The sky hung heavy and gray above the dense woods, with its overcast cover pressing a dull gloom over the land. Rising from a thicket of ancient trees, a weathered fortress of dark-blue bricks stood defiant against the creeping chill. At its base, massive moai heads jutted from the earth, with their stony faces partially submerged and weatherworn— adding an eerie solemnity to the fortress's surroundings.
At the large structure's entrance, four firbolgs held their vigil.
Clad in iron armor beneath maroon hooded cloaks, they stood with an air of bored confidence, with their weapons in hand. The tallest among them leaned back against the wall, with his foot braced casually behind him. He wore a leather belt heavy with a warhammer, which rested loosely against his hip.
With a smirk, he pulled a battered cigarette pack from his pouch, tapped the bottom to loosen a few, and then slid one out and placed it between his lips. Flicking the pack up, he offered it to his comrades.
The others turned with grins across their faces, as they reached out to take one. "About time," chuckled the one with the crossbow. "Figured you were gonna keep those all to yourself."
"Yeah, share the wealth," added the spear-wielder, while sliding a cigarette out from the pack.
The bowman took one last, too, with a smirk. "At least we've got something to keep us awake in this fog. Too quiet tonight, don't you think?"
But as they placed the cigarette between their lips while laughing, the warhammer-wielding firbolg went still— his gaze locked on something in the distance. He felt his cigarette fall from his lips, and his comrades turned with weapons poised, and their laughter fading.
A figure was sprinting toward them from behind a nearby moai head— barely visible in the shifting shadows. He was shorter than any of them, clad in dark leather armor reinforced with plates. A helmet, sleek and almost sinister, concealed his face entirely— a red tussle flowing behind the top of his headwear in tattered shreds.
The firbolgs felt a surge of confidence at the sight of his smaller form, but were instantly cautious. Before they could act, the figure threw a small, round object at their feet, and with a crack, smoke billowed up around them— swallowing their sight.
"Spread out!" Roared the spear-wielder, while gripping his weapon. "We can't let him-?!"
His voice was cut off as a sharp thud sounded behind him.
The longbowman let out a strangled cry as something dropped onto his shoulders, and with a flash of steel, two daggers plunged into his eyes. He staggered while letting out a strangled scream, as he blindly grasped for his assailant. The figure clung like a shadow— blade plunging with brutal precision until the bowman's cries faded into a gurgle.
"O-ON MEEEE! HE'S ON MEE-EEWAAAHHH!" The bowman managed to scream, with his voice strangled and desperate.
The spear-wielder, squinting through the dissipating smoke, shouted, "Hold still! I've got him!" He then lunged with his spear, aiming for the stranger, but the figure dodged— countering his attack by throwing a dagger that embedded itself in the crossbow-wielder's eye.
The injured firbolg yelped while gripping his face, as he stumbled backward and fired a bolt blindly, with the bolt shooting into the warhammer-wielder's shoulder, and causing him to bellow in pain.
"Damn it!" The firbolg cursed, while staggering back as blood soaked his armor. "W-What's he-?!"
When the smoke cleared, it revealed the armored teen to the firbolgs— a cold and focused glint in his eyes, hidden behind his helmet's vented visor. The teen dove far to grab the fallen bow from the dead firbolg, before nocking an arrow in one smooth motion, and released it toward the crossbowman.
The arrow struck true, piercing between the firbolg's brows, and he collapsed with his healing potion clattering to the ground uselessly beside him.
The warhammer-wielder charged forward, rage blinding him to the swift, calm movements of the teen, who sidestepped just in time. He hurled the bow at him— causing the firbolg to stumble as it struck his helmet.
Seizing the moment, the teen dropped into a roll— scooping up the discarded crossbow. Without hesitating, he fired the loaded bolt upward from his position on the ground— the projectile finding its mark in the warhammer-wielder's neck.
The firbolg clutched his throat, blood bubbling up as he dropped to his knees, as he gurgled for air.
The spear-wielder, alone now, gritted his teeth while clutching his shield tightly, as he took a defensive stance. "You think you can take me, runt?!" He snarled.
The teen's only response was to lunge forward— feinting toward the spear's shaft. The firbolg swung down with calculated force, but the teen was faster— dodging the strike and grabbing hold of the spear.
This time, he released the weapon just as the firbolg tightened his grip— throwing him off-balance. Before the firbolg could recover, the teen rolled past him and grabbed the broken end of the spear— wielding it like a knife.
With a snarl, the spear-wielder swung his shield in a low, wide arc— forcing the teen to leap backward. But as he did, he planted one foot against the firbolg's shield and pushed off— launching himself above the firbolg's head.
The firbolg whirled around, with his shield raised defensively, but the teen landed lightly on his shoulders— wrapping his legs around the firbolg's neck to gain leverage. The firbolg roared in frustration, grabbing at him, but the teen drove the sharp end of the broken spear repeatedly into his shoulder— his attacks relentless.
A shadow moved beside them— the warhammer-wielder, still clutching his neck and struggling to stand— charged in for a final desperate swing. But the teen shifted his weight— flipping himself off the spear-wielder's shoulder, and causing the warhammer to collide with the other firbolg— shattering his shield arm.
