Chapter 43: Into the Swamps of the Damned
(Part 2 – The Slaughter of the Hobgoblin Village)
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The air inside the storeroom hangs thick with the smell of blood, damp wood, and something else... fear. Not mine.
The hellhound in front of me snarls, molten eyes fixed on mine, steam rising from its blackened fur. Its fangs drip with fresh blood, evidence of its last kill. Its claws sink into the floor, leaving behind smoldering grooves.
It knows. Knows I don't belong here, knows I'm something different.
I tighten my grip on the saber. It feels just right—well-balanced, sharp. Far better than the garbage I've been using up until now.
The hellhound lunges.
I don't flinch. I meet it head-on.
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The Clash of Predators
Its jaws snap just inches from my face as I sidestep, bringing my saber up in a clean arc. The blade cuts through the beast's side—flesh and muscle parting under the strike. A howl of pain erupts, but I don't pause.
I press forward.
A kick to its wounded side, and the hellhound stumbles. Its footing falters.
I bring my saber down—fast. Brutal.
Its head hits the ground before its body even follows.
Silence.
Then, the chaos outside rushes back—screams, growls, metal clashing against metal. The battle between the hobgoblins and hellhounds rages on, but it's not going to last long.
I move quickly, scanning the storeroom for anything useful.
Weapons. Mostly junk. A few rusted swords, chipped axes. Nothing worth taking...
But then, my eyes catch something.
A sack of shards.
Jackpot.
I grab it, securing it to my belt, and slip back outside, blending into the chaos.
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The Village in Flames
Hellhounds rip through the hobgoblins like a plague of fire and fangs. Limbs are torn, bodies trampled, and blood pools in the muck. The barricade is reduced to splintered wood and shattered bones.
The hobgoblins are losing. Badly.
But they're not going down without a fight.
I watch as they scramble, retreating to their shamans—twisted, hunched figures wrapped in tattered hides, chanting in a language I can barely stand to hear. One of them raises a staff, dark energy crackling from its tip.
Not on my watch.
I sprint forward, weaving through the chaos, closing the gap before he can finish his spell.
He doesn't see me coming.
My axe buries itself in his throat.
Whatever magic he was about to unleash dies with him.
The remaining hobgoblins turn to me, their eyes filled with rage.
"You filth!" one of them spits, broken tusks clicking as he snarls. "You dare take from us?"
"You think you're stronger than us?" another hisses, gripping a jagged spear.
Their words don't matter.
I roll my shoulders, cracking my neck. "I don't think," I say, raising my axe. "I know."
And then? I butcher them.
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The Fall of the Hobgoblin Village
They swarm me, desperate, furious, throwing everything they have at me.
A spear flies for my chest. I sidestep and yank the wielder's arm, pulling him forward—straight into my axe.
A club swings at my head. I duck low, slicing through the hobgoblin's legs. His scream is brief, drowned out by the sounds of battle.
One after another, they fall.
They try ambushing me, attacking from behind, but they're too slow.
They try overwhelming me with numbers, but they break first.
I'm relentless.
I'm unstoppable.
And they?
They're prey.
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The Last Survivors
By the time the battle winds down, the village is little more than a burning graveyard.
Hobgoblin bodies litter the ground, hellhound corpses scattered between them. The huts are crumbling, flames licking at their edges.
But I don't kill them all.
Two survivors.
I let them live.
Not out of mercy.
No.
I want them to remember.
To fear.
To spread the word of what happened here.
I kneel by one of them—wounded, clutching his bleeding arm. His eyes are wide, like a rat trapped in a corner.
I grab him by the collar, pulling him close. He squeals, shaking.
"Tell them," I whisper, my voice calm, steady, unshakable.
He nods frantically.
I release him.
He scrambles away, the other survivor trailing behind. They disappear into the swamp, their panicked breaths fading.
Good.
Let them run.
Let them tell their kind.
Because this?
This was just the beginning.
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Continuing the Journey
I stand amidst the wreckage, my breath slow, controlled. My body aches, but it's a good pain—a reminder.
I glance at my spoils: the saber at my side, the sack of shards hanging from my belt, the new strength that thrums beneath my skin.
I've outgrown this place.
It's time to move forward.
I step past the carnage and into the swamp, continuing onward.
Toward whatever Hell has in store for me next.