Following the fight, Penbrooke’s gait took on a newfound swagger (though not as pronounced as Rudy’s). As he moved past the goblin bodies, carrying his cudgel high up against his shoulder, a self-satisfied grin played on his lips.

Against this surging confidence, Cal blandly wondered if it was okay to leave monster corpses by the roadside; at least he assumed they were corpses given they hadn’t moved a muscle since being downed. Would it trigger panic in the morning when news broke of goblin corpses being discovered this deep into human territory?

He had no idea what protocols adventurers usually followed: were burials or cremation recommended after hunting monsters, or was it routine to leave corpses by the wayside for carrion feeders to pick clean?

While these thoughts whirled in his mind, Penbrooke whistled a ditty, seemingly lost in his memories of the combat based on the explosive sound effects he kept producing to the detriment of his tune. He hadn’t made it further than fifty paces from where he’d been ambushed when the nearby bushes rustled again.

Several figures emerged from cover onto the dirt path on both sides of Penbrooke, cutting off all routes of escape. (Well, except for if he wanted to flee into the prairie, in which case he easily could as no one had bothered to cover that side; his assailants had clearly been skipping their practice sessions on the proper way to encircle a target, likely to drink and dick about instead.)

As before, his assailants were two goblins with daggers in the front and another pair flanking him.

Unlike the last group of all-male muggers – who were likely chauvinists that attended secret cabal meetings on maintaining patriarchal rule over the banditry industry, sharing tips and tricks on how to resist those greedy feminist forces trying to budge in on their hard-earned spoils – this group of bushwhackers could boast of gender equality as two of the goblins wore muddy cloth girdles with straps over their shoulders.

As for how the two gentlemen goblins in the group had come to be feminists, for too long they’d watched on aghast as their chauvinist peers backhanded their spouses, until eventually they’d reached a breaking point and become determined to cleanse goblin society of such barbaric behaviour.

To this end, they’d started a civil rights movement to legally oblige goblin males to henceforth only fronthand their spouses, which if passed would have that most sexist backhand banned as well as enshrine into the constitution their progressive mantra: equal rights, equal fights.

It was extraordinary how much progress the world had made in Penbrooke’s fifty steps, making it anyone’s guess where the world would be after fifty more.

Despite the sudden danger surrounding him, Cal was largely composed, excited even due to Penbrooke’s rush of adrenaline… or at least he was until a fifth figure made its grand reveal ahead: a somewhat older goblin that looked to be a mage as it wielded a tall wooden staff with a top shaped like a crescent moon and wore a jangle of multi-coloured bead necklaces.

The goblin mage shrieked, baring rows of sharp, filed teeth in a show of intimidation. Its entourage followed up with general sounds of encouragement: hoots and whoops, rallying cries, and one particular goblin with a striking mezzo-soprano singing voice.

This impressive opera performance ended prematurely, however, when its buddy showed their appreciation of the fine arts with a hearty shove. The ensuing infighting only stopped when the goblin mage loudly struck its staff against the ground and restored order.

Holding its unruly troops’ limited attention, it redirected their menace by raising and pointing its staff at Penbrooke, completing its order with an ominous throat-rattle.

At once the goblins began hopping from foot to foot (though while staying put on their spots, of course). They even remembered to wave their daggers threateningly, earning a satisfactory nod from their leader.

Witnessing this, Cal had to clear his mind of the absurd idea that the goblin mage was a supervisor reviewing their performance; yet, it was difficult to interpret its nods in any other way than a superior pleased at not having to give a failing grade to its group of cute little juniors.

Wait a minute, don’t tell me this some organised trip for them to gain work experience mugging people… Surely not, right?

“Hear me, I am Ser Penbrooke of Twirdly Castle,” said the knight in salutation to his foes. He bent his knees slightly and raised his cudgel horizontally over his head as though he were wielding a katana. “Only come at me if you do not value your life.”

