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Failure (3)

The clash between man and monster had reached its breaking point.

The battlefield was a grotesque canvas of blood and broken bodies, the air thick with the metallic stench of death and the faint cries of the dying.

Goblin corpses littered the ground, their dark green blood soaking into the earth, mingling with the crimson trails left by Asael's own wounds.

Asael stood at the center of it all, battered, broken, but unbowed.

His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his vision blurred from blood trickling down his forehead, mixing with sweat and grime.

His grip on his axe was weak, his fingers trembling, slick with gore.

His body screamed for rest, for relief—but his spirit refused to yield.

Across from him, the Goblin Chief loomed like a shadow made flesh—a hulking mass of muscle and fury, his grotesque face twisted into a wicked grin.

His yellow eyes glinted with sadistic delight, and his massive wooden club, stained with both human and goblin blood, rested casually on his shoulder.

Then, without warning, the Chief charged.

A blur of brute strength and speed, the ground trembling beneath each monstrous step.

Asael barely had time to react before a massive fist collided with his stomach.

CRACK!

The force was like being hit by a battering ram. Asael’s body lurched backward, the air ripped from his lungs.

A strangled gasp escaped him, his knees buckling as he struggled to stay upright.

His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges.

But before he could regain his balance, the club came from right.

THWACK!

The blow landed with bone-shattering force against his right arm, a sickening crack echoing through the battlefield.

Pain exploded through his body like wildfire, and a raw, guttural scream tore from his throat—a sound filled with agony, rage, and defiance.

His body was thrown like a ragdoll, skidding across the blood-soaked ground.

Dirt and gore caked his face as he groaned, struggling to push himself up with his good arm.

"Is that it?" the Goblin Chief mocked, his voice a cruel growl.

Asael tried to stand.

His broken arm hung uselessly at his side, and blood poured from fresh wounds.

His legs trembled beneath him, his strength ebbing away with every heartbeat.

But he refused to stay down.

He gritted his teeth, his face contorted with pain, and forced himself to rise—only for the Chief to appear in front of him in an instant.

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"Let’s finish this, little human!"

A massive hand seized Asael’s blood-matted hair, yanking his head back.

A strangled cry escaped his lips as he clawed weakly at the Chief’s arm, but his strength was fading fast.

The Chief began dragging him—his battered body scraping against the jagged ground, leaving a trail of blood behind.

Asael’s boots dug into the dirt, trying to resist, but it was useless.

As they passed a goblin, the creature sneered and plunged a rusted dagger into Asael’s leg.

"AAAHHHHH!"

Asael’s scream echoed across the battlefield, raw and filled with agony.

His fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his own palms until they bled.

But he couldn’t stop the tears of pain and fury that burned in his eyes.

The Goblin Chief dragged him to the village gate, a towering barrier that had once symbolized safety and security.

Now, it was just another witness to his failure.

Without hesitation, the Chief slammed Asael’s head against the gate.

BAM!

The sound of skull meeting wood was deafening.

Blood splattered across the gate, staining it a dark, vivid red.

The villagers on the other side could hear the sickening thuds, could hear the screams—but fear rooted them in place.

BAM!

Another slam.

Asael’s scream grew weaker, his voice hoarse and choked with blood.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

The Goblin Chief didn’t stop.

His grin grew wider with each brutal impact, his arm fueled by sadistic pleasure.

The gate was soon painted with Asael’s blood—his face battered beyond recognition, a grotesque smear of crimson.

"I guess they won’t even open the gate for their savior," the Chief sneered, gripping Asael’s blood-soaked hair, lifting his broken face to mock him.

Asael’s eyes were barely open, one swollen shut, the other clouded with blood.

But within that eye, there was still a flicker—a dying ember of defiance.

The Goblin Chief growled and tossed him aside like a discarded rag doll.

Asael’s body hit the ground with a dull thud, limp and motionless.

Then, with a roar of triumph, the Chief raised his massive club and slammed it against the village gate.

CRACK!

The wood splintered, the gate groaning under the force.

BAM!

