Chapter 43: Into the Swamps of the Damned
(Part 1 – The Clash with the Hobgoblins)
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The First Test
I stand in the clearing, the ground beneath me hard, cracked with the scars of battle. The arena—the orc village's makeshift ring—smells like sweat, iron, and anticipation. The Orcs circle around me, their eyes hungry, watching my every move. I can feel their judgment in the air, thick and oppressive. It's not just a fight. It's an initiation.
Grug's voice rumbles from the edge of the crowd. "Show me what you're made of, human."
I don't flinch. I don't hesitate.
I square my shoulders, eyes locked on the opponent Grug has chosen for me: a massive orc, bigger than the others. His tusks are yellowed with age, his skin a patchwork of old scars and fresh cuts. He steps forward, swinging a heavy spiked club that leaves a trail of dust in its wake.
This is the test. One-on-one. No tricks, no magic, just raw strength. A battle to prove whether or not I belong in this hellhole.
The orc grins, his mouth wide, revealing broken teeth.
"You ready, human?" he growls.
I don't respond. Instead, I shift my weight, adopting a low stance. My axe feels heavy in my hands, a new weight that makes me feel more dangerous.
The moment I see his muscles coil, I know it's coming. He charges.
I sidestep just as he swings, the club slicing through the air where I was a moment ago. I counter, swinging my axe upward, aiming for his ribs.
He blocks, grunting as my blade skids off his thick arm guard. But that's all I need. I press, moving faster, more calculated. Each step feels like it's a part of something bigger, something primal.
He swings again, but this time, I duck beneath the blow, coming up in his blind spot. My axe cuts through the air and bites deep into the side of his knee. He howls in pain, stumbling back.
I don't let up.
I'm on him before he can recover, slamming the heel of my boot into his stomach. The orc stumbles, his breath coming in harsh gasps, but there's no panic in his eyes. Just the kind of grim determination that only comes from a lifetime of surviving battles.
But he's slowing down.
That's all I need.
With a quick twist of my wrist, I bring the axe down on his shoulder, the blade sinking deep into the muscle. The orc grunts, his club falling from his hand as he tries to reach for the wound.
I don't give him the chance.
I follow through, delivering a blow to his temple.
The orc collapses in a heap at my feet.
The crowd is silent.
Then, slowly, a few of the orcs begin to clap, the sound echoing around the clearing. Grug's low chuckle breaks the tension.
"You've earned your place, human," Grug says, his voice deeper than ever. "Not bad."
I take a breath, my chest heaving. The battle was over quickly. And yet, I'm not tired. The fight felt almost... natural.
"Wasn't here to make friends," I mutter.
Grug lets out a rumbling laugh. "No, but you've got respect now."
He gestures toward the broken orc on the ground. "Finish him."
I look down at my fallen opponent. He's not dead. Yet. But his breathing is shallow, and I can see the pain in his eyes.
I don't hesitate. With a swift movement, I place my axe at his neck, ending it in one clean strike.
The crowd is silent for a moment longer.
"Good," Grug grunts. "You'll do well here."
The tension lifts. For now, at least. The test is over.
---
A Gift from the Orcs
The orc village hums with its usual chaos—deep voices shouting over the crackling of fire pits, metal striking metal as weapons are sharpened, the scent of roasted meat thick in the air. Even after spending a short time here, I know this is the way of orcs.
Survive. Hunt. Fight. Repeat.
And now, it's time for me to leave.
I stand near the outskirts of the village, adjusting the straps of my pack. I've gathered what I need—food, water, a few scavenged tools. Not much, but enough.
Grug stands in front of me, arms crossed, tusks gleaming under the blood-red sky. He eyes me the way a veteran warrior sizes up a younger one—measuring, judging, deciding if I'm worth remembering.
"You leave now?" he grunts.
I nod. "I've stayed long enough."
He snorts. "Hmph. Thought you might. You don't belong here."
I don't argue. The orcs have their world. I have mine.
Still, despite his usual rough tone, there's something else in his expression. Respect, maybe. Or something close to it. He reaches behind him, pulling something free from his belt—a heavy, battle-worn axe.
He thrusts it toward me. "Take it."
I blink, caught off guard. "You're giving me this?"
"Not gift. Weapon. You need better than that useless twig you carried before." He nods at my old blade with barely concealed disgust. "This—" he taps the axe's thick handle, "—this will kill better."
I take it. The weight is perfect. The edge, freshly sharpened. The leather-wrapped grip fits comfortably in my hands.
It's a good weapon. A strong weapon.
I glance back at him. "Thanks."
He grunts. "Hmph. No thanks needed. If you die, give it back."
I smirk. "I don't plan on dying."
Grug lets out a deep chuckle. "Good. But plans change."
With that, he turns, signaling the end of our conversation. No long goodbyes. No unnecessary words. Just a final nod of understanding.
And then—I turn and walk into the darkness.
No looking back.
The real journey starts now.
---
The Swamp of Decay
I should've figured things would get worse.
At first, the ground feels solid—cracked and scorched, just like everything else in Hell. But then it starts to soften, turns damp, sticky, and reeks of something rotten. A swamp. Of course, Hell wasn't bad enough already.
