The ground trembled beneath the weight of the Goblin Chief’s massive form.

His grotesque grin stretched wide, his yellowed tusks gleaming in the firelight.

The scent of blood, sweat, and death clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

The village burned behind them, homes reduced to smoldering ruins.

And yet, amidst the devastation, Asael still stood.

Barely.

His body screamed in protest, his injuries piling atop one another like the bodies of the fallen.

His muscles trembled, his vision swam, but his will—his will was unyielding.

A hero’s greatest weapon was neither their blade nor their strength, but their willpower.

Their unbreakable spirit.

But where other heroes had been blessed—their wounds mended by divine power, their exhaustion erased by celestial grace—Asael had none of that.

No gods watched over him.

No miracles would come.

He was alone.

Yet he fought.

And he would keep fighting.

The Goblin Chief sneered, gripping his massive club, its surface slick with Asael’s blood.

"It’s useless to resist, little human!"

With a roar, he lifted the club high above his head.

The air itself seemed to tremble under the sheer force behind the impending strike.

The villagers gasped, their eyes wide with horror.

And then—

The club came down.

A blur of motion—Asael moved.

Just barely dodged.

He sidestepped at the last moment, the club crashing into the ground beside him.

The impact sent shockwaves through the earth, splintering the dirt and throwing up a cloud of dust and debris.

Through sheer instinct, Asael swung his sword—a desperate counterattack.

But his strength… his strength had left him.

The blade, once swift and deadly, now felt like dead weight in his grip.

The edge of the sword met flesh— but stopped.

The Goblin Chief didn’t let the chance slip and caught it.

With his bare hand.

The massive goblin chuckled, his jagged teeth gleaming in amusement.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

His grip tightened around the blade, the metal groaning under the pressure.

Then—he swung his arm, hitting Asael.

Asael flew away.

His body was ragdolled through the air, like a discarded toy, before crashing onto the dirt.

The impact knocked the wind out of him.

Pain exploded across his body as he rolled over the ground, coming to a halt on his stomach.

His limbs felt like lead, every breath was a struggle.

He tried to push himself up—his hands digging into the dirt.

But his arms trembled.

His body screamed.

And before he could even get to his knees, he collapsed.

His vision blurred.

The world spun around him, the flames in the distance twisting into unrecognizable shapes.

The Goblin Chief’s footsteps thundered toward him.

Slow. Deliberate. Unstoppable.

Each step a countdown to his end.

But then—

A vial cut through the air.

Shatter!

The glass shattered against the Goblin Chief’s thick hide, and almost instantly, smoke hissed from the wound.

The goblin chief roared in pain, his skin burning and blistering.

His furious gaze snapped toward the source of the attack.

Standing at the entrance of a burning home was the village chief.

An old man, frail in body but unyielding in spirit.

His hands trembled, another vial clutched tightly between his fingers, his eyes burning with defiance.

"You monster! Go back!" he shouted, his voice raw, filled with both rage and desperation.

He had no illusions.

He knew this would not kill the Goblin Chief.

But he did not care.

He just needed to buy Asael time.

The Goblin Chief’s fury ignited.

"You dare?!"

With a snarl, the massive goblin lifted his club with both hands.

Then—he threw it.

Like a boulder launched from a catapult.

The air rippled with the force of the throw.

The village chief barely had time to react.

The club struck.

The impact was sickening.

The old man was hurled backward, his body crashing into the dirt.

Blood exploded from his mouth.

The moment his body hit the ground—it didn’t move again.

The light faded from his eyes.

The village chief was dead.

Silence.

A deep, heavy silence fell over the battlefield.

---

The lifeless body of the village chief lay crumpled in the dirt, his blood seeping into the earth as if the land itself mourned his passing.

His frail frame, once filled with the wisdom and courage of years, now seemed small, fragile, meaningless against the vast cruelty of the world.

Asael could do nothing but watch.

His battered body refused to move.

His muscles screamed with pain, his vision blurred from blood and exhaustion.

He prayed to Gods, he prayed—but no one answered his desperate pleas.

The villagers, too, stood frozen.

Their faces etched with horror and despair, their hearts shattered beyond repair.

The faint glimmer of hope that had flickered in their eyes was now extinguished, swallowed whole by the darkness of the moment.

And then—

"GRANDPA!!"

The desperate scream cut through the heavy silence like a blade.

Kenta.

The boy’s small figure raced forward, his feet pounding against the blood-soaked ground as he sprinted towards his fallen grandfather.

His face was twisted in terror, his voice cracked with grief.

But fate was not yet done being cruel.

A goblin, its jagged dagger gleaming under the moonlight, lunged from the side, its wicked grin anticipating the next victim.

"NO!"

In an instant, a figure rushed in—a woman’s body colliding with Kenta’s, shoving him out of harm’s way.

His mother.

The dagger that was meant for Kenta plunged into her side, the blade burying deep into her flesh.

"MAMA!"

Kenta’s scream was raw, filled with pure, unfiltered agony.

His mother’s knees buckled, but before she could collapse, the goblin showed no mercy.

With a savage snarl, it ripped the dagger from her side and slashed it across her neck.

Her blood sprayed out in an arc of crimson, painting the goblin’s face as her body crumpled beside the village chief’s.

Her eyes—those gentle, loving eyes—stared lifelessly at her son.

Kenta’s world shattered.

The boy didn’t cry. Not yet.

Instead, something inside him broke.

Rage—pure, blinding rage—took hold.

With trembling hands, he snatched up a dagger from a fallen goblin.

His small fingers barely wrapped around the hilt, but it didn’t matter.

The goblin sneered, baring its fanged teeth, clearly amused by the child’s futile defiance.

Kenta charged.

The goblin easily sidestepped, its dagger flashing as it sliced across Kenta’s stomach, leaving a shallow, but painful wound.

But Kenta didn’t stop.

He didn’t even flinch.

Through sheer will, he spun around, fueled by grief and fury, and threw himself at the goblin.

His small body collided with the creature, knocking it off balance.

Before the goblin could recover, Kenta drove the dagger deep into its chest.

Once.

The goblin shrieked.

Twice.

Its cries turned into gargles.

Three times. Four. Five.

Green blood splattered across Kenta’s face, mixing with his tears.

His sobs grew louder with each thrust, his tiny frame shaking violently.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

When the goblin finally went limp, collapsing under his weight, Kenta stumbled back.

His dagger slipped from his blood-soaked fingers.

And that’s when the tears truly came.

He crawled to his mother’s side, his small hands desperately shaking her, his cries echoing through the devastated village.

"MAMA!!"

His screams pierced the heart of everyone left alive.

But no one moved.

Because they couldn’t.

They were all broken.

More goblins began to approach the boy, their cruel grins wide with anticipation.

Predators closing in on wounded prey.

But Asael—

Asael’s gaze wasn’t on them.

His eyes shifted, lingering on the village chief’s lifeless body, the man who had sacrificed himself to buy Asael one more moment to fight.

He turned his head, staring at Kenta’s mother, her blood mingling with the dirt she had died protecting.

And then—Kenta.

The boy’s face was stained with tears and blood, his expression twisted by rage, grief, and despair.

The light of innocence in his eyes had been snuffed out, replaced by something darker.

Something Asael knew all too well.

His gaze swept across the burning village, over the bodies of men, women, and children—all of them gone.

All of them had fought.

All of them had died.

But him?

He was still alive.

And what had he done?

Nothing.

He didn’t protect the village.

He didn’t save the chief.

He didn’t stop the goblins.

He had failed.

Again.

A heavy weight settled over his chest, crushing him harder than any wound.

What was the point of being a hero… if he couldn’t save anyone?