Need Food

The Hobgoblin peered out from his cave, the early morning mist curling through the dense trees. His heart hammered in his chest, anxiety pooling in his gut. He knew he had no choice. He needed food. The pitiful handful of berries he’d gathered earlier wouldn’t last him long. But now, with the adventurers starting to reappear, every step beyond the safety of his cave felt like stepping into a death trap.

His instincts screamed to stay inside, to hide until the adventurers had finished with their murderous spree of low‑level mobs like himself. But his hunger clawed at him, forcing him to venture back out into the forest.

He kept low, his ragged clothes blending into the shadows as he skulked through the undergrowth. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, sent his nerves on edge. His fingers twitched towards the hilt of his rusty short sword, though he knew it would do little against a properly armed and armoured adventurer.

He stuck to the edges of the forest, far from the Goblin and Kobold villages. They had their own troubles, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. His eyes darted constantly, scanning for movement, his ears straining for the sounds of anything larger than a bird.

The forest was eerily quiet, as though the creatures sensed the change in the air. Somewhere out there, adventurers were beginning to stir again, returning from their strange absence. They’d be stretching their legs, checking their gear, readying themselves for another day of levelling up.

Grashok paused when he heard the faint trickle of water nearby. Slipping through the brush, he found a narrow stream winding its way between moss‑covered stones. He crouched low, dipping his battered hide flask into the current. Cool, clear water swirled inside, the leather creaking as it filled. He corked it quickly, tucking it back at his side before moving on, the sound of the stream fading behind him.

He crouched by a patch of mushrooms growing along the base of a tree, reaching out cautiously to inspect them. Before his hand could make contact, a sharp whizz split the silence.

His body reacted before his brain had time to register the danger. He flung himself sideways just as an arrow buried itself into the ground where he had been kneeling. Panic surged through him, and he scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with terror. He scanned the trees desperately, heart pounding in his ears.

Then he saw her.

A figure stepped out from the undergrowth, barely a flicker of movement as she emerged from the shadows. She was tall—far taller than him—with pale skin and pointed ears. An elf, by the look of her, though the dark, leather armour she wore marked her as a rogue or perhaps an archer. Her sharp, predatory gaze locked onto him, eyes glittering with amusement as she drew another arrow from her quiver.

"Thought you could get away?" she sneered, her voice a low, mocking drawl.

Her dark hair fell in loose, rippling strands, gathered here and there into subtle twists that caught the dappled light filtering through the trees. Her armour clung to her lithe frame, studded with small metal plates for extra protection without compromising her agility. A short sword hung at her side, but it was the bow she held with ease that sent chills down the Hobgoblin’s spine.

Above her head, the glowing text mocked him: Level 5.

Far too high for him to handle.

His breath hitched, and he stumbled backwards, his mind racing. They never came this early… yet here she was, smiling with a cruel glint in her eye, a predator toying with its prey.

“You’ve wandered a little too far, haven’t you?” She nocked another arrow, drawing it back smoothly. “Not very smart for a runt like you.”

He could already feel the weight of inevitable death pressing down on him. She’d take him down in a matter of seconds, search his body for any loot, and move on without a second thought. Desperation clawed at his chest. He had nothing. No strategy. No plan.

The string snapped, and the arrow hissed through the air.

He ducked, barely avoiding the shot as it grazed his shoulder. Pain flared, and a red notification burned before his eyes:

[HP: -5]

He gritted his teeth, scrambling to draw his sword, knowing full well how useless it would be. She laughed, the sound cold and sharp as she drew her short sword and lunged forward.

Their blades clashed, but he was no match for her speed. Her strikes were precise, calculated, driving him back with ease. He parried clumsily, his sword trembling in his grip as she danced around him, her blade carving through his defence with effortless precision.

[HP: -7]

[HP: -10]

Every hit chipped away at his already low health. She was toying with him, taking her time, enjoying the fear in his eyes. He could see the glee in her face, the way she was savouring this, treating him like a practice dummy.

In a blind panic, he backed into a tree, his options running out. Her sword was at his throat in a heartbeat.

“Any last words, runt?” she asked, her tone dripping with condescension, savouring his helplessness.

His mind raced, instincts screaming at him to fight or flee. His grip tightened on the blade, but every part of him knew he was outmatched. She was faster, stronger, and far too confident.

He knew he was dead at that moment, destined to lose it all and start again. Then, to his shock, she stepped back, giving him space to move away from the tree. Perhaps I’m spared, he thought—until her sword rose once more and she came at him again.

Sweat stung his eyes. His muscles burned. She was playing with him, darting in and out, her blade flashing like lightning. He stumbled, tripped against a root, and nearly went down. Her laugh cut through the forest, sharp and cruel.

“You’re nothing but practice,” she sneered, drawing back for the finishing strike.

Desperation clawed at him. He had no plan, no strategy—only instinct. As she lunged, he flinched sideways, his sword slipping uselessly from his grip. In that blind panic, his hand clenched around the hilt, and he swung wildly, the pommel arcing up.

It connected.

The dull crack of metal against bone rang out. Her eyes widened in shock, her momentum broken. She staggered, swayed, then collapsed to the forest floor, unconscious.

For a heartbeat, he just stared, chest heaving, unable to believe what had happened. He hadn’t out‑fought her. He hadn’t out‑planned her. He had simply survived long enough to land one desperate, lucky critical strike.

Panting heavily, trembling from the effort, he stood over her fallen form. Victory had come suddenly, brutally, and it felt as fragile as the morning mist curling through the trees.

But what should he do with her?