The dust storm kicked up by the charging goblins began to settle, revealing the grotesque horde rushing like a dark tide towards the lone figure standing before the village gate.

  Asael’s breath was steady, his eyes sharp as blades themselves, reflecting not fear—but resolve.

  His grip tightened around the hilts of his swords, the weight of steel familiar, comforting.

  With a powerful yell that echoed across the battlefield, Asael surged forward, his feet pounding against the blood-stained earth.

  His muscles burned with adrenaline as he unsheathed another sword, now wielding twin blades, one in each hand.

  The glint of morning sunlight flashed off the cold steel as he collided with the goblin horde.

  The first goblin swung a crude club, its eyes wild with bloodlust.

  Asael ducked low, his swords singing through the air—shhk!—severing the creature’s leg at the knee and its neck in one fluid motion.

  Before the body hit the ground, he pivoted, slashing across the chest of another goblin, its black blood spraying like ink onto the dusty soil.

  A third goblin lunged with a jagged spear.

  Asael parried with his left blade, sidestepped, and drove his right sword deep into the creature’s chest.

  Its mouth gaped open in a silent scream as it collapsed.

  But amidst the chaos, one goblin managed to slip past his defenses, its rusty dagger slashing across Asael’s thigh.

  A sharp sting of pain flared, hot and searing.

  His leg buckled slightly, but he didn’t falter.

  Gritting his teeth, he roared in fury, lifting his foot and driving a brutal kick into the goblin’s face, shattering its nose and sending it sprawling to the dirt.

  Without hesitation, he spun on his heel, thrusting his left sword into the goblins flanking him.

  The blade pierced through one, the force driving it into the goblin behind, impaling both like skewered meat.

  But there was no time to breathe.

  A shadow loomed behind him—a goblin, larger than the rest, its rusted axe raised high, aiming for Asael’s exposed head.

  Instinct roared louder than thought.

  Asael surged forward, pushing the embedded sword deeper into the goblin corpses just as the axe came crashing down.

  The weapon struck his shield with a thunderous clang, sending a jarring shock through his arm.

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  His armor was beginning to fail him.

  The leather, already torn and soaked with sweat and blood, provided little defense against the relentless onslaught.

  Blades found gaps in the seams, daggers slicing into his side, clubs bruising his ribs.

  A goblin’s dagger found purchase in his right shoulder with a sickening crunch, eliciting a sharp grunt of pain.

  But Asael didn’t stop.

  His blood mixed with that of his enemies, painting him in crimson.

  With a growl, he released the sword embedded in the goblin corpses, seized the dagger still lodged in his shoulder, and yanked it free with a savage pull.

  Without missing a beat, he drove it into the face of the goblin who’d stabbed him, twisting it for good measure before yanking it out.

  His hand now free, Asael reached back, unstrapping the heavy axe from his back.

  Its weight was comforting—a brutal, raw instrument of destruction.

  He swung with wild, controlled fury, the axe cleaving through goblin skulls like ripe melons. Bone shattered, blood sprayed, and bodies fell.

  One goblin tried to flee, scrambling backward in terror.

  Asael’s eyes locked onto it with cold precision.

  With a grunt, he hurled his sword like a javelin, the blade spinning through the air before burying itself in the goblin’s spine.

  Breathing heavily, sweat and blood dripping from his brow, he ripped his spear from the fallen and armed himself once more—spear in one hand, axe in the other.

  The spear became an extension of his will, thrusting forward with deadly accuracy, keeping the goblins at bay, piercing throats, chests, and eyes.

  Those who dared to come closer met the unforgiving bite of his axe, its weight cleaving through muscle and bone with horrifying ease.

  But even Asael had limits.

  The weight of his injuries began to mount.

  His leg throbbed with every step, blood seeping from countless cuts and gashes.

  A dagger embedded itself deep into his calf, but he fought through the agony, wrenching it free and plunging it into another goblin without hesitation.

  Clubs smashed against his shins, axes glanced off his battered shield, and jagged blades found soft flesh when they could.

  His technique became less refined, more primal.

  When the strain of wielding both weapons grew too great, he hurled them into the fray, retrieving discarded swords and axes from the dead.

  His arms screamed with exhaustion, his body a patchwork of bruises and open wounds, yet his spirit remained unbroken.

  The goblins, sensing the mounting fury within him, hesitated for the first time.

  Fear crept into their bloodshot eyes.

  Asael’s face was a mask of rage and blood, his breath ragged but filled with defiance.

  He was not just fighting to live.

  He was fighting so others wouldn’t have to.

  And Asael. Did. Not. Stop.

  ---

  The battlefield was a canvas painted with blood, sweat, and the grotesque remains of goblins.

  Asael stood at its heart, surrounded by a ring of snarling creatures, their jagged teeth glinting under the pale morning sun.

  The ground beneath him was slick with blood—red mingled with the dark, sickly green of the fallen goblins.

  The once firm earth had turned into a grotesque mire of gore and crushed bodies, filling the air with the metallic stench of death.

  His chest heaved, drawing ragged breaths through bloodied lips.

  His leather armor was nothing more than tattered scraps, hanging loosely from his battered frame.

  Cuts and bruises marred his skin, some wounds fresh and oozing crimson, others darkened by dried blood.

  His swords, once shining symbols of hope, were now chipped and drenched in filth.

  His grip was weak, fingers slick with sweat and blood, yet he did not falter.

  He couldn’t afford to.

  Arrows continued to rain down from the village watchtowers, streaking through the air with desperate precision.

  Some found their mark, piercing goblin skulls and throats, but many missed, thudding uselessly into the dirt or striking already fallen corpses.

  The villagers’ arms grew weary, but their hearts burned with determination—they fought for their homes, their families, their lives.

  Asael could feel the fatigue anchoring itself deep into his bones, each breath a struggle, each movement a testament to sheer willpower.

  But just as he tightened his grip on his blood-soaked swords, ready to continue the slaughter, something changed.

  The goblins stopped.

  Their snarls faded into tense silence, their frenzied attacks ceasing as they began to part, forming a wide, ominous circle around Asael.

  He stumbled slightly, his vision swimming from blood loss and exhaustion, but his instincts kept him steady.

  He raised his swords, blood dripping from their edges, eyes narrowing as the horde shifted.

  And then he saw him.

  A shadow amidst the green tide.

  The Goblin Chief.

  Towering above his kin, the creature was a grotesque mockery of goblin-kind—muscular, his grotesque frame rippling with sinew and power.

  His skin was a sickly gray-green, scarred and rough like weathered stone.

  Jagged teeth jutted from his twisted mouth, and his yellow eyes gleamed with malice and cruelty.

  In one massive hand, he wielded a wooden club as thick as a tree trunk, its surface embedded with rusted metal shards, stained dark from countless battles.

  The ground seemed to tremble under the weight of his footsteps as he approached, goblins scattering to make way.

  Arrows rained down upon him, but he swung his club with terrifying ease, deflecting them mid-air as if they were mere twigs.

  The few that managed to pierce his thick hide elicited nothing more than an irritated grunt.

  The chief’s lips curled into a wicked grin.

  "You're strong, little human," the Goblin Chief growled, his voice a guttural rumble that seemed to shake the very air.

  "But that's it. You're just alone at the end."

  The words echoed in Asael’s mind, but instead of fear, they ignited something else—defiance.

  He planted his feet firmly despite the trembling in his legs, his breath ragged but steadying as he stared into the monster’s hateful eyes.

  The pain in his battered body dulled beneath the roaring fire of his determination.

  "Alone?" Asael rasped, spitting blood onto the ground. "I stand for all of them. And as long as I stand, I’m never alone."