The creature was easily four times the size of a normal goblin — its skin dark green, muscles bulging, jagged fangs jutting from its lower jaw like tusks. Bones and crude metal adorned its shoulders like armor. Its yellow eyes gleamed with malice.

A hobgoblin.

Oliver's grip on his spear tightened.

"So there's the chief…" he muttered.

'And if there's a chief, there's bound to be a shaman too.'

He crouched low behind a pile of broken wood, eyes sweeping the chamber. There were at least twenty goblins — guards, archers, and the shaman standing near the throne, a crooked staff clutched in its bony hands.

He needed to think — plan.

A frontal assault would be suicide.

But then the hobgoblin moved.

With a guttural snarl, the hobgoblin seized the terrified white mage by the hair, dragging her up the jagged steps to its crude throne. Her scream cut through the stench-filled air, raw and piercing, while her legs kicked frantically, striking at nothing but shadows. The surrounding goblins howled and jeered, their claws scratching the stone floor, eyes gleaming with sadistic anticipation.

The hobgoblin tore the mage's robe in one violent motion, leaving her completely exposed, dangling by her hair. The torches flickered, casting grotesque shadows across her trembling body. The goblins around them erupted in cruel laughter, slapping their thighs and howling at the display.

The goblin yanked his dick out lowering the woman on his dick.

She kicked, screamed, clawed at the creature — every movement a desperate attempt to escape — but the brute's grip was iron.

Oliver's blood ran cold.

Every second he waited meant another innocent life ruined.

"...Fuck it."

He stood, thrust his palm forward, and shouted—

"Fireball!"

The spell flared from his hand, a streak of red light cutting through the air.

BOOM!

The explosion tore through the platform, flames engulfing the hobgoblin and the nearby goblins. The shockwave sent splinters and dirt flying.

The entire den erupted into chaos.

The woman tumbled free, rolling down the steps.

The hobgoblin roared — a deafening, furious bellow that shook the walls. Half its body was scorched black, its yellow eyes now locked on Oliver.

Dozens of goblins turned toward the source of the attack, shrieking and grabbing their crude weapons.

Oliver stepped out from behind cover, his spear in hand, the runes along its shaft glowing faintly.

"Alright, monsters," he growled. "Come and get me."

The explosion hadn't even finished echoing when Oliver lunged forward.

He drove his spear into the first goblin that rushed him — the rune along the shaft flaring pale blue.

The air cracked.

"Wind Slash!"

The blast of compressed air sliced through three more goblins, their bodies scattering across the dirt.

But the others came screaming.

Oliver pivoted, ducked a crude club, and slammed the spearhead into the next one's chest. He kicked free, spun, and sent a second Wind Edge slicing through the ranks.

"Come on!" he shouted, voice raw.

They came. Dozens of them.

Claws, rusted blades, jagged teeth.

Oliver swung his spear, chopping a goblin in half. Blood sprayed everywhere. Another jumped from the side; he spun, driving the spear through its chest. He kicked open a cage, dragging a villager out as more goblins charged.

The mage girl pressed herself against a broken cage, eyes wide, muttering prayers. Every time Oliver killed one, she flinched, then her eyes lit up in relief. The women in the cages started moving too, some whispering, some gripping the bars, hope flickering in their eyes.

He drew his sword and switched weapons constantly, stabbing, slashing, hacking. Heads cracked under strikes, arms and legs flew. Goblins screamed, fell, and more kept coming. The hobgoblin watched from its throne, then leapt down with a roar, swinging its massive club. Oliver rolled away, barely avoiding the impact.

He threw a fireball, hitting the hobgoblin's chest. It staggered but kept coming. Oliver swung the spear, then slashed with the sword, blood dripping from both weapons. Goblins piled up around him, but he kept moving, fighting clean through the horde.

The mage gasped, covering her mouth. She ducked as a goblin fell near her, head rolling. The women in the cages pressed against the bars, eyes shining, some murmuring "yes! kill them" between tears.

Oliver kept going, spell after spell, strike after strike. He cut through the goblins like a machine. Fireballs exploded, wind gusts shredded them, swords and spear made gore fly.

Blue lines flared across the blade—Wind Cutter.

The strike ripped open the hobgoblin's arm, black blood spraying.

The creature bellowed, swung wildly. Oliver ducked, countered with a thrust that buried the sword into its thigh.

"Die already!"

He fired another spell point-blank—Fire Burst!

The explosion engulfed them both. The hobgoblin staggered back, half-kneeling. Oliver stumbled forward, coughing, his arms trembling.

Dozens more goblins poured from side tunnels, drawn by the noise.

The women screamed; the mage clutched the bars of her cage.

"Please… please don't die…"

Oliver tightened his grip on his spear again, breathing hard.

"Guess… I'm not done yet."

He charged.

One swept low—he sidestepped, severed its leg.

Another jumped from above—he skewered it mid-air.

Every strike cost him air; every breath burned.

Minutes passed—an eternity of movement, sweat, and blood.

When the last of his fire spell fizzled from the blade, Oliver stood in the center of a ring of corpses.

His chest heaved. His mana pool was a hollow pit; his limbs screamed.

The hobgoblin was still there, limping but alive, rage in its yellow eyes.

And beyond it, twenty more shapes filled the tunnel mouths.

Oliver's knuckles whitened around the spear. His breath came ragged.

He laughed—a hoarse, broken sound.

"Should've… listened to Isolde," he muttered.

"Maybe had her carve a few runes into me… might've walked out of here alive."

His knees wobbled. One hit the ground.

The mage girl pressed against the cage bars, whispering through tears,

"No… please, stand up…!"

Oliver's vision wavered in and out of focus, blood running down his arm and dripping from his chin.

The hobgoblin's club came down again—whump!—splitting the stone where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.

He rolled aside, panting, pain flaring across his ribs where one of the near misses had grazed him.

Another swing.

He ducked.

Another.

He parried weakly, sparks flying.

The shock rattled his bones.

Every motion now was survival—no strength left for counterattacks.

Each breath came with the taste of iron.

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