The heavy iron door of the interrogation room creaked open, revealing a cold and dimly lit chamber deep within the barracks of Matterhorn. At the center of the room, chained to a metal chair, sat a dark elf archer. His pale, ash-colored skin was marred with bruises, and blood dripped from his swollen lips and cracked mouth. His wrists were bound tightly in the iron shackles, and his body trembled from a mix of exhaustion and pain.
Across from him stood D'Arce, her expression as cold and calculating as the stone walls surrounding them. Her armor gleamed faintly in the flickering torchlight, though her longsword remained sheathed. In her gloved hand, she held a pair of pliers, the metal slick with blood. The dark elf's molar, freshly torn from his mouth, hung between the jaws of the tool.
His scream echoed through the chamber, a sound of raw agony as his head jerked back, rattling the chains. His entire body convulsed, but the bindings held him fast. He slumped forward, chest heaving, his breath shallow and punctuated with pained whimpers. Blood dribbled from the gap where his tooth had been. Tears streaked down his dirt-smeared face, mixing with the blood that stained his chin.
D'Arce watched him, her gaze devoid of emotion— the pliers still gripped in her hand, as she allowed the molar to drop to the floor, along with the other teeth she'd pulled. The captain then leaned forward slowly, while pressing the cold metal of the pliers against his busted lip. The dark elf flinched, his remaining teeth gritted against the pain.
"Are you ready to talk now?" D'Arce's voice was a low, emotionless whisper, devoid of sympathy or warmth.
The dark elf's breath hitched, fear flickering in his eyes, but he shook his head defiantly, though the motion was weak and shaky. His lips quivered, and his voice, though pained and broken, was filled with bitter resolve.
"I…! I-I w-will n-never betray my k-kin," he spat, blood splattering the ground as his words came out in a ragged cry. "W-We…! W-We will n-never bow to y-your kind…!"
D'Arce's eyes narrowed, but she remained calm. She stepped back, turning to place the pliers on a nearby table where an array of torture implements lay neatly arranged. Without a word, she reached for a small silver shaker— a salt shaker. She calmly poured a pile of salt into her gloved palm, her movements deliberate.
"You don't say," she mused flatly— her tone unchanged. She lifted the salt to eye level, examining it as if she were merely preparing seasoning for a meal. "Why is that?"
The dark elf glared at her with unbridled hatred. His bruised face twisted into a snarl as he gathered the strength to speak, his words bursting out between gasps of pain.
"Humans stole our land," he seethed, his voice filled with venom. "Z-Zemuria...! She's always belonged to the elves— a-always has. You… Your kind… H-Humans...! Y-You slaughtered our people— DEFILED our children and women! ERASED our culture, and STOLE our HOME!" The dark elf shrieked in unadulterated rage— his chest rising and falling rapidly, as his black scleras twinkled with hate. "You lot…! You all think you're so bloody righteous, but you're all nothing more than thieves… Murderers, and RAPISTS!"
His chest heaved with emotion, his eyes burning with rage even through the tears. "The other elves… They have forgiven your sins… But we won't… We won't forgive you…! We'll slay every last one of you— take back what's rightfully ours!"
D'Arce didn't flinch at his tirade. She let him speak, let the words bounce off her like stones against a fortress wall. The moment he finished, she moved swiftly. Without hesitation, she threw the entire handful of salt into his cut-up mouth, her palm slamming over his bloodied lips to seal it in.
The dark elf's eyes bulged in horror as the salt hit his open wounds, the intense sting driving him into a state of primal agony. He thrashed violently, his screams muffled beneath her hand, his body convulsing as the salt seeped into his torn flesh, intensifying the pain tenfold. His muscles spasmed, and his voice came out as muffled, guttural shrieks, echoing faintly through the small chamber.
D'Arce watched him impassively, her hand still pressed against his mouth as he squirmed beneath her grip. She didn't blink, didn't waver. She simply held him in place, ensuring he absorbed every ounce of the torture she inflicted. His body jerked uncontrollably, and blood streamed from the corners of his mouth, mixing with the salt to form a sickeningly red paste that dripped onto the floor.
After what felt like an eternity, she finally removed her hand, allowing the dark elf to gasp for breath. He coughed violently, spitting out blood and salt, his face a twisted mask of anguish and torment. His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, his spirit clearly broken, though his hatred still flickered behind his eyes.
