The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a soft golden hue across the peaceful village.

The gentle chirping of birds harmonized with the faint rustle of leaves as a cool breeze whispered through the narrow dirt paths winding between humble wooden cottages.

Farmers tended to their crops, their hands coated in fresh soil, while others carried baskets of vegetables, chatting softly under the warm embrace of the morning sun.

In a quiet corner of the village, Asael sat cross-legged beneath a withered old tree, his eyes closed in deep meditation.

The faint shimmer of morning light danced on his face, highlighting the creases formed from countless battles and sleepless nights.

He was trying—desperately—to connect with the gods, seeking their guidance, their strength.

But nothing came.

His brow furrowed, his fingers clenched into fists.

“Tch! Failed again…” he muttered under his breath, frustration flickering in his eyes.

Shaking off the disappointment, he rose, gripping his weapon tightly.

The cool metal felt familiar, grounding him.

Without wasting a second, he resumed his training, his body moving with precision—each swing sharp, each stance disciplined.

The sound of his blade cutting through the air echoed faintly, blending with the morning calm.

But then…

His movements froze mid-strike.

A sudden, sharp sensation prickled at the edges of his senses—an unsettling disturbance, like a shadow creeping where light should be.

His instincts screamed.

Without hesitation, Asael sheathed his weapon and sprinted toward the village gate, his heart pounding.

But before he could reach it—

DONG! DONG! DONG!

The village bell rang out, its loud, urgent chimes shattering the peaceful morning like glass underfoot.

The villagers dropped everything, fear etched into their faces as they rushed to the village square.

Mothers clutched their children, farmers gripped tools with trembling hands, their eyes filled with questions and dread.

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The village chief appeared, his face grim, the lines of age carved deeper by worry.

His gaze swept over the gathered crowd, lingering for a heartbeat on each familiar face.

Then, with a heavy sigh, he spoke:

“Everyone… we need to leave this place. Now.”

A stunned silence followed, as if the words hadn’t fully settled into their hearts.

Then a shaky voice broke through:

“What do you mean, Chief? What happened?”

The chief’s expression darkened, his jaw clenched tightly.

“A horde… around a hundred goblins are marching toward us. We can’t stop them.”

Panic rippled through the crowd like wildfire.

Gasps, cries, desperate murmurs.

Faces drained of color, hope flickering like a fragile candle in a storm.

“But… where will we go? This is our home!” another villager cried, their voice trembling.

The chief’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“I don’t know… anywhere but here. If we stay, we die. We must move—quickly!”

Fear hung heavy in the air, suffocating.

People looked around, seeking answers, seeking comfort—but finding none.

Until Asael stepped forward.

His presence cut through the chaos like a blade, steady and unyielding.

“Do we have bows and arrows?” His voice was firm, commanding.

A few villagers nodded hesitantly.

“Y-Yes, but why—”

“Then take them. Climb the watchtowers and support me. I’ll face them at the gate.”

A heavy silence followed, disbelief etched into every face.

The village chief’s eyes narrowed.

“No. You can’t defeat them alone.”

Asael met his gaze without flinching.

“I’m much more stronger than you think. And if… if things go wrong, you’ll have enough time to escape while I hold them off.”

His words were simple, but they carried the weight of sacrifice—of a man willing to stand alone against death itself.

The chief looked down, his heart warring with his duty.

After a long pause, he exhaled shakily.

“…Everyone, do as Asael says.”

The villagers hesitated, but then, one by one, they moved, gathering weapons with trembling hands.

Before Asael turned to leave, he glanced back.

“One more thing… can I get more weapons?”

The chief managed a faint, grim smile despite the fear shadowing his face.

“Of course.”

With a quick nod, he signaled a villager to fetch them.

As Asael stood there, watching his people scramble to prepare, the rising sun bathed the village in gold—perhaps for the last time.

----

The morning sun had barely risen, casting long, golden rays across the peaceful village.

The chirping of birds was now replaced by the tense rustle of hurried footsteps, the soft thrum of bowstrings being tested, and the anxious whispers of villagers clinging to fragile hope.

Twelve villagers scrambled into position, three on each of the four wooden watchtowers that flanked the sturdy village gate.

Eight of them clutched bows tightly, knuckles white, while the other four carried quivers brimming with arrows, ready to supply their friends in the heat of battle.

Some were seasoned hunters, their hands steady despite the looming threat.

Others had never drawn a bow against anything more dangerous than a deer, and fear clouded their eyes.

On the ground below, Asael stood like an unyielding pillar amidst the rising tide of fear.

His leather armor, crudely stitched by the villagers, bore the scent of tanned hide and sweat.

A sword gleamed in his right hand, its edge honed to a razor’s gleam. In his left, he gripped a spear, its wooden shaft worn smooth from training.

An axe, a spear and a shield were strapped to his back, along with a belt weighted by additional swords, their hilts jutting out like silent promises of violence yet to come.

He turned to the villagers one last time.

“Close the gate from inside,” Asael commanded, his voice steady, like a rock against the crashing waves of fear.

“But then you—” a villager began, his voice trembling.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” Asael interrupted with a faint, reassuring smile.

The heavy wooden gate creaked shut behind him, sealing him off from the village.

Alone.

The world outside was starkly different.

The calm morning breeze carried with it the faint, metallic tang of blood yet to be spilled.

In the distance, a thick cloud of dust billowed, rising like a storm on the horizon.

From within it, dark, twisted shapes emerged—goblins.

Dozens upon dozens of them, their grotesque forms bathed in the amber glow of the morning light.

Their ragged weapons glinted as they charged, snarling, shrieking, a chaotic symphony of bloodlust and rage.

Asael stood still, his breath slow and controlled.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, listening—not to the enemy, but to himself. Inhale.

The pounding of his heart was steady, unwavering.

Exhale.

The fear that gripped the villagers never found a place within him.

He had faced worse. Much worse. Goblins were nothing.

When his eyes snapped open, they burned with determination.

Without hesitation, he surged forward like a released arrow.

His first throw was precise—a blur of motion as he hurled the spear with devastating force.

It pierced through the first goblin’s chest, impaling two more behind it.

The momentum sent the creatures sprawling, tripping others in their chaotic advance.

Arrows rained down from the watchtowers.

Some missed, thudding harmlessly into the ground, but others found their mark.

One arrow struck a fallen goblin square in the skull, ending its struggles instantly.

But the horde didn’t falter.

They surged over the bodies of their fallen, driven by mindless fury.

Neither did Asael slowed down, he continued to charge ahead.