Both firbolgs stumbled, with each one glancing at their attacker with a mix of fear and rage.
The teen landed smoothly, rolling onto his back before rising to his feet, with the broken spearhead still in hand. He and the remaining firbolgs circled each other— a tense silence filling the space between them.
The spear-wielder finally broke, lunging forward.
But the teen was ready.
He leapt over the strike, then stomped down hard on the firbolg's spear— using the leverage to push himself up and launch a powerful kick into the warhammer-wielder's jaw. There was a sickening crack as the firbolg's head snapped back, and he stumbled, with blood spraying from his broken jaw.
The teen's grip tightened on the spearhead as he fell upon the warhammer-wielder— driving the blade into the firbolg's neck in a rapid series of precise stabs. The warhammer-wielder gasped, his grip loosening, as the teen leapt off— sending him crumpling to the ground in a heap.
Only the spear-wielder remained, with his eyes wide with fear, as he backed away— clutching his shattered shield. His breath came in gasps as he raised the shield, his last line of defense, only to watch as the teen approached slowly— each step controlled and calm.
The teen reached down, grabbing the warhammer from the fallen firbolg's limp hand, before testing its weight. He advanced, his expression unreadable behind the helmet, and lifted the warhammer high.
The firbolg flinched, while bracing himself behind the shield. But the first swing struck with bone-shattering force— denting the shield and sending pain shooting up the firbolg's arm. Again and again, the teen swung, relentless— the shield buckling under each impact, as the warrior staggered back. Landing hard on his back, the firbolg's cries of agony echoed through the fortress grounds until, with a final, sickening crunch— the shield split and the firbolg's arms fell limply to his sides.
A pool of blood began to spread beneath him as he lay still— his body crushed and twisted, his iron shield now a warped and useless slab of metal. The teen let the warhammer slip from his hand— inspecting the splintered handle before dropping it beside the shattered remains of his enemy.
Breathing heavily, he reached into a pouch sewn onto his leather armor and withdrew a small vial of green liquid. He raised his visor, revealing a pale face slick with sweat, with his gray hair clinging to his forehead, and crimson eyes like glowing embers. The potion disappeared in a single swig before he tossed the empty vial aside, while lowering his visor back down.
Without a backward glance, he moved past the broken bodies, through the fortress gates, and down a narrow corridor. The armored teen moved like a shadow down the winding staircase, with his form pressed tightly to the cool stone walls— blending into the darkness beyond the torchlight.
Flames from wall-mounted sconces flickered unevenly— casting erratic shapes over the bricks, but he maneuvered expertly around them, stepping lightly to avoid echoing his footsteps. The spiraling corridor emptied into a cavernous dungeon room, and he slipped forward— hugging the wall until he could crouch behind a stack of crates near the entrance.
Peering over the edge, he assessed the scene.
The floor stretched out in checkered tiles of dirty white and black— scuffed and smeared with years of grime. Scattered across the space were towering moai heads— their expressions as cold and unyielding as the stone they were carved from. Around them, dozens of imps moved restlessly— their dagger-tipped fingers twitching in anticipation.
Small and wiry, the creatures had ash-colored skin with a sheen that glistened in the dim torchlight. Some were grinning males with eyes as sharp as their claws, while others were curvy, shapely females whose bodies gleamed with a hint of healthy fat— bare, save for ragged strips of fabric.
The armored teen remained perfectly still, with his gaze cold and unflinching, as he watched the imps chatter in their infernal tongue— oblivious to his presence.
But soon, one of the female imps strayed closer to his hiding spot— her crimson eyes flicking around with mild suspicion. She edged near the crate, and the moment she came within reach, the teen shot out his hand— clamping it over her mouth.
Her muffled yelp barely escaped as he dragged her behind the crate, with his other arm snapping her neck with a clean, brutal twist.
In one smooth motion, he slipped the short sword from her lifeless hand and inspected it. The blade was short and rough, but serviceable. Hoisting her limp body, he hid behind the crate once more, waiting.
"Hey, wait— hold up, fellas… Where'd Ayala go?" Muttered one of the imps in a guttural snarl, with his eyes narrowed, as he peered into the dimness.
"Probably hiding again," sneered another imp, while shaking his head. "She always wanders off."
But a faint, panicked murmur from his hiding place drew their attention, and three of the imps crept forward, with their blades drawn, and their beady eyes narrowed.
The armored teen held his breath, with his muscles coiled like springs.
When they drew close enough, he kicked the crate forward— slamming it into their legs. The imps staggered, curses flying, just as he vaulted over the crate and swung his sword down in a vicious arc.
The blade cleaved through the first imp, slicing from shoulder to hip, with his expression frozen in shock before his body fell in two bloody halves.
The others shrieked, while scrambling backward.
"IN-INTRUDER! GE-GET HIM!" One of the imps screeched, while rallying the others with a furious wave. A surge of imps rushed toward him, with their faces twisted in snarls and twisted grins.