Another strike, and the hinges began to give way.

BOOM!

With one final, devastating blow, the gate shattered, crashing inward.

The village lay exposed, its people staring in horror at the monstrous figure—and the broken body of the man who had fought to protect them.

----

The shattered gate hung in splinters, a gaping wound in the village's defenses.

Through it poured the goblin horde—feral, bloodthirsty, and relentless.

Their guttural shrieks echoed through the air, mingling with the terrified cries of the villagers.

The once-peaceful village, bathed in the warm glow of morning light, was now drenched in blood and despair.

The goblin chief led the charge, his massive form towering above the lesser creatures.

His club, slick with Asael’s blood, swung with reckless abandon, crushing anyone who dared stand in his way.

The villagers—armed with nothing but farming tools and trembling courage—were no match.

They fell like wheat before the scythe, their screams fading quickly under the onslaught.

Children cried out for parents who could no longer answer.

Flames flickered as goblins set homes ablaze, the smoke mingling with the metallic scent of spilled blood.

Bodies littered the ground—old, young, men, women—all victims of merciless slaughter.

It was hopeless.

And then—

A goblin suddenly shrieked, its body jolting as a spear pierced clean through its chest, lifting it off its feet before it crumpled to the ground.

The goblins froze.

The villagers’ tear-streaked faces turned toward the gate.

And there he stood.

Asael.

Broken. Bloodied. But standing.

His body was a canvas of wounds—deep gashes carved into his flesh, bruises blossoming like dark flowers, and blood, both his own and that of his enemies, painted across him.

His right arm hung limp, useless at his side, the bone clearly shattered.

His leather armor was torn to shreds, barely clinging to him, exposing raw, battered skin beneath.

His legs trembled beneath the weight of his injuries, his breath ragged and uneven.

One eye was swollen shut, the other clouded with blood, blurring his vision.

But in his left hand, he still held his sword.

His knuckles white, gripping it as if it were the last thread tethering him to life.

The villagers' hearts sank even further.

This was their savior? This broken man? How could he stand against them now?

A goblin, emboldened by Asael’s fragile state, sneered and stepped forward, its jagged dagger glinting in the morning light.

It sauntered toward him, mocking, its cruel laughter echoing in the silent village square.

It leapt.

A flash of steel.

Before it even reached him, Asael’s sword sliced through the goblin’s neck with terrifying precision. The head flew, spinning in the air before landing with a sickening thud.

The body collapsed at Asael’s feet.

Silence fell again.

Another goblin, more cautious, crept forward, circling Asael like a vulture around a dying animal. It lunged.

But Asael was faster.

His sword arced through the air like a streak of silver lightning, cleaving the goblin’s head clean from its shoulders.

The villagers gasped—not with hope, but disbelief.

How?

How was he still standing?

Asael’s body screamed with every movement. His broken ribs ground against each other with every breath.

His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges, threatening to pull him under.

But he clenched his teeth, the taste of blood on his tongue, and forced himself to stand straighter.

He gripped the sword with both hands—despite the unbearable agony shooting through his broken arm.

His muscles trembled. His face twisted with pain.

But he did it anyway.

The goblins hesitated now.

Fear crept into their beady eyes.

This man should be dead.

But he wasn’t.

He refused to be.

"Tch. Useless things!" the Goblin Chief snarled, disgusted by his cowardly kin.

His yellow eyes burned with fury as he stepped forward, his massive form casting a shadow over Asael once more.

The ground seemed to tremble with each step the Chief took, his club dragging behind him, leaving a trail in the blood-soaked earth.

His grotesque grin stretched wide, confident in his inevitable victory.

Asael didn’t flinch.

They stood face to face—the beast and the broken man.

The villagers watched with bated breath, hope flickering like a dying ember in their hearts.

Could he really do it?

Asael’s grip tightened around his sword, his blood dripping onto the ground, mingling with the crimson pool beneath his feet.

His lips moved, a whisper lost in the chaos.

"Not yet… I’m not done yet."

And then they clashed.

The final battle had begun.