twelve, maybe less.
Black hair, tangled. Eyes—deep black, unsettling. Dark circles under her eyes, and her body… marked with scars. Long. Old. Poorly healed. A war-torn adult's body trapped in a child.
She looked at him like one might stare at a wounded insect.
"You should leave."
Sharp. Clipped. She didn't even glance at his wounds.
Then, without another word, she tossed a pile of anima gems near his head. A wet plop, followed by the crystalline clatter.
Dylan sat up abruptly, a wave of dizziness stabbing his temples. He saw her walk away, her small back covered in a ragged fur. No shoes. No visible weapon.
Just a kid out of nowhere… in the middle of a massacre.
"Who is that girl?" he murmured.
He looked down at the gems. Fourteen. All soaked in hobgoblin blood. Raw. Ripped straight from the bodies. She'd gathered them while he lay delirious in the mud.
Dylan raised his head. Nothing. No trace of her. Not even a footprint left behind.
A chill crept down his spine.
But he didn't have the luxury to stay frozen. His gaze fell on the last hobgoblin—still sprawled out, still grotesque in death.
"You…" he growled. "I hope your essence heals every damn bone you broke in me."
He stepped closer, cracked his sore shoulder, and yanked his axe from the creature's chest. The sound was obscene.
Then, with a swift motion, he stabbed his dagger into the beast's ribcage. He dug, without hesitation—ignoring the heat, the stench.
His fingers touched something hard.
He pulled.
The gem was massive. If the others were the size of a grown man's thumb, this one was at least twice as big. A dirty red, almost black. It still pulsed, as if the beast's heart refused to die.
"No wonder it lasted so long…"