The air is heavier here, suffocating almost. Everything smells like decay—like death clinging to the land. There are pools of black sludge bubbling away, twisted remains floating in the thick, foul liquid. The trees, if you can even call them that, look like skeletal hands reaching up to claw at the sky.
And just as I'm starting to really hate this place…
I hear them.
Screeches. Clanging metal. A fight.
I drop low, slipping forward into the shadows. My senses heighten. There's something up ahead.
A village.
It's small—pathetic even. Mud huts thrown together like someone gave up halfway. There's a makeshift barricade of wooden stakes around it. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.
Hobgoblins.
Bigger than regular goblins, but still hunched and ugly. They look scrappy—nasty little things with rusted weapons and even worse attitudes.
And they're terrified.
Not of me.
Of the things circling their village.
Hellhounds.
There's ten, maybe more. Their molten eyes pierce through the thick mist, muscles tense, waiting. They're studying, sizing up the hobgoblins, waiting for a weak spot.
Which, considering how badly the hobgoblins are screeching in panic, won't take long to find.
This is not going to end well for them.
And yet…
I can't help but smirk.
Because I see opportunity.
---
A Predator Among Predators
Alright, time to think this through.
Option one: Charge in like a complete idiot and get torn apart. Yeah, no thanks.
Option two: Hang back, see how things go, maybe wait for an opening. Better.
Option three: Let them tear each other apart and pick off the leftovers. Now that sounds like a plan.
I stay low, weaving around the edge of the chaos. The hobgoblins are too busy panicking, the hellhounds too focused on their prey.
No one's paying attention to me.
That's their first mistake.
The village is bigger than I thought. Thirty, maybe forty hobgoblins. Most are at the barricade, shaking like leaves, holding onto their rusted weapons like they actually stand a chance.
But the real prize?
The storeroom.
It's got reinforced walls, and a few hobgoblins are actually guarding it seriously. More than they're guarding the entrance.
Supplies. Weapons. Maybe shards.
That's what I'm after.
I grip my axe tighter, heart steady.
Let them fight. Let them bleed. And when they're too weak to put up a fight?
I'll take what I want.
---
The Battle Erupts
The tension snaps like an old rope.
A hobgoblin fires an arrow—wild, desperate, and stupid.
It misses. But it doesn't even matter.
The hellhounds charge.
The barricade shatters, wood flying. Hobgoblins scream.
And just like that—chaos.
I move.
Fast.
The hellhounds tear through the front lines, jaws snapping, dragging their victims into the swamp. The hobgoblins stab wildly, their weapons barely making a dent in the hellhounds' thick hides.
Blood flies everywhere.
Perfect.
I weave through the madness, slipping between shadows. One lone hobgoblin spots me, his mouth opening to yell—
Before I bury my axe in his skull, silencing him instantly.
The storeroom is right there. The guards are distracted. Too easy.
I slip inside, eyes scanning the loot.
Weapons. Mostly junk. But then—
A saber.
It's not rusted. It's not some half-assed weapon made from scraps. It's the real deal. Forged steel.
The hilt is wrapped in aged leather, and the blade? Still sharp enough to cut through bone.
I barely get a moment to appreciate it before—
A low growl rumbles behind me.
I know that sound.
I turn, slowly.
A hellhound.
Not one of the pack outside. This one's a straggler, fresh from its last kill. Blood's still dripping from its jaws. Its molten eyes lock onto mine.
It knows I don't belong here.
I roll my shoulders, tightening my grip on the saber.
"Alright then," I mutter. "Let's see who's the real predator here."
The hellhound snarls, stepping closer. It's big, bigger than the others, but there's something calculating in its movements. It's not just attacking—it's testing me.
I take a deep breath, getting into position. The saber feels like an extension of myself. It's got the perfect weight. The edge is sharp enough to carve through bone.
The hellhound growls again, eyes burning with something I don't like. It's not just anger. It's intelligent. It knows what I am.
It moves forward, closer. It's ready to pounce.
I wait.
And then, it lunges.
I spin, barely dodging as its jaws snap shut just inches from where I was standing. Its claws rake through the air, leaving burning marks on the ground.
With a roar, it turns fast—faster than I expected—and its body coils like a spring.
This time, I don't wait. I charge.
The saber slices through the air, cutting deep into its flank. It howls in pain, but doesn't stop. The creature spins, trying to rip my face off with its claws.
I barely dodge it, but it's enough to keep me on my feet.
I step in closer, driving my blade deeper, aiming for its throat. The hellhound jerks its head back, molten eyes locked onto mine, seething.
The world slows down.
I lunge, putting everything into the strike, and this time, the blade sinks deep.
The hellhound screams, its body crumpling as its molten blood spills out, steaming in the swamp.
It's dead.
And I'm still standing.
I take a moment to catch my breath. The adrenaline is still rushing through me, but I can't relax. Not yet.
The rest of the hellhounds are still out there, and they've noticed me now.
I glance back at the storeroom. It's still standing, but not for long.
The fight's not over yet.
I grip the saber tighter.
Time to make my move.