The armored teen took a step back, then swung the corpse of the female imp he'd slain as a grisly shield. The body absorbed their blades with sickening thuds— limbs flailing as the teen wielded it like a grotesque barrier.
He parried a dagger from an approaching imp with his sword, and then twisted his blade and drove it into the creature's chest— the imp howling as blood spurted in a violent arc.
The imps closed in, and with grim precision, the armored teen countered their attacks.
He ducked low, and then leapt into a somersault roll over a moai head— landing just behind two imps who turned, startled, only to be decapitated in one swift motion. As more imps descended on him, he used his improvised corpse shield to block their slashes— a dark humor flashing in his eyes behind his visor, as he shoved the limp body forward.
A group of imps tumbled back with horrified shrieks, as the battered corpse hit them squarely in the face, knocking them off balance.
"WAIT, WHAT THE HELL?! IS THAT AYALA?!" One imp shrieked in disbelief, while backing away as his wide eyes darted to his fallen comrade's battered form.
"No time for sentiment! He's… He's using her as a weapon!" Cried another, while dodging to the side as the teen spun— parrying a dagger strike with his own short sword, and then pivoting to slice an imp across the stomach— spilling its intestines in a crimson wash onto the checkered tiles.
With a flash of movement, he flung the limp imp body at a cluster of attackers— sending them crashing to the ground in a heap of limbs and claws.
Now free, he lunged forward— slashing through the remaining imps with ruthless efficiency. His moves were fluid, and his steps silent as he twirled, rolled, and even flipped over the heads of his attackers— dispatching each with calculated brutality.
One imp attempted to scramble away, but the teen caught him, before dragging him back and slamming his boot onto the imp's head— grinding it into the tile with a sickening crunch. Another imp tried to lunge from behind, but the armored teen, without even glancing, twisted and buried his sword in the creature's throat— pulling it free with a flick of his wrist.
The teen's silent, methodical movements only added to the frenzy among the imps. "We're… WE'RE ALL GONNA FUCKIN' DIEEEEE!" One cried out, while desperately clawing at the walls in an attempt to escape, only to be slashed down by a spinning slice of the teen's blade.
When his sword grew too damaged to cut, he flung it at an imp— the blade lodging in the creature's skull with a nauseating squelch. He then rolled forward to pick up two fallen daggers, and used them to parry and slash, cutting down the frenzied imps in a whirl of motion and carnage.
His boots left bloody prints across the tiles as he moved, never pausing, with his every strike precise.
At last, only one imp remained, cowering in terror.
With cold purpose, the armored teen advanced and grabbed him by the throat, before slamming him to the ground. The imp whimpered, struggling beneath his iron grip as the teen took the handle of a shattered sword to begin bludgeoning him with it— the weapon cracking bone with each strike, until the imp's spasms faded to stillness.
Breathing heavily, the teen scanned the room.
The once-checkered floor was a chaotic mess of crimson, organs scattered, and bodies twisted in unnatural angles. His visor had begun to grow moist with perspiration, so he raised it briefly, before wiping the sweat from his brow. His hair clung to his forehead as he took a slow, steadying breath before flipping the visor back down.
Unbothered, he reached down and picked up a bloodied short sword from the mess around him, before then grabbed the nearest intact corpse— a bulky male imp with a cruel grin frozen in death— and hoisted it with his left hand.
The armored teen slipped through the arched doorway into the next room— a large, dimly lit storage area littered with moai statues, their eyes carved deep and inscrutable. Crates of supplies lay scattered across the space, and behind each, small green-skinned goblins crouched with jagged bows and rusting crossbows at the ready.
They were tense, some peeking from behind cover with narrowed eyes, others whispering with nervous glances. The teen inhaled slowly, with his gaze steeling.
As he emerged from the shadows, they spotted him instantly. "SHOOT THAT BIG BITCH!" Cried one goblin, and at once, a volley of arrows and bolts whistled through the air.
The teen thrust the imp's body forward, using it as a shield, and charged headlong into the hailstorm of projectiles. Some bolts embedded themselves in his shoulder and thigh armor, but his iron helmet deflected a series of arrows with sharp, metallic pings.
The imp's corpse took the worst of it, limbs jerking with each impact, as he pushed forward until he was within feet of the nearest moai head— forcing the goblins hiding behind it to scatter.
"GET THE HELL OUTTA MY WAY!" Shouted one goblin, but in the chaos, one of them stumbled backward, only to catch an arrow from her own ally in the shoulder. She yelped, with her bow dropping from her hands as she slumped to the floor.
With one final heave, the teen hurled the imp's body at a group of goblins who were peering over a pile of crates. They shouted, scrambling back as the body hit them and knocked them off balance. Before they could recover, the teen reached into his belt and dropped a small, gray smoke bomb at his feet.
Thick clouds of dark smoke billowed up— filling the room with a choking haze.
"AYO?! WHERE'D THE HELL DID HE GO?!" Wailed one goblin, while the others began firing wildly into the smoke— bolts and arrows shooting in every direction, as they all panicked.
