To fight an armored knight with a sword was akin to chopping bark with a hammer. Zayne huffed and panted as each attempt at piercing through the gaps of its armor ended with a grunt of disappointment. Its dark—almost black shell—melded with the general darkness, and its speed matched or perhaps surpassed him.
Safe to say, the fight felt impossible from the get-go.
Each swing cleaved the air directly on top of his skin. His gashed cheek smoldered with pain as his eyes searched for a method to dispatch this monster, but stone and cracked rocks were all that loomed around him. His steps turned from hasty acts of evasion to a maladroit march of retreat. Despair struck as another swing sliced his waist; a superficial cut, sure, but it showed Zayne had little chance of winning this fight.
The knight pushed him far enough that Zayne slammed his back into the wall upon his final few steps. His eyes widened; his chest heaved from exertion with cold sweat running all across his body, burning the wounds he’d accrued, dousing the flames of retaliation within. How long has it been since he felt this outmatched? For a moment, he felt as if he was a coreless once more, fighting the same old impossible spars with his friends.
“[Poison strikes]” Zayne chanted when its blade clamored with the rock behind his back, generating enough recoil for it to lose its balance. Zayne sensed a chance, twisting his torso just slightly to avoid its risen shield, then his blade made contact for the first time, yet, no blood or wails of pain erupted from its sunken helmet. Instead, it shrugged Zayne’s strike as if it was nothing.
Zayne used what little energy he had to kick, pushing both combatants away from each other. He studied its stance as it steadied its gait. No effect? Is it immune to poison? He swerved to the side, avoiding its next barrage of strokes and slashes, taking extra care to not clash its blade into the solid walls again. Zayne had lost most of his stamina from his strenuous evasive attempts, and he knew his time was numbered.
With a grimace, he summoned the key into his hand.
[Use emergency escape? This ability can only be used once a day.]
Yes, yes! He whined in desperation as darkness clutched his vision as he escaped the tower, returning to the calm darkness of his room. The specks of dust and wounds accrued from the tower persisted as he patted down every particle of dust away from his chest, wincing from the wounds on his stomach and his face. As of right now, Zayne had no chance of surviving a fight against that knight.
He slumped his way outside; he wanted some fresh air.
###
Morning came with its typical calm, tranquil silence.
Zayne browsed the weapons and armor shops outside the hall, taking special note of their price points, and tallied the least amount of silver he had to carry to own a decent set of protective armor and gear. Blunt weapons weren’t common, so only a few select shops had them. Overall, his efforts resulted in annoyed scowls from the merchants; after all, they just had their time wasted.
Except for one. Well, Zayne nearly missed it, had it not been due to the owner’s insistence to gain his attention. Unlike the other well-maintained shops with smiles and bright, almost shiny weapons, his was downright dilapidated, weathered by God knows what; The crooked sign dangling wildly from a set of chains nailed above his counter, armors and weapons displayed with no sense of uniformity or aesthetics, the holes and torn plasters wreathing his store like a bee’s nest—Zayne could keep listing things that urged him to leave immediately, but he was desperate, too desperate for common sense.
A shrewd-looking man, face worn with time—enough for wrinkles to show, but not older than the grandma in the sparrow inn, and certainly not senile—smiled with his crooked lips, revealing holes where teeth were supposed to be. He had pale, almost white skin with dark eyes. Covering the sides of his head would be his medium-length curly ivory hair. He wore a simple blueish tunic, covering from the nape of his neck until his feet, overlaying the occasional white and blue underneath. He chuckled when Zayne pointed at a surprisingly clean-looking dark-green boiled leather armor, “I can part with it for 30 silver.” He said, “You’re new around here, so I’ll be a good man and help you out.”
“What?” Zayne asked, intrigued, yet anxious about this man’s intentions. “Thank you, but… I don’t even have that much. But I’ll keep it in mind.”
He sighed, waving his arms in defeat, “Well, the offer will stay until tomorrow, if you’re interested. If you somehow scrounged up 30 silver by the next dawn, I’d be sufficiently impressed.”
Zayne walked away from his dark, unwelcoming store, taking special note of the name; ‘Kallen’s armory.’
The day resumed as he found the others, trekking through the wilderness and entering the plains, waddling their way into the marshes, their curios questions about his state of health were answered with a dismissive shrug. Other adventurers convened around the entrance, hunting mudspawns, sharks and moths while avoiding the goblins.
