The forest of west of Faria was quieter than it should have been.
Not calm.
Empty.
No birds.
No small creatures rustling through the undergrowth.
No wind in the leaves.
Only the sound of enormous paws pressing into soil as Fenrir moved forward at a steady pace.
Cale leaned slightly over Fang’s neck, eyes focused ahead.
“They’ve driven everything away,” he said quietly.
Yes, Fang replied in his mind. This is not goblin behavior.
Cale narrowed his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
Goblins destroy, Fang said. They do not control territory like this.
That was when Cale smelled it.
Rot.
Smoke.
Old blood.
And something else.
Fear.
They reached a rise overlooking a small valley.
And what Cale saw made his jaw tighten.
Below them—
A village.
Or what was left of it.
Houses burned.
Fences broken.
Crops trampled into mud.
And goblins.
Dozens of them.
But these were not like the ones Cale had fought years ago.
They stood straighter.
Moved with purpose.
Wore pieces of armor taken from soldiers.
Some carried shields. Others spears.
And in the center of the village square—
A massive figure.
Nearly twice the size of a normal goblin.
Thick muscles. Scarred green skin. A crude iron helmet forced onto its head.
A Goblin General.
Cale’s eyes sharpened.
“They’re organized…”
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Yes, Fang said. And that is dangerous.
The Goblin General raised its weapon and roared something in its guttural tongue.
The other goblins responded.
Like soldiers.
Cale exhaled slowly.
“Fang.”
I know.
Cale slid off Fenrir’s back.
This time, there was no hesitation in him.
No fear.
Only clarity.
He drew his sword.
“Let’s go.”
And Fenrir’s eyes burned silver.
Cale did not rush.
He and Fang approached the ruined village slowly, keeping to the tree line. The smell reached them before the sight did—burnt wood, spoiled food, and something far worse.
Goblins.
Cale crouched behind a broken stone fence and observed.
Thirty.
Spread carelessly across what used to be a settlement. Some argued over stolen goods. Others dragged debris aside, searching for anything of value. A few stood watch, though lazily.
And at the center—
The Goblin General.
Twice the size of the others. Its massive frame hunched forward, yellow eyes scanning the area with unsettling awareness.
Do not engage the group, Fang’s voice echoed calmly in his mind.
Break them before they understand what is happening.
Cale nodded once.
Then he moved.
The first goblin never saw him.
A clean horizontal cut.
The head separated before the body realized it was dead.
Cale stepped past it as it fell.
The second turned too late. A thrust through the throat ended its scream before it could form.
A third reached for a club.
Cale’s blade flashed once.
Silence.
He flowed through them like a blade through cloth.
No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Every step placed perfectly. Every strike fatal.
Goblins began to panic.
They grabbed weapons, shouted, stumbled over each other trying to form some kind of defense—but Cale was already among them.
A slash across the abdomen.
A cut through the collarbone.
A precise strike to the neck.
Bodies fell faster than the others could react.
Left, Fang warned.
Cale ducked. A crude spear passed over his head. He pivoted, cut through the goblin’s legs, then finished it with a downward strike.
Five.
Eight.
Twelve.
They tried to surround him.
He did not allow it.
He moved constantly, forcing them into each other’s space, turning their numbers into an obstacle.
Panic spread.
Fear followed.
Then the ground shook.
The Goblin General roared.
It charged.
Fast.
Too fast for something its size.
Cale slid backward just as the massive cleaver smashed into the earth where he had stood. Dirt and stone exploded upward.
Do not trade strength, Fang said.
Break its balance.
The General swung again.
Cale stepped inside the arc of the weapon, slashed across the creature’s thigh, then rolled past its legs before it could grab him.
The General turned violently.
Cale was already moving.
He struck its knee.
Then its wrist.
Then its side.
Precise.
Calculated.
The General grew frustrated. Wild. Sloppy.
It lunged forward in a rage—
Cale stepped aside.
Planted his foot.
And drove his blade upward with all the force in his body.
The steel pierced through the underside of the jaw and into the skull.
The Goblin General froze.
Its eyes widened.
Then its body collapsed forward with a thunderous crash.
Silence fell over the village.
Only the wind remained.
Cale stood still for a moment, breathing steadily. Blood dripped from the edge of his blade onto the dirt.
Fenrir approached slowly.
Clean. Efficient. No wasted movement, Fang said.
Cale looked around at the bodies.
Then he pulled the quest parchment from his pouch and read it again.
Proof of extermination required. One right ear or index finger from each goblin.
He grimaced slightly.
“…Right ear is better,” he muttered.
Fang nodded.
Easier to carry. Harder to fake.
Cale moved from body to body.
Precise. Methodical.
He cut the right ear from each goblin and wrapped them carefully in a piece of linen he found among the village ruins.
When he finished, he tied the bundle securely and attached it to his pack.
He looked once more across the destroyed settlement.
“No one else will suffer because of them,” he said quietly.
Fenrir lowered his head slightly.
Then this was necessary.
Cale secured his sword.
“Well,” he said, exhaling, “shall we head back?”
Fenrir nodded.
And together, they left the silent village behind—returning not as wanderers, but as hunters who had completed their task.
But a name, once spoken widely enough, stops belonging only to the person who carries it.
Expectation.
Influence.
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