The armored teen, moving silently in the confusion, pulled each embedded bolt from his armor, before tossing them aside with a grimace. He slipped through the smoke, rounding the nearest stack of crates, and ambushed a goblin who was clutching a crossbow that was trembling in the dark. Before the goblin could even scream, the teen's short sword carved through him— the blade slicing into bone and sinew with sickening ease.
The goblin's cry gurgled into silence.
Elsewhere in the smoke-filled room, goblins fired erratically. "KEEP SHOOTING! WE'RE BOUND TO FREAKIN' HIT HIM EVENTUALLY!" One of them snarled, while coughing as he tried to aim. In their confusion, their shots often hit their own allies, who cried out in pain and stumbled over each other.
Amid the chaos, the teen pulled out a flashlight— using its dim beam to illuminate the area he was taking cover behind, just enough for his search. He began prying open crates, wincing as the wood splintered loudly. His hand brushed over cold steel— shotguns, heavy and brutal, clattering to the floor in a mix of fresh blood and grime.
"WAIT, YOU DIPSHITS; STOP FRIGGIN' SHOOTING EACH OTHER!" One goblin's voice screeched from somewhere in the smoke, with the faint click of reloading bolts echoing.
Desperate, the teen pried open another crate— this time revealing boxes of ammo. He frantically searched through them, fingers curling around 20-gauge shotgun shells, which he quickly stuffed into his leather pouches.
By the time the smoke had finally cleared, he had armed himself with two shotguns— one in each hand. He could see goblins blinking in the dissipating smoke, all of them just beginning to register what was happening.
"OH SHIT! THERE GOES THAT BOY!" Shrieked a female goblin who was clutching a jagged dagger, but her voice ended in a piercing scream as the teen raised both shotguns and pulled both triggers.
Four rounds blasted out with a thunderous roar, with the goblins closest to him being torn apart in a mess of bloody chunks— their bodies collapsing into grisly piles.
"HOLY FUCK, FELLAS! HE KNOWS HOW TO USE A FRIGGIN GUN!" One of the goblins screeched, before diving behind a moai head as the others scrambled to hide— pressing themselves flat against the crates, and any other cover they could find.
Dropping one shotgun, the teen crouched beside the crate he'd pried open— swiftly unloading the remaining shells from the other gun. The spent casings dropped to the ground— rolling across the checkered tiles, as he deftly reloaded two fresh rounds with a satisfying snap.
The air thickened with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid tang of gunpowder, clinging to his senses as he sighted down at the peeking goblins. One stuck his head out just a little too far, and the teen fired a single round— blasting the goblin's head off in a spray of greenish blood. The others cried out, retreating further, with bolts firing wildly at him as they tried to gauge his position.
"OI, THAT DOES IT! NO MORE BEING PISSY CRYBABIES!" Yelled one brave goblin out of the bunch, with his voice shaking, as he tried to rally his comrades. "THAT PRICK CAN'T SHOOT US ALL AT ONCE! LET'S FUCKIN' GOOOOOOO!"
Several goblins rallied behind him, while gripping their clubs and rusted blades.
With a furious battle cry, they charged. The teen fired, taking down the front line, but more kept coming. Dropping the shotgun in his hands, he seized another from the floor with a hot barrel. As one goblin raised a club over his head, the teen swung the shotgun's butt with brutal force— smashing it into the goblin's face and sending him reeling.
Another lunged with a short sword, but the teen blocked— twisting the weapon from the goblin's hand, before driving the shotgun butt into his jaw, and shattering bone. More goblins swarmed, and the teen continued to strike them down in powerful, sweeping blows, until the shotgun splintered in his grip.
"CLUTCH! CLUTCH!" Screamed another, a smaller goblin, while charging with a dagger raised. The teen caught her wrist in midair, twisting until he heard the snap, before lifting her and slamming her into the ground. She clawed at his armored arm as he brought his fist down— pounding her skull into the tile until it caved.
An arrow whistled through the air, bouncing off his helmet, which caused him to turn his head to see the archer who had shot him fumbling to reload. He seized the nearest corpse, before hurling it at the archer with a grunt of exertion. The goblin barely had time to scream before the dead body knocked him down— pinning him to the floor.
Quickly, the teen ducked behind a nearby crate, while breathing heavily.
He picked up a serrated short sword from a fallen goblin and, with a few swift saws, cut the stocks off two more shotguns to fashion makeshift sawed-offs. Filling his pouches with every shell he could find, he loaded each shotgun with a snap before darting out from behind cover.
He weaved around the moai heads, with the goblins' bolts and arrows flying as he closed in. They reloaded frantically, some with shaking hands, but he was too fast. One by one, he fired, blasting through their cover and catching each in a spray of gore.
At the far end of the room, a goblin sneaked toward the uncrated guns— his eyes wide with fear, but resolute. He picked up a shotgun, and struggled to hold it steady, as he loaded two shells and snapped it shut.
Rising from behind his cover, he took aim, but as he fired, the recoil sent him flying backward, with his shoulders dislocated with a cry of agony. The shot went wide— just missing the teen, as he stomped down on a writhing goblin nearby.