“So…” Gilbert spoke, watching the crowd of adventurers and hopefuls around them. “I guess we’ll have to find a spot deeper?”
Splotching sounds of grimy mud pattered as they waded through the marsh, the humidity was especially harsh today, Oswul swore he’d inhaled water through the air, despite Gilbert’s insistence that he’d imagined things. Gray, almost dark clouds veiled the sun with their glowering, thunderous shapes. The smell of the marsh grew from a tiny annoyance to a full-on odor of wet, decaying dirt and stale wood.
A few monsters peered their heads, curious of the sounds his party generated. A few attacked, earning the party more gems as they stopped just short of where the trees turned to a thicket of gray woods, then a grove and a forest inside the marsh’s deepest corners. If Zayne paused and squinted, he could see the wandering figures of the goblins, well-equipped with steel-made spears and shields, some carrying swords, then a sporadic few with bows and arrows.
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Wyne saw Zayne’s burning eyes, “Do you see them?” She asked, following his glare.
Zayne responded with a tense nod, and Oswul shaded his eyes with his palm, zooming in his direction, then confirmed his sightings. “Yep. A party of goblins, 4 with spears, 2 with bows. 6 in total.”
“Do we do it now?” Gilbert’s voice rang with hesitancy. Goblins were high on the list of dangers for fledgling adventurers to tackle; in fact, most recommended avoiding them. They were the size of a normal adult male, packing the same punch as most front-liners, what most people fear about them would be their chief; wielding earth magic that would spell demise for those unprepared. They had Wyne for healing in case that happened, but caution was warranted regardless.
“I don’t see the chief with them.” Oswul said, “It should be fine. But let’s play it safe, we’ll drag this party away from the inner forest. I’ll start with a few shots, then you all do the rest.”
###
Step.
Zayne and Gilbert hid behind the wall of a bark, peeking at the distant approaching goblin party. He held his sword tight in his grip, listening to their constant gibberish chatter paired with their wet, sloppy steps. The dark clouds released tiny droplets of rainfall on this stormy afternoon, a few nigh entered his eyes, but he kept his gaze focused and unfettered. A gulp and a breath later, an arrow slid through the particles of water, zipped past the bark, and landed on the head of a poor goblin.
Sharp, pained grunts shrieked the relative calm of the marshes as they barreled toward where the arrow came from. Zayne shifted his gaze at Gilbert, noting his somewhat tense look. With a deep breath, he rushed outside his cover right as the goblins neared their position, and activated his taunt. He gasped as he retreated, parrying and blocking strikes with his humongous blade.
“[Poison strike]”
Zayne swerved from the side, coursing through the muddy soil, taking careful steps as he flanked the goblins. He noted each goblin’s eyesight; none were looking at his position—none cared as they were staring daggers at Gilbert. His sword sliced the nape of the nearest goblin, drawing a full cup of blood before it realized what had happened. He slid to its side, plunging his blade deep into his lower abdomen, slicing its entrails open as he moved on to the next target.
Had it not been due for Wyne’s buffs, these feats of strength would be significantly harder to maintain. By the time the third goblin died—either from the arrows, bolts or Zayne’s blade—Gilbert’s taunt had worn off. Both archers had perished and one spear goblin had lost its life, meaning they had three left to deal with.
One switched its attention to Zayne. Its eyes peered wide open, its nostrils flared, snorting hot air as its ears flapped. It raised its blade and sliced. Sharp cuts missed Zayne by a small margin and a few forced him to parry; an act Zayne deemed unsafe for his life and his blade, pushing him back. Oswul and the siblings were right—goblins had some form of a hidden skill turning them threatening if they weren’t dealt with quickly.
He dodged a slash by shifting his stance to the side. The goblin switched its posture and pursued with its blade as he ducked, grimacing under its constant pressure. He noted its slightly outstretched posture and pounced while inhaling a large gulp of breath. He steeled his arms, flexing all of his muscles to their limits as he crashed on its open abdomen with his blade. Trickles of blood splattered from both ends of the new hole he’d just carved. Not enough damage, He cussed as he sidestepped its downwards pommeling of its crude blade. Maintaining his grip, he used whatever momentum he carried to draw a circle around its body with his blade as his pivot, cleaving its midsection into two separate parts.