He glared at one particular dagger goblin in front of him, arching a provocative eyebrow. “Do you dare, ruffian?”

The goblin raised its free hand and pointed at itself. “Mrrg” it enquired, evidently confused and more than a little teary-eyed at being singled out for – at least what it felt – no good reason.

It didn’t help that its misfortune was met by hardly suppressed snickering from the other goblins, quickly forcing the goblin mage to step in and use its telekinetic powers to simultaneously bonk all the teasers on the head with its staff. It whispered soothing words to the now-crying goblin to stem its flow of tears, followed by gentle pats to the back.

Turning to Penbrooke, the mage wagged its finger reproachfully as if chiding him for taking advantage of a young un’s insecurities in public like that.

Yeah, not gonna lie: that was low of you, ser knight. I’m with the mage on this one.

“Oh, come on,” Penbrooke said in an aggrieved tone. “No one told me about the group dynamics. Like obviously I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

He received no response, though, which was made worse by the fact that the goblin mage didn’t even seem particularly angry, just disappointed. The mage must have felt there was no point in explaining to a human as it elected to instead give a solid booting to one of the goblins that had been laughing, kicking it forward with a harsh-sounding command.

Picked to lead the attack, this goblin confidently took up the mantle and came at Penbrooke with its dagger outstretched.

Despite Cal’s relative combat inexperience, even he thought its approach was too stiff and choreographed; although that wasn’t to say this low-marks assessment stopped the body’s primal response at seeing a weapon lunge towards it, as evidenced by the blast of tension and vigour that exploded from his gut.

Thankfully, Penbrooke took advantage of the goblin’s stiffness to deftly sidestep the attack and swing into the crook of the goblin’s neck.

One down, clean.

But already the next assailant advanced on the knight from his flank, beginning its attack sequence with a ringing coloratura note as if to warn him of its coming. Sparing nary a second to appreciate the vocal acrobatics, Penbrooke spun on his heels and leapt into the air, weapon held high over his head and primed to descend. “[Flying Log Splitter]!” he yelled.

When the cudgel’s shadow fell over the goblin, its face contorted into a look of horror, but there was no stopping the blow that landed with a mighty thump. “Gah,” the goblin mouthed, releasing the breath it’d been holding, the whites of its eyes showing as it toppled over.

“Come on!” Penbrooke roared at the remaining goblin on his flank; it flinched at his clarion call, grimacing at the prospect of being up next. Yet after summoning up its courage for a moment, it followed through on the instruction as it dashed towards him at a noticeably quicker pace than its peers. Its attack would have received top marks too if not for its eyes being clenched shut in fear….

This was a massive mistake against Mr scourge of rascals and beasts, who swept his leg under the goblin’s and whacked its tripped-over body on the back.

Then, turning to face the two remaining goblins, Penbrooke signalled towards them with a terse nod. The mage responded in kind while giving the last dagger goblin a push start. It ran towards him with dried tear tracks on its cheeks that glimmered in the auburn sunlight.

To make up for his prior mistake, Penbrooke only dodged the insecure goblin’s blow at the last second. He then swivelled to carefully regard the goblin that was circling around for another go.

“Phew. You almost got me, ruffian.” He wiped sweat from his brow using the side of his hand to really sell the act.

Though, it became unclear who this act was really for when he then tenderly touched his lightning mask. “And that makes you worthy of seeing my true powers. Don’t blame me for what you’re about to see; blame your own luck at coming across me.” Manic laughter escaped his mouth.

I should have guessed…

At the touch of his mask, Penbrooke pretended as though an electric shock had coursed through his body; a devilish smile bloomed across his face, stretching ear to ear. “Prepare yourself for my Heavenly Lightning Death Attack!”

The goblin – not yet familiar with the ridiculously theatrical and pompous nature of ability names – immediately burst into tears, terrified within an inch of its life. But the powered-up knight was not one for waiting as he thundered ahead; he pulled his cudgel back for maximum force generation and batted the goblin right in its stomach.