Realizing the danger, the teen dashed toward the trembling goblin, who lay propped against a stone wall— frantically trying to reload. The teen vaulted over the crates in a single bound while aiming both shotguns, and pulling the triggers as he descended.
The twin blasts turned the goblin's head and chest into a mist of green blood and shattered bone— splattering his insides onto the wall behind him.
With the final goblin dead, silence settled over the room.
The teen stood among the wreckage, with smoke still curling from his barrels. He unloaded the spent shells, letting them clatter to the floor, before reaching down to pick up four more buckshots— sliding them into his sawed-off shotguns with smooth efficiency. He tucked the weapons under his arms, before reaching into his leather pouch for another stamina potion.
With a sigh, he flipped up his visor— revealing his sweat-slicked face that gleamed in the dim light. Gasping, he uncorked the vial and downed the bitter liquid, before tossing the empty glass onto the blood-stained tiles.
Wiping his brow, he exhaled deeply before closing his visor again.
Surveying the gory battlefield one last time, he picked up two daggers, before tucking them into the sheathes on his chest piece. With the shotguns gripped firmly in his hands, he strode forward, steel-eyed and ready— vanishing into the next room with deadly intent.
The next dungeon room stretched wide— lit only by scattered, guttering candles that cast a sickly light over grotesque displays. Tables groaned under the weight of cracked jars and gurgling, greenish liquids, and bowls brimming with human remains sat among grimy books, all of which were scrawled with runes that the armored teen couldn't decipher.
A twisted altar loomed at the center, crusted with layers of dried blood, and next to it, a lone book lay on a pedestal as though demanding attention. But the room's chilling, surreal atmosphere was made even stranger by the sounds of soft, smooth jazz drifting from an old vinyl record player in the corner.
The music reverberated off stone walls— lending a twisted calm to the scene that was almost mocking the muffled cries for help that the armored teen could hear from beyond the closed door, on the opposite side of the makeshift laboratory.
In the center of it all stood a figure swathed in maroon and black. A tall, dark-elf with cruel red eyes and a long, pale mane stared at him with a smug grin— his dark-blue skin set off by the candlelight.
"So. Another fool stumbles into my domain," he drawled, while sneering as he studied the armored teen from head to toe. "You all think of yourselves as heroes, yet here you are: you just murdered nearly one-hundred of my soldiers and minions, just to get to me… What was it then? A promise of gold? Or perhaps a spark of patriotic pride to the bloody Em-?!"
The armored teen didn't waste another moment.
Without a word, he raised his shotgun and fired— sending a booming blast echoing through the chamber. The buckshot surged toward the elf's head but halted, and became suspended in mid-air by a shimmering ward. The Dark Mage chuckled softly as his ward glowed faintly— flickering with a smug, pale light.
"A feeble effort," he mocked, before snapping his fingers. The buckshot then spun around, then ricocheted back with a crack— streaking past the armored teen's head and punching a fresh hole in the door behind him.
"Typical," the Dark Mage sneered, with his low voice dripping with disdain. "Your ilk… So crude. You all think a crude little weapon can match my power." He said mockingly while rolling his eyes, as a sneer twisted his lips. "I don't expect much from the peasantry, but I must say, you are particularly disappointi-...?!"
The armored teen's stance didn't waver.
Without a word, he tossed another smoke bomb onto the floor— a dense cloud hissing up between them.
The Dark Mage's nostrils flared, with his mouth twisting with irritation. "Pathetic," he muttered, before flicking his wrist in a lazy arc. A blast of wind erupted from his hand— dispelling the smoke and sending the teen tumbling back across the slick, blood-stained floor. "You can't even face me with a shred of dignity, can you?! What more should I expect though, from the rejected class of your soc-?!"
But as the air cleared, the teen's remaining shotgun was already raised— a shot ringing out towards the end of his opponent's sentence.
The Dark Mage's eyes widened while following the path of the blast, as it severed the chain holding the massive chandelier overhead. With a horrified snarl, the elf barely had time to blink-step away as the chandelier plummeted— shattering atop his spell table and scattering his precious artifacts.
"Why you, filthy, lowly, little bastard…! Do you have ANY idea what you've just ruined?!" He demanded with his voice climbing an octave, as rage twisted his face. "You pathetic little corporate-slave! I'll burn the flesh off your bones for that!"
With a snarl, the dark-elf conjured a spinning sigil that hovered menacingly before his palm— glowing with a sinister purple light. "I've dispatched countless imbeciles before you, but you, you might be the dumbest, the most ANNOYING adventurer I've ever met!"
He then unleashed a barrage of crackling missiles from his palm.
Each bolt exploded against the stone walls and checkered tiles, as they struck the floor in rapid succession— ripping the room apart piece by piece as they pursued the armored teen, who ducked and wove between overturned tables— dodging with each step.
"Do you enjoy scurrying about like a rat?!" The elf snarled, with his tone thick with malice. "Or is this just a survival instinct for you bottom-feeders?!"
Ignoring him, the armored teen sprang forward again with his shotguns aimed— breaching the elf's ward with a close blast.