D'Arce stepped back, her expression unchanged. She calmly dusted the remaining salt from her glove, as though the entire ordeal had been nothing more than a routine task. Her eyes remained fixed on him, cold and calculating, as if waiting to see if he would break, if his will would shatter under the weight of her methods.
The dark elf archer sagged in his bindings, his defiant glare now weaker, filled more with pain than fury.
D'Arce stood silently, her cold eyes fixed on the dark elf archer, whose defiance had slowly crumbled into a pitiful display of agony. Blood and tears smeared his bruised face, his breathing ragged and uneven. For a brief moment, she felt an inexplicable pause— a flicker of something like pity, though it was buried so deeply beneath her calculated exterior that it barely registered.
The dark elf let out a pitiful shriek the moment she took a step forward. D'Arce, without saying a word, leaned down and wiped the blood and saliva from her gloved hand onto his chest, the smearing of his own filth against his skin a degrading act that caused him to whimper more pathetically. His body trembled, his spirit visibly shattered, yet he clung to what little resolve he had left.
Straightening herself, D'Arce gazed down at him with a look devoid of any warmth or mercy.
"I'll be back after a short break," she said coldly, her voice cutting through the tense air like a blade. "Perhaps by then, you'll come around to tell me the location of your allies. Unless…" Her lips curled into the faintest hint of a cruel smile. "You'd prefer I rip something else off you."
The dark elf's eyes widened in horror, but he said nothing, his voice seemingly strangled by his fear.
With that, D'Arce turned on her heel and left the interrogation room, the heavy door creaking shut behind her. She walked down the dim corridor, her tall, imposing figure casting long shadows that stretched across the floor like a specter of death. The remaining dark elf prisoners, huddled together in their cells, watched her approach with wide, terrified eyes. Their black and red irises flickered with desperation and dread, their breaths shallow, their bodies trembling.
D'Arce's cold gaze flicked briefly toward them. The moment her eyes met theirs, they immediately averted their gaze, cowering in silence, huddling closer for the faintest shred of comfort in a place where hope had long since withered.
As she passed by them, their fear was palpable, like a suffocating fog that clung to the air.
Reaching the end of the corridor, D'Arce entered the offices of the barracks, her armored boots echoing softly on the stone floor. The room was a hub of activity, soldiers and clerks bustling about, reports being filed, and orders being handed down. But her presence was commanding, and the room seemed to still ever so slightly as she passed through.
Before she could enter the door leading to her private quarters, a lieutenant knight approached her, bowing his head respectfully. His tone was measured, though there was an underlying urgency in his voice.
"Captain," he said, his voice formal. "The kid with the orichalcum... he's back. He's asking for you in the lobby."
D'Arce stopped, her hand resting on the handle of her door. Her eyes narrowed slightly, a brief flicker of intrigue passing through her usually steely expression.
"The boy," she murmured to herself. She turned toward the lieutenant, her face returning to its usual unreadable stoicism.
In the cozy lit lobby, Goblin Slayer stood in his usual silence, surveying the space. His armor, worn and beaten from his recent ordeals, felt heavier than usual. His helmet obscured his face, but his eyes, from beneath the visor, were fixed on the odd creature before him.
A three-foot tall, chubby rat wearing sunglasses, a backwards red ball cap, and a gold chain danced idly in place. Its pudgy frame bobbed from side to side in an oddly rhythmic fashion, despite the complete absence of any music.
"And I'm tellin' ya, man," the rat said, his deep voice full of conviction, "this thing was, like, crazy! I hit a button, and BOOM! Music starts playin' outta nowhere! The whole place filled with sound, like a magic concert was goin' on in my head, ya know? B-But not just in my head, but around me!" The rat gestured wildly with his tiny paws— struggling to convey the concept. "I-I don't know what kinda magic it is, but it was loud, and it had this deep beat to it— ain't ever heard anything like it!"
Goblin Slayer listening with silent skepticism, tilted his head slightly. Still, there was something about the fat rat's enthusiasm that made him entertain the conversation, if only out of curiosity.
"How did you come across it?" The teenager asked— his voice low and gruff, but with an edge of genuine interest.