Slivers of spit and dollops of dinner hurled out as it launched into the air, achieving a solid second of airtime before plopping headfirst into the dirt road.

“Hell yeah!” Penbrooke yelled, raising his weapon in victory. He whirled around and cocked his eyebrows at the mage as if telling it to check out his handiwork.

The goblin mage regarded him with an appalled look, its palms upturned and fingers splayed as if asking what the fuck that was for.

“Easy now,” said the uncompromising knight. “It would be to nobody’s benefit if we coddle the youngsters too much. They’ve got to learn the horrors of combat early on.”

What are you on about?! You totally did that to live out your power fantasy!

The goblin mage must have thought likewise as it made no effort to reason with the knight; instead, it lifted its staff at a tilt and fired towards him a translucent, apple-sized orb that was made up of blue threads of varying vibrancy, moving at the speed of a pitched ball.

Cal felt deep-seated relief when Penbrooke threw himself to the side on instinct and thereby avoided the mana orb’s trajectory. Both men winced at the shrill zaap sound from behind.

Turning, Penbrooke spied over his shoulder. Mere inches from where one of the downed goblins lay was a spherical hole in the dirt path, foul fumes billowing out from the site; it was as if the ground previously there had been scorched out of existence. Shivers tangoed down the second-guessing knight’s spine.

“That’s straight up unfair,” he complained to the mage, wide-eyed.

The goblin mage sneered. It mimicked his previous comment in a mocking tone of voice. “Come now, to no one’s benefit when coddle younglings too much.” It swivelled its hips and bobbed its head during the imitation to amplify its taunt.

In response, anger streaked across the shameless knight’s face. “Alright, now you’ve done it, buddy.”

Flashing its serrated teeth, the goblin mage spoke no more as it tilted its staff towards him and summoned further mana orbs. Formed over two seconds, the mage would fire them at once, before recasting the spell again.

All the same, the missiles found Penbrooke a tricky target to place as he scrambled about for his life, throwing all care for his knightly image away as he jumped, dove, and rolled; mud smudges and grass stains were the least of his concerns when spherical sites of destruction littered the scene.

As he gradually closed in on the mage, he was caught off-guard when it suddenly snuck a quick one on him: it had held onto a summoned mana orb and hidden it precisely for this moment. Only through a feat of luck did he manage to duck the shot, the acrid scent of burnt hair filling his nostrils in testament to how close it had been.

Yet, it didn’t even matter as the deck was still stacked against him; while he had dodged to save his life, the mage had in that period finished summoning another orb, his crouched figure now locked in the mage’s crosshairs. Neither of them could have seen coming what followed…

From a crouched position, Penbrooke leapt in desperation; but instead of jumping, he soared.

He covered a dozen paces airborne, with the fired orb harmlessly hitting the ground beneath, and sailed over the mage’s head to land behind it.

“Playtime’s over, motherfucker.” Penbrooke whipped the cudgel into the goblin’s face for a cathartic crunch; like a marionette cut of its strings, the mage collapsed all at once.

Panting like a hound, Penbrooke looked down at his legs and voiced the question equally on Cal’s mind. “What was that….” Only now could he sense his heart’s frenzied beat, the way his sweat-drenched clothes stuck to his skin, or how his hands shook with an uncontrollable tremor.

He forcefully ingested deep breaths and turned his attention to the goblin group he’d beaten.

Cal hadn’t noticed in the heat of battle but surveying the scene now, it was once again striking how little damage the goblins had taken despite their crushing defeat – at worst it looked like they had endured a few slaps and shoves, not bone-crunching, stomach-reeling blows.

Yet the mystery of their endurance paled in comparison to what his body had accomplished in its feat of superhuman ability. Elation lined his mood, as experienced by his spectral body-squatter.

“Whatever it was, that was awesome!” Penbrooke announced.