But before he could pull the trigger, the Dark Mage conjured a powerful gust— sending him spiraling backward. Mid-air, the teen steadied himself— skidding to a stop on his heels— before charging again.
The mage blink-stepped across the room while sneering, as he summoned a glowing chain of lightning that crackled between his fingers before lashing out.
The bolt hooked around the teen's wrist— yanking him forward with a fierce electric shock that made his muscles seize up. He felt the heat spreading under his armor, and his skin pricked in agony, as he was pulled towards the mage, who watched him with a sickly, gleeful grin.
The elf raised his other hand— conjuring a crackling blade of pure energy. "Now, shall we put an end to this miserable farce?!" He retorted, with his eyes glittering with malice. And as the dark-elf raised his blade, the teen's eyes flashed behind the visor of his helmet.
The glint of a device hidden in the teen's hand caught the elf's attention too late.
In a blinding instant, a magnesium flash grenade ignited— flooding the room with light. The Dark Mage staggered, clutching at his face, with his vision dissolving into stars, while his hearing reduced to a painful ringing.
He stumbled, with blood from his ears and nose trickling onto his robes, as he struggled to focus.
In the haze, the teen's next blast tore through the elf's chest— shredding through skin, ribs, and sinew. The force of the blast sent him reeling backward— slamming him up against the wall, with his lungs punctured and failing, and his blood spilling across the floor.
Coughing and gasping, the mage looked up with blood-specked lips, with his red eyes wide and panicked. "W-Wait…! Wait!" He sputtered out, while raising a trembling hand in surrender. "Spare me! I-I am worth more alive! Do you hear me?! The Royal Army— they'll pay handsomely for a Lord of Blackwatch; for someone of my… P-Pedigree…!"
The armored teen's gaze remained icy as he stared down at the mangled mage, with his gloved hand tightening around his weapon.
"Th-Think about it," the dark-elf continued, with his voice straining as he choked on his own blood. "A… A mere quest, paid for by a greedy corporation?! Peanuts, compared to the reward the army would offer for— twenty thousand dollars! Twenty platinum pieces!" He shouted while beginning to gurgle, as his voice turned from bargaining to pleading.
The armored teen shifted his shotgun— tilting his head slightly as though considering. "So you say… Just one question though," he murmured, with his voice low and dangerous.
The mage managed a bloody, condescending grin, with some of his old arrogance seeping back as he sensed an opportunity. "Oh, W-WHAT now?!" He asked with a gurgled scoff, while rolling his eyes at the teen. "Do ask, but be quick about it! I'm bl-bleeding out, if you hadn't noticed…!" He sneered, as he licked the blood from his lip. "Speak, o' lowly killer…! if you can even string a thought together…"
The armored teen's voice then cut through the room, cold and calculated, as he asked the dark-elf, "Warlocks need concentration to cast spells, right?"
The Dark Mage's grin faltered, with a flicker of doubt crossing his face. "W-Well, of course," he said, with a nervous edge creeping in as he processed the question. "Any fool knows that, even someone of your… Intellect."
The armored teen adjusted his grip on the shotgun, spinning it around, so as to hold it by its barrels,before lifting it over his shoulder like a bat. "So," he said, with his voice dripping with menace, "a concussion should be enough to keep you quiet."
Upon realizing what was about to happen, the Dark Mage's eyes widened in horror as his hands went up in a frantic attempt to shield himself. "N-No, no, no, no- WAIT! WAIT! W-!"
But the armored teen's arm came down, with the butt of the shotgun crashing into the elf's skull with a sickening crack. The mage screamed, then choked as another blow came down, and another— each swing heavier, splattering blood across the stone floor.
His shrieks gave way to pitiful whimpers until he finally slumped— unconscious and beaten.
The armored teen straightened while breathing heavily, with his gaze still fixed on the limp form of the once-arrogant mage. He wiped the excess blood from the stock of his weapon, before muttering with a chilling calm, "I'll be back to get you."
He then turned on his heel, stepping over shattered glass and blood-spattered books, as he headed toward the closed door beyond the shattered laboratory.
The armored teen took a steadying breath and pushed open the door to the next room, with his single remaining sawed-off shotgun gripped firmly in his hands. Upon stepping inside, he grimaced the moment he was hit by a stench that clawed at his senses— decay and human waste, thick and sour in the stagnant air.
He instinctively began to breathe through his mouth, all while suppressing the urge to gag as he ventured further into the dungeon's final depths.
The room was a horror-show of torture, and was lined with tools bearing the marks of unspeakable pain. A long table nearby was strewn with twisted implements: spiked clubs, tongs, jagged knives, and pliers stained with dried blood and bits of flesh.
In one corner, an iron rack loomed, its gears and screws still slick with some poor soul's blood. Against the opposite wall sat an Illmater cradle that was stained with fluids that had long since dried into dark, crusted patches.
He shuddered, while forcing himself not to dwell on what these tools had done to the prisoners here.
Pressing on, he entered a narrow corridor lined with cells. Inside each were humans and other beings huddled together— their gaunt faces filled with hollow, hopeless stares. Mothers and fathers clutched their children close— offering whatever comfort they could, but their eyes held a desperate look as they gazed up at the teen.
