Blood in the Village

As the Hobgoblin moved deeper into the forest, every shadow seemed to twitch with danger. The thrill of levelling up had already begun to fade, replaced with gnawing anxiety. His new prizes—the dark leather armour, the handful of gold coins, the strange Claimant Crystal—felt precious, fragile. What if something happened? What if someone stronger, faster, smarter came along and took them? He had known loss before, too many times, and the thought of waking up in his wrecked cave without these treasures filled him with dread.

He had to think. Had to figure out what to do next. But not here—not in the open forest.

The cave. He needed to get back to his cave.

Every rustle of leaves, every distant chirp of a bird, set his nerves on edge. His hands trembled, haunted by the memory of Liraen collapsing at his feet, and he kept casting wary looks over his shoulder, as if the vengeful elf might materialise from the trees at any moment.

Then, as he passed a dense thicket, his pointed ears picked up something new: voices. Loud and boisterous, cutting through the otherwise quiet forest. Adventurers.

His blood ran cold. For a heartbeat, his mind screamed that it was her—that Liraen had returned already, hunting him down for revenge. He froze, crouching low, heart pounding in his chest.

But as he peered through the leaves, he saw them clearly. Not her. Five, maybe six adventurers, stomping through the woods with the casual arrogance only they carried. Their bright armour and weapons gleamed in the fading light, and their laughter echoed through the trees, like wolves scenting blood.

His breath caught in his throat. They were blocking the path—the most direct route back to his cave.

With barely a thought, the Hobgoblin threw himself into the undergrowth, curling up tight behind a cluster of twisted roots. He held his breath, waiting, hoping they wouldn’t notice the trail he’d left or catch a glimpse of his dull skin through the leaves. His mind raced. Stay still. Don’t breathe. Don’t think. Just stay still.

The adventurers passed by, oblivious, their voices loud and mocking.

“Plenty of quick XP today,” one of them laughed, his voice thick with cruel glee.

“Goblins barely put up a fight,” another said, slinging a bloodied axe over his shoulder. “I want to see the look on their little faces when we smash their doors and strip the loot.”

The Hobgoblin shuddered. He stayed in his hiding place, silent and still, until the voices faded into the distance. When he was sure they were gone, he let out a slow, shaky breath. But the tension in his chest didn’t ease. The adventurers were still out there, and they had cut off his way home. If he wanted to reach his cave, he would have to skirt around them—and that meant going closer to the Goblin village.

Goblins… Normally, they were neutral toward him. They didn’t welcome him, but they didn’t attack him either. Yet he knew how dangerous they could be, especially to a lone Hobgoblin. They swarmed. And when they swarmed, they were like ants, overwhelming with sheer numbers. He wasn’t eager to test his luck.

He set off again, skirting wide around the adventurers’ path, moving as stealthily as he could. His steps were slow, deliberate. His heart raced every time a twig snapped underfoot, his nerves on edge as he crept through the trees.

But as he approached the Goblin village, something was wrong.

There was shouting. Screams. The clash of steel. The acrid tang of smoke.

The Hobgoblin crouched low, peering through the thick bushes at the edge of the village. His heart sank. The adventurers had reached it before him. And they were slaughtering the Goblins.

The village was in chaos. Green‑skinned warriors—Goblin men and women—fought with desperate ferocity, their crude weapons flashing as they hurled themselves at the invaders. But they were hopelessly outmatched. The adventurers moved like a well‑oiled machine, cutting through them with practised ease.

One adventurer, a massive human warrior with a two‑handed sword, felled three Goblins in a single swing, laughing as their bodies crumpled at his feet. Behind him, a female mage raised a glowing staff, bolts of crackling energy leaping into the huts and setting them ablaze.

As the warriors fell, Goblin families—children, mothers, elders—ran in terror. They fled into the forest, faces twisted with fear, but the adventurers didn’t care. They seemed to relish the chase, cutting down stragglers with casual cruelty. A ranger’s arrow struck a stumbling child, no older than a few years. The adventurer laughed as he notched another arrow, already hunting his next target.

Bile rose in the Hobgoblin’s throat. Adventurers weren’t fighting for survival or honour. This was sport. XP, loot, and the thrill of domination. The village was being torn apart, its people massacred, and the adventurers revelled in it.

He watched in horror, powerless. He couldn’t save the Goblins, and to fight the adventurers would be suicide.

Move, he told himself. Move now, before they see you.

He backed away slowly, sticking to the shadows, his movements even more cautious now. He had to get past this, get away from the slaughter, get back to his cave. The screams and laughter followed him through the trees, keeping him alert to how close he could be to sharing their fate.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally cleared the village. The sounds of battle faded into the distance, replaced once more by the quiet rustle of the forest. The Hobgoblin kept moving, faster now, desperate to put as much distance between himself and the adventurers as possible.

At last, the familiar sight of his cave loomed ahead, dark and comforting. He darted inside, collapsing against the cool stone wall as he struggled to catch his breath. Safe. For now.

But the weight of what he had seen lingered. Adventurers had no mercy. They had come for the Goblins today. Tomorrow, they could come for him.

And now, with the strange crystal in his possession, he had more to lose than ever before.