"Oh, that's easy!" The rat shrugged, adjusting his sunglasses with a cool gesture. "I was visitin' my aunt's borrow— y'know, deep underground, where us rats live. Took a wrong turn in one of the tunnels, found myself in this crazy old chamber. Dust everywhere, real ancient feelin', but there it was! Just sittin' there. Looked like a box, but not just any box. It was shiny, metallic, and had these buttons and dials on it. Kinda hard to describe, but once I touched it? Man, that's when the funk took over."
Goblin Slayer's skepticism deepened— his thoughts racing, as he tried to imagine what the rat was describing. "I find all of that hard to believe," he muttered— his tone flat but not entirely dismissive.
The rat let out an exasperated sigh, his little hands dropping to his sides in frustration. "L-Look, man, I get it. It sounds dumb as hell, but you gotta understand— I can't be a funky rat without my funk! I need my beats to stay alive, y'know?" He puffed out his chest, trying to reclaim some dignity. "Without that magic box, I'm just… I'm just a fat rat!"
Goblin Slayer, without missing a beat, replied dryly, "You'd still be a fat rat— with, or without your magic music box."
The rat blinked behind his sunglasses, momentarily taken aback by the sarcastic remark. "Yeah, okay— fair enough," he admitted, looking down at his pudgy belly. "But still, that's not the point!"
Before the rat could continue, the door beside the receptionist counter creaked open, and D'Arce stepped into the lobby. Her presence immediately changed the atmosphere— her imposing figure and no-nonsense demeanor commanding attention. She scanned the room briefly before her gaze landed on Goblin Slayer.
"You," she called, her tone sharp but not unkind, "come with me."
Goblin Slayer gave a small nod, turning toward the rat.
"Good luck with that guild thing, man," the rat said, giving him a small salute with his paw. "Hope it works out."
"Thanks," Goblin Slayer replied, his tone neutral as he stepped toward D'Arce.
Together, he followed her through the door, leaving the fat rat to continue his dance— waiting for the return of his elusive, funky beats.
The door clicked shut behind them, and before Goblin Slayer could register his surroundings, he felt a vice-like grip seize his shoulder. D'Arce's gloved hand clamped down hard, and with startling strength, she yanked him forward, nearly causing him to stumble over his own feet. It was the kind of rough, unrelenting pull that an angry mother might use on a disobedient child.
"What's the meaning of this?" Goblin Slayer asked, confused and off-balance as D'Arce dragged him through the office. Her grip was iron, her pace unforgiving.
Her response was immediate, sharp. "I didn't know you were a minor." Her voice, low but furious, cut through the air like a blade. "Had I known, I would never have let you gone off alone like that."
Her words caught him off-guard. What did she mean by that? Before he could voice his confusion, she abruptly stopped in her tracks, releasing her hold on his shoulder. She stood still, her tall figure towering over him, her back straight. Goblin Slayer felt the weight of her stare even before he saw her expression. Slowly, she turned to face him, eyes narrowed in what seemed to be both suspicion and concern.
"How old are you, exactly?" she asked, her voice eerily calm now, but there was an edge to it— an intensity that made the question feel more like a command.
Goblin Slayer blinked, unsure of why she suddenly cared about something like that. But he had no reason to lie. He answered as plainly as ever, "Fifteen."
D'Arce's expression barely shifted, but something in her eyes changed. His words hit her like a physical blow, though she remained composed. Underneath her stoic exterior, Goblin Slayer could sense a sudden tension. She muttered his age under her breath, almost as if she couldn't believe what she'd just heard.
"… Fifteen?" she repeated, her tone now dangerously quiet.
Goblin Slayer, feeling a flicker of unease, nodded once. "Fifteen."
An oppressive silence filled the room. The kind that made the air feel heavy. He could feel the stares of the soldiers and clerks around them—watching, waiting. It was as if everyone held their breath, sensing the brewing storm in D'Arce's demeanor. The tension was unbearable, and for a brief moment, it seemed like time itself had frozen.
Then, breaking the stillness, D'Arce's voice cut through. "Take off your helmet."
Goblin Slayer hesitated. "What?"
"Take. Off. Your. Helmet." Her tone was harsher this time, commanding, leaving no room for argument.
He opened his mouth to protest, to tell her that wasn't necessary, but she cut him off, repeating herself, even more sternly. "Now."
Another uncomfortable silence followed, as the weight of her demand hung between them. Reluctantly, and with no real choice, Goblin Slayer reached up— his gauntleted fingers gripping the edge of his weathered helmet. Slowly, he removed it, revealing his young face.