One woman, in her mid-thirties, caught his eye.
She held two young daughters against her ample chest, with her blond hair matted and her brown eyes bloodshot from nights of crying. Her clothes were torn, barely covering her; and as her children buried their tear-streaked faces against her chest, she looked up at him with fragile hope.
"Are… Are you here to save us?" She asked, with her voice a weak, trembling whisper.
He swallowed, before glancing away for a moment. "I, uh… Y-Yeah, I guess I am," he replied awkwardly, with his voice gruff but sincere. He then cleared his throat, before saying, "Alright," while speaking louder this time, before turning his gaze to the other prisoners. "Everyone— back away from the doors, and stay clear of them. Face the walls, and cover your ears."
The prisoners complied— shuffling to the backs of their cells, before turning away from him.
He then nodded and continued down the corridor, where the air grew fouler with each step. The smell of waste, rot, and old blood grew thicker until he reached the end.
There, he lifted his flashlight and grimaced as its beam fell upon a series of runes smeared across the checkered tiles— their lines drawn with dark, congealed blood. In the center of the room lay a twisted pile of rotting corpses— their insides hollowed out, as if something had clawed and ripped them from within.
He fought back the urge to vomit with his bile rising up in his throat, but he forced himself to focus. Shaking off the nausea, he returned to the cells before trying each door. Each one rattled uselessly in his hand— locked.
With a grim resolve, he leveled his shotgun at the first lock and fired. The gun's blast echoed down the stone corridor, and the lock shattered. He opened the door, reloaded, and moved to the next cell— blowing each lock apart one by one until he reached the end.
The metallic clink of spent shells hitting the bloodstained floor reverberated through the silence as he reloaded.
Walking back into the torture area, the prisoners cautiously emerged from their cells— glancing at him with a blend of hope and disbelief. He looked back at them, with the last two shells clicking into place in his looted shotgun, as he dropped the empty shells to the ground.
"There's a village less than an hour from here," he said gruffly, while scanning their faces. "A place called Harming… I-I don't know who named it that, but, uh… I can take you there."
The woman who had spoken up earlier clutched her children close, before taking a shaky step forward— her eyes filling with tears. "That's…That's where we're from," she said, with her voice cracking. "Harming… That's… Our home."
He looked at her, with empathy flickering in his eyes as he nodded. "I see," he replied, while awkwardly shifting. "I… I'll make sure you all get home safe. Then, uh… I'll head back here to… Finish things with the dark-elf."
A man, with his face gaunt and shadowed, stepped forward; his voice thick with disbelief, as he asked, "You're… You're sparing that bastard?! After what he did to us?!"
The armored teen's jaw clenched, as he thought of something on the spot to say. "He's, uh… Worth more to the Royal Army alive. They can get information out of him… To maybe prevent another village from being raided— or something…?"
That's when another prisoner muttered bitterly, "Or maybe you just want the reward on his head, and don't care much about justice…!"
Caught off guard, the teen's expression flickered, as he stammered— struggling to explain. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
The mother with the twins then reached out, and gently touched his arm with her gaze softening. "It's alright," she murmured more so to her neighbors, than to him. "We owe you our lives. If you believe it's for the best, then… Thank you. For everything." She said, while giving his arm a small squeeze, and offering a faint, comforting smile.
"I… I have to admit that I ever believed that someone would come to save us," she said, with her voice wavering as she gazed up at him. "But I still prayed every night for a miracle— praying to Arceluid to protect my girls… Though, part of me feared my prayers fell on deaf ears." She admitted, before shaking her head and giving a hollow, humorless laugh. "I should've known that Earth Mother wouldn't let anything happen to my girls..!"
Her voice then darkened, as she added, almost to herself, "Only… I wish She'd answered sooner."
The armored teen shifted uncomfortably, while struggling to find words that might bring her comfort. He barely managed to stammer out, "I'm… Sorry," with his voice muted and awkward.
The woman looked up at him again, with her face softening. "You don't need to apologize," she murmured gently, while shaking her head. Her lips quivered as a small smile broke through, with tears slipping down her chubby cheeks. "But… May I know your name?" She asked with her tone warm, hesitant— almost reverent. "Please. At least tell us the name of our savior."
The armored teen's breath hitched, while feeling a bit flustered and utterly unprepared to be anyone's savior. He instinctively reached up to rub the back of his neck, with his gloved fingers grazing the cold metal of his helmet, while his other hand held the shotgun lowered at his side.
"Uh, it's… It's Renard Ashta," he managed to say, with his voice unsteady. "But… Well, everyone I know just calls me Ren, so… You guys could do that too, if you wanted." He said, with a forced sheepish, crooked smile behind his helmet, all while still feeling a bit naked under her soft, grateful gaze.
A man nearby, overhearing, raised an eyebrow. "So… "Ren" is your adventurer name too, then?"
