Alfred the Healer ran through the fading treeline, his robes soaked in crimson. Kujima lay limp in his arms, blood still streaming from his wounds. His eyes were closed, his face pale, barely clinging to life—if he was even alive at all.

  The forest gave way to the village path, and Alfred didn’t stop. His sandals slapped against the dirt road as he stumbled into the first building he saw—a familiar place: the bar where Kujima had once eaten without paying.

  "Is there an infirmary? A healer? Anything?" Alfred shouted, his voice trembling.

  The cook looked up from behind the counter. His eyes widened at the blood-drenched boy in Alfred’s arms… and hardened.

  “We don’t help bastards like that,” the cook spat, shoving Alfred backward and slamming the door shut.

  Alfred crashed to the ground. Kujima’s body followed, hitting the stone with a wet, lifeless thud.

  A crimson puddle began to form beneath them.

  "No… no no—!" Alfred placed trembling hands on Kujima’s throat, searching desperately for a pulse.

  There was none.

  Through the stained glass of the door, the waitress stared in shock, her voice a whisper on the wind. "Brother... I think that boy is dead."

  The cook hesitated, then opened the door slightly. "He’s dead?"

  “Yes,” Alfred growled, clutching the lifeless boy tighter. “Now tell me where the damn infirmary is.”

  The cook shrugged, face void of remorse. “Find it yourself.” He slammed the door again—then opened it a heartbeat later. “And clean up that mess. You’re dripping blood all over my doorstep.”

  “Go to hell,” Alfred muttered, rising to his feet with Kujima still in his arms. Blood soaked through his clothes, leaving a trail behind him.

  As he staggered down the street, villagers peeked through windows, their expressions twisted in fear. Doors slammed. Shutters closed. No one came to help.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Meanwhile, in the forest’s shadow, something else stirred.

  A horde of goblins emerged from the trees, led by a towering beast whose presence chilled the air itself.

  “I am Grak’nar, Chieftain of Goblins,” he roared. “This village will kneel before me!”

  The smaller goblins hissed and giggled behind him. Grak’nar’s nostrils flared as he caught the scent of blood. They followed the trail to the bar’s front steps.

  He motioned to one of his underlings. The goblin shuffled forward, dipped a finger into the pool of blood, and licked it.

  He nodded. Fresh.

  Grak’nar stepped forward, then kicked the bar door open with a thunderous crash.

  “Loot, my kin!”

  The bar was mostly empty—except for the cook and the waitress.

  “Hihihi!” the goblins cackled as they flooded in. Their beady eyes locked onto the waitress.

  “Oho, a woman!” one shouted. “She’s mine! She’s mine!”

  “No, she’s mine!”

  In a frenzy of shrieks and giggles, they pounced toward her, lust glinting in their disgusting eyes.

  The waitress screamed and tried to flee into the backroom. One goblin caught her dress and yanked. It tore at the seams.

  “Don’t run! You’ll like it!”

  “No, please!” she sobbed, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Don’t kill me!”

  A goblin licked his lips. “Kill you? No, no. We’re gonna keep you—forever.”

  Grak’nar grabbed the cook by the throat. His breath was foul, like rot and ash.

  “Where is the one who left this blood?”

  The cook threw up his arms. “I-I don’t know! I threw the bastard out!”

  Grak’nar snarled. “You were useful. Now you’re not.”

  With one crunching motion, he tore off the cook’s head and swallowed it whole.

  The waitress collapsed to her knees, trembling.

  The goblins had torn her clothes completely. Their vile hands were on her—touching her, claiming her.

  Grak’nar turned to them, voice booming. “Let her go.”

  The goblins groaned in protest. “But, Chieftain…”

  “You’ll have her later. After she leads us to the one I seek.”

  The girl blinked through her tears. “I-I know the trail,” she whimpered, her voice nearly gone. Her body shook as she tried to cover herself with torn fabric.

  Grak’nar grabbed her by the throat and lifted her to her feet. His claws dug into her skin, leaving angry red marks.

  “You’ll walk. Now. Show me the path.”

  She staggered outside, still sobbing. Her bare feet moved one step at a time, guided by the blood trail that led into the hills. Goblins jeered and pawed at her as she passed, but none dared touch her too long—not under the Chieftain’s command.

  “This way,” she said, voice cracking. I can find them, she thought. Maybe someone can help. Anyone...

  Elsewhere, Alfred reached a small, decrepit hut on the outskirts. Its door hung ajar, its windows shattered. It was empty.

  He stepped inside and laid Kujima gently on the old bed, his hands shaking.

  “Rest in peace, one I could not save,” he whispered.

  The healer fell to his knees beside the bed, exhausted… and alone.