Without warning, D'Arce's open hand came crashing down across his cheek. The force of the backhand was shocking, sending him flying backward. He hit a desk with a loud crash, and the wood splintered beneath him as the world spun. His vision blurred, and for a moment, all he could see were stars dancing across the ceiling. The sharp, stinging pain across his face radiated through his entire skull.
'What… What just happened?'
Dazed, Goblin Slayer groaned softly— struggling to regain his bearings. Before he could fully comprehend what had just occurred, D'Arce was on him again. In one swift motion, she reached down and grabbed the front of his armor— hoisting him up like he weighed nothing. She held him there, dangling from her grasp like a scolded cat— her cold eyes locked on his.
"We're going to my office," she said icily— her voice devoid of any warmth.
Goblin Slayer, still disoriented, could barely process her words. His head was spinning, his body aching from the impact, but there was no time to react. She stormed toward her private quarters, dragging him along effortlessly. The door slammed behind them with a resounding thud, leaving the stunned onlookers in a shocked silence.
Soldiers and clerks exchanged nervous glances, none daring to speak. The room remained frozen in disbelief, as if everyone had just witnessed something they shouldn't have.
D'Arce dragged Goblin Slayer into her private office and dropped him unceremoniously into a chair across from her large, beautiful mahogany desk. He landed hard, his head still spinning from the slap and the rough handling. His disorientation lingered as he blinked, trying to focus on his surroundings.
The room was well-furnished, with shelves lined with thick, well-worn books and scrolls. The walls were covered in charted maps of the surrounding region, marked with colored pins and scribbled notes— military strategies, as far as the teenager's disorientation vision could tell.
Goblin Slayer's gaze darted between the maps, the books, and D'Arce as she strode around her desk, taking her seat behind it with a cold, unyielding expression. The imposing presence of the room only added to his growing anxiety.
"Don't move an inch," she ordered as she sat down, her eyes never leaving him.
Goblin Slayer straightened in the chair, his hands gripping the armrests as he tried to get his bearings. His head still buzzed from the impact of the slap, but D'Arce's unwavering stare kept him alert.
For a moment, there was only silence between them, tense and thick. Then, D'Arce's voice cut through it like a blade. "You're too young to be doing whatever it is you're hoping to accomplish out here."
Goblin Slayer, still a little disoriented, frowned. "There's no age limit to joining the Adventurers' Guild," he muttered defensively. "Why should it matter for me?"
D'Arce wasted no time in shutting down his argument. "The concept of the Adventurers' Guild is from a bygone era," she snapped. "It'll one day be phased out entirely, in favor of a military expansion that'll replace it. As far as the law is concerned, the age of independence is eighteen, and that's the age one should be before charging off into a dangerous world on their own."
Her tone was sharp and unrelenting, and the teenager could feel the sting of her words even through the haze in his mind.
'Eighteen? Why should that even matter? Just because a group of rich-assholes say so?' Goblin Slayer thought bitterly to himself, while his hands clenched tighter around the armrests of the chair, as his frustration mounted.
"Times are changing," D'Arce continued coldly. "Impotus gobelinus have been on the steady decline since the Pendragon Empire took power."
Goblin Slayer's attention snapped to her at the mention of goblins. He narrowed his eyes. "W… What did you just say?"
""Impotus gobelinus": it's one of the four genera of goblins who exist— it means "Imp Goblin," in Old Common," D'Arce explained factually, without seemingly having to think hard to recall it. "They're the ones most commonly associated with the word "goblin"; the smallest population out of the four genus, yet are the most infamous. The ones you're undoubtedly vindictive of."
'… Imp Goblins? Out of four gener- what the hell even is a "genera"?!' Goblin Slayer struggled to grasp, as the concept of there being more than just one goblin type was one that seemed pointless, as it was frustrating to him.
"Not all goblins are like the ones associated with pillaging and raping," she added, her voice matter-of-fact. "Most goblins are law-abiding subjects who live peacefully within the boundaries of our society. They have the same rights as you and I."
Her words struck him like a blow. Goblin Slayer's mind raced, and a knot formed in his stomach. The memory of Guild Girl's warning echoed in his thoughts— taunting him, as his mind slipped further and further into despair.