"Oh, uh…?!" The teen stuttered out, with his cheeks growing warm beneath his helmet. "You meant… That. Uh, no— my title's… Well, it's… "Goblin Slayer"." He revealed with his voice faltering, as he let out a slightly uncomfortable laugh— noting how some of the captives stiffened, a flash of second-hand cringe breaking through their initial relief.
The blond mother just chuckled softly, while giving him a patient, knowing smile. She patted him on his shoulder armor again, with her hand lingering in a motherly way. "It's a fitting name for you, Ren." She said, before looking back at her girls, and then nodding toward them with tenderness. "I'm Saria Winthrope. And these are my daughters, Elara and Lisbeth. They're both twelve."
Goblin Slayer looked down at the twins, with his mouth opening as he tried to find something to say. "Oh, uh… They're not that much younger than me, actually…!"
Upon hearing this, Saria's eyes widened with curiosity, while the other prisoners exchanged bewildered glances. "Really?!" She asked softly. "A young man like you, willing to risk his life…?!"
The teen gave her a hesitant nod. "I mean… I'm just… Doing what I have to get by, I guess."
Saria's gentle smile faded, as her curiosity lingered. She seemed to be searching his face, or what she could see of it beneath the helmet— as if trying to piece together the story of the boy beneath the armor. "It's… Awful, that someone your age has to resort to subjecting themselves to this life… Isn't it?"
Ren felt his throat tighten, with a mix of emotions churning within him. He managed to swallow down the emotions tangled up in his mind. "We should… Go," he muttered, with the words coming out gruffly as he turned slightly, with his body language more rigid.
The others, sensing his discomfort, began gathering their families, and began murmuring among themselves. But Saria's gaze lingered on him, her expression soft— as if seeing something vulnerable in the silent teen behind the metal.
Author's notes: I wanted to re-release this chapter, with the new chapters, with, of course, this becoming what it always should have been: a Goblin Slayer fic. So, here are some notes for what I liked about the prototype story, "Let's Build a Guild", and what I didn't like about it:
PROS:
() I know it's controversial, but I liked the concept of expanding on the backgrounds of the canon characters. I think my execution was done okay, but this time around I want to go more in-depth with that, all in different directions, of course.
() Actions scenes towards the end were my favorite, and this time around I'm going to keep the action sequences as close to Madness Combat as I can. During this chapter for example, I imagined Goblin Slayer as Hank J Wimbleton, which is why in this fic, Goblin Slayer is a bit more skilled than his canon self? He's got it a bit easier all around, this time around, as the trauma he has this time around is minimal. He has his older sister, and never experienced a raid like the one in Year One— their struggles will be reflective of their poverty, growing up in a fast-paced environment where they know they're replaceable.
() Zemuira itself, and the map locations I wrote were one of my favorite parts of the last run around. This time, I made an actual map that's still in development. Just like last time, but more apparent to me now, this whole story and the last one takes place in a continent similar to Europe.
() Goblin Slayer having a best friend like Remi Kusugai was fun, so I'm definitely going to keep Remi in this one— albeit, their character will be a bit more fleshed out, and they'll be less OP.
() I love the idea of there being the Pendragon Empire's Royal Army versus Zemuria's Blackwatch. They're definitely going to be expanded more, this time around.
() Solid enough story, it; it gave me the outline for what I want to expand on.
() Loved the creative liberties I took, but I feel as though I'll have a better direction in where to take them this time around.
() Even though it might have be OOC, I loved the way I wrote Goblin Slayer, whenever he wasn't being miserable.
CONS:
(-) The power-scaling last time around was too sudden. This time, it's going to be far more gradual. I even got an app on my iPhone that makes it easy for me to make actual character sheets for each party member. Goblin Slayer already starts of pretty strong— strong enough to carry the story that won't revolve around goblins. (As a side note, it'll be brought up later why he chose the title "Goblin Slayer", when he himself doesn't have a vendetta to goblins this time around. Spoiler alert: the name "Slayer" was already taken, by the time he joined up with the guild.)
(-) Last story was meant to be a harem, but uh... I actually don't think I like writing harems. I'd rather have Goblin Slayer and Cow Girl be the move. She's already very much the wifey-type, and she and Goblin Slayer are the closest in canon.
(-) Last story was too angst. This time around, I want to drop the following themes: any mentions of rape, sexual violence. Everything else is okay though, but definitely going to have the cast be far less traumatized. We're in our goofy ahh era.
(-) Last story had an alright balance between slice of life and action, but the slice of life was too plot orientated. This time around, I want more scenes of them fucking around.
(-) Didn't introduce the characters I wanted fast enough. This time will be different.
(-) Last story had smut, but I didn't really like it all that much? I'll probably make an omake to this, idk.
(-) Last story's in-universe canon with the Empire and world building was all over the place. Shout out to Abraxas365 for helping me iron out the details, this time around.
(-) Last story's plot was too windmilling about. This time I want to slow things down, and gradually show things happening, rather than things just being perfectly aligned for the sake of plot progress.
That's all I can think of, for now... I'll probably release images of character sheets at the end of the chapter, for each new party member. Small ones, and simplified. If you have any suggestions or feedback, feel free to let me know!