Zayne sensed his buffs running out, then snapped his head at the others. Gilbert’s left shoulder bled, a nasty gash dripping under his torn gambison, while Oswul and Wyne shot the other one dead. His steps bounded for rescue, trailing the path Gilbert took, then splintered a goblin’s skull with his blade.
With every goblin felled, a lungful sigh of relief fell on the marsh floor, trickled with rain and stained with blood. Zayne spared a short glance at Gilbert, both thought of the same thing; they underestimated the goblins.
###
“[Minor heal]” Wyne’s hands warmed over Gilbert’s exposed wound, her eyes stiffening with every breath she took.
“I told you, I’m fine.” Gilbert persisted, turning his head away. “It’s just-“
“-shut it.” Wyne’s voice rang with a tinge of sadness, “You don’t have to shoulder every attack on your own, Gilbert.” Her eyes studied his body for any other wounds, then sighed once she found nothing else worthy of notice, “I can dodge a swing just fine.”
Gilbert brushed his cap, his nasally voice especially thick under light rain, “Can’t help it. It’s my job, after all. I can take hits better than you, so…”
“Alright, you two.” Oswul placed his hands on their shoulders, “As scrappy and near disastrous as it was, we won this fight.” He shot a dark glare at one goblin corpse a few steps ahead of him, “Well, it was way too close of a fight, though. We probably should deal with a party of four goblins at most. Six was barely doable.”
Gilbert relaxed his posture and slumped near a tree, chuckling “At the very least, we can say we’re good enough to hunt a goblin party. Isn’t that cool? You don’t hear a lot of unlicensed adventurers beating a party of six goblins.”
The three siblings showered under the drizzle and the warmth of their triumph. Zayne smirked as he trailed his steps back to the dead goblins, extracting their gems and hoping for a break in the form of an essence gem. He’d extracted five gems so far, none showed the glimmer he’d hoped. Hunching over at his most recent kill, he closed his eyes as he extended his arms, then opened his eyes to see a queer, shimmering white gem. His heart skipped a beat—an essence gem, finally.
[You obtained a monster gem [White- Marshes Goblin]]
He returned to them with a gentle, never-ending smile on his face. “So, what’s the plan? Are we going deeper?”
“I don’t know…” Wyne said, her eyes filled with heavy hesitation, “My mana supply had run out; I can consume a potion, but… you know how expensive one is.” She sighed, “I can shoot maybe a few more bolts as my mana regenerated, but heals and buffs are off the table.”
“We’ll just hunt in the outskirts, then, like the others.” Gilbert spoke as he rose from his seat, “No point in risking our lives further. I bet the noises we’d made roused the chief from within.”
Zayne spun his head toward the deep forest of dead trees. “I don’t see anything yet…”
“Let’s not wait until something shows up.” Oswul said, “Come on. The rain is making it harder to navigate too, and look-“ he pointed in the opposite direction, “The mist.”
With his warning, they swiftly got up and trekked their way back into the marshes’ outskirts. The smell of mud had clung to each of their pores—enough for their brains to shut that stench off—as virulent mist veiled the far distance. seeing became an issue very quickly. Even with their sharpened senses, their eyes failed to pierce the thick particles of humidity.
“I’ll love a nice warm bath tonight,” Gilbert muttered to himself. “Tomorrow’s the test. Aren’t you scared, Zayne?”
“I’m anxious, but…” Zayne tip-toed his way around puddles, “-I’m not scared. I’ll simply do my best, and what happens after is out of my hands.” With his recent goblin kill and the new essence gem, Zayne expected he’d reach another level tonight if he resumed his hunt later.
“Shh!” Oswul snapped and held his arm. “I hear something…”
Gilbert prepared his stance and readied himself for danger. “What is it?”
The mist had grown thicker, somehow, enough for Zayne to suffocate. A large lump had lodged inside his airways and his stomach ran cold. The air bit his skin, cold enough that it appeared to freeze, yet the temperature was as warm as any normal sunny day.
“It’s faint, but…”
“But what?”
Multiple footsteps echoed from their left.
Wyne hunkered down and whispered, “Is it another party? Or is it the goblins?”
Oswul didn’t answer. Instead, the pointed his bow and drew an arrow. Gilbert and Zayne soon recognized the things approaching them; their steps were too light and gentle for any adventurers, “Be ready,” Gilbert urged as he drew his blade, “It’s more of the goblins, and now the chief is with them. Find a good place to hide. Take cover!”