""High-risk liability"— that's the reason why the guild can't have someone like you be apart of us, Mr. Ashta."
"No… N-No, that doesn't matter— they're all vermin," Goblin Slayer muttered through gritted teeth, his mind replaying Sofia's words. "It doesn't matter how many genera there are; every single goblin needs to be annihilated."
D'Arce's gaze darkened. "The only thing that needs to be annihilated," she said coldly, "is your delusional beliefs."
The tension in the room grew unbearable. Goblin Slayer's hands trembled slightly as the weight of her words hung over him. D'Arce, however, remained unmoved, her icy demeanor unshaken by the charged atmosphere.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, D'Arce spoke again, her tone softer but still firm. "I won't ask what tragedy may have befallen you, as I am already more than familiar with the common testaments given by survivors of goblin raids. But what I will say is this: whatever happened to you doesn't justify your desire for genocide."
The word genocide hit him like a punch to the gut. Goblin Slayer flinched, his breath catching in his throat as he stared down at the floor. The harsh reality of her words echoed in his head, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.
"I can't imagine what you've been through to harbor such hatred towards goblins, but… To wage war on an entire race— even the majority of goblins who aren't inherently evil— that's… "Madness," as my boss put it."
'Madness? Of course it's madness— why the hell would anyone willingly put themselves through this if they weren't mad?!'
"You… You need help, Mr. Ashta— more than you need to put that sword to good use."
'Then help me! Why isn't anyone helping me?!' Goblin Slayer argued with the voice of Guild Girl in his head— unaware of the way he was manically fidgeting in his seat, much to D'Arce's concern.
'What use is telling someone they need help, and leaving them to fend for themselves?!'
'To fend…!'
'F… Fend…'
'…'
"No matter what happens, stay under here… I love you, Ren. I always will."
"N-No…!"
"Excuse me?" D'Arce asked, while still observing his jittering movements from across the desk.
"No! No, they're all evil— every single one of them needs to die!" Goblin Slayer raised voice— his desperation reminding the captain of the dark elves' own cries.
"You know, there's many fine soldiers in the Royal Army who I know personally, that happened to be goblins themselves. So I know what I'm talking about," She argued— part of her hoping to plant a seed of reason in the troubled teenager's head. One that she saw immediately cast aside, as he sharply shook his head at her.
"N-No, that's… That's not real…! Y-You're wrong…!"
"It's as real as the current state of the world i-."
"-Then it's the world that's WRONG!" Goblin Slayer interrupted her with a loud shout— his left eye flashing an eerie crimson light.
Stunned at first by the strange anomaly, it didn't take long for D'Arce's hand to soon reach for the handle of her sheathed blade— her knees bent and her stance ready, as she waited to strike.
But as quickly as it came, the light in his eye fizzled out— leaving behind a distraught, and lost gaze in its place, and the short-haired knight silently intrigued.
His shoulders slumped, and he hung his head low, unable to meet D'Arce's gaze. "You… You weren't there… You… Y-You didn't see what I saw," the gray-haired teen whispered, as he shut his eyelids closed— the haunting image of his sister's defiled corpse causing him to shrink into his seat.
D'Arce watched him in silence, her eyes softening as she observed the young man before her, so lost in his pain and anger. She let out a small, sympathetic sigh, rising from her chair. Her tall figure loomed over him, casting a long shadow across the desk.
Without warning, her voice rang out with authority. "You're under arrest."
Goblin Slayer's head shot up, confusion flooding his features.
"I'm having you sent to Crossbell, along with the other detainees who will have complied," D'Arce continued, her expression resolute. "Once there, you'll be evaluated before being processed into the foster care system— in due time, you'll be housed and be enrolled into an academy, where you'll learn a trade."
Wide-eyed, with an expression of subtle panic, Goblin Slayer opened his mouth to speak— struggling to articulate his refusal. "I… I-I-"
"-I'm sorry," D'Arce interrupted, with her cold demeanor shifting into a more sympathetic tone. "But it has to be this way."
Her words were final, her decision absolute. Goblin Slayer sat there, stunned, as the weight of what she said settled in. His entire world seemed to shift beneath him, the walls closing in tighter than ever before.
Author's note: This chapter was rather bleak, hence why I felt the need to add the fat funky rat bit. Also, just for those who haven't caught on yet, this story does take place during Year One.