Regardless of what had felled the warrior orc, once it had kicked the bucket the archer hobgoblin dramatically raised its rate of fire to make up for its fallen partner. It also updated its attack sequence from shooting infrequently to now shooting three times in a sequence, interrupted by short pauses where it’d glance away and leap sideways to reposition, before cycling its attack sequence again.

Since none of the arrows had landed so far, it was obvious Penbrooke would be safest standing still as that way he’d eliminate the risk of walking into a wayward arrow that would have otherwise sailed past.

Accordingly, the knight adopted the strategy of freezing up like a statue whenever the hobgoblin was in its firing phase, only moving towards it when it looked away to reposition.

The hobgoblin soon caught on to his strategy and adapted. It began to vary its attack pattern: one time taking two shots before repositioning, another time taking four shots before repositioning, and so forth.

This is so weird to watch… Like why doesn’t the archer just shoot directly at him already? It certainly doesn’t speak of professionalism for a bandit to be holding a pacifist mindset, that much I know.

All the same, the archer’s adjustments did little to hobble the knight’s progress for he continued to freeze and unfreeze his way forward, his motion perfectly synchronised with its repositioning phase.

It’s almost like they’re playing a game together…

Soon after, Penbrooke began to push the limits of his already impressive reaction speed by making increasingly daring dashes towards the archer and freezing only a frame before it turned its gaze on him. His successes until that point must have led him to believe he could get away with anything, that he was the king of the playground and could do no wrong, and what naturally followed was his downfall.

Less than five steps away now from the hobgoblin, he saw it look away to reposition; and at once he made a dash for it; and at once the hobgoblin turned to face him again with nary a step moved. He’d been baited: hook, line, sinker

“Caught. Back,” the hobgoblin shouted gleefully.

“What? No way! I was so close.”

So they were playing a game together! Why the hell is a bandit playing ‘What’s the time, Mr Wolf?’ with someone they’re trying to mug?!

The Evil Mr Wolf laughed villainously at Penbrooke’s complaints, even doing a self-indulgent little jig with its shoulders. “Back. Back.”

“You can’t do that…. You didn’t even reposition there – you cheated!”

“No cheat! You smoothbrain!” It raised its bow and nocked an arrow in one fluid motion; and for the first time, it aimed directly at him. Its tone brooked no disagreement: “Back. Back.”

Oh shit…

Facing the prepared shot, Penbrooke’s emerging string of complaints spooled back into his mouth; the angry goblin mage looked tame in comparison now, its mana orbs a light snack compared to the feast balanced precariously on the arrow point facing him.

The knight accepted the referee’s verdict – however contentious their judgement may be seeing as they were also the goalkeeper – and returned to the spot he had started from.

While he trundled back, the hobgoblin whistled and said something in its foreign tongue.

Penbrooke was about to ask it to repeat itself when, in what could only be described as a miracle, the most-certainly deceased orc arose from death’s cold embrace in front of him. It grinned at Penbrooke, and took its starting position next to the knight’s.

Penbrooke chuckled and shook his head in disbelief at the orc’s audacity. “You think you have a chance against me? Ha. You are so on.”

Why are guys still playing ‘What’s the time, Mr Wolf?’!? This isn't a nursery playground for crying out loud!

The race started as the archer fired a series of arrows and looked away to reposition.

Both contestants used the opportunity to bolt forwards, but when the archer faced them again one ungainly contestant was caught off guard and struggled to freeze itself in time; the orc flapped its arms in an attempt to balance itself, in motion for several seconds after the buzzer and yet still failing as it subsequently fell over.

The archer clicked its tongue at the sight and shook its head with the expression of a parent who’d taken time off their busy schedule to attend their kiddo’s sports day, only to discover there that they’d sired the lamest duck in all the lands.

Cal couldn’t help but feel upset on the orc’s behalf.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Why do you look so disappointed for fuck’s sake? Come on, he did his best; stop being so downbeat and give him some encouragement already.

Otherwise you’ll be sorry when he’s crying to his therapist decades later about how he was never able to meet your overly grandiose expectations of him, and how that resulted in you never showing the slightest bit of love for him. Good luck trying to get him to visit you in your old age at that point.

Perhaps the strength of Cal’s emotions reached the archer as it addressed Penbrooke with a dejected mien, “One more go?”

Its tone was no longer that of a demand, but rather that of a mother pleading with the principal to see if there was anything he could do to admit her son to the school: yes, he was a little special, but he had a good heart, and surely that had to count for something, right?

“Alright, alright. Let’s say that was a practice run.” Penbrooke brushed aside the hobgoblin’s thanks and made for the start line, joined by a sniffling orc that really had given its best and was heartbroken to have embarrassed itself like that.

That’s more like it. Good job, guys!

Restarting the game for the third time, the archer made its shots, then looked away as per.

Both contestants moved forwards, this time the orc going at its own speed instead of trying to keep pace with the knight. In a strange move, however, the archer continued to stare off into the distance long after it’d repositioned; while this could be another trap, Penbrooke chose to take the risk as he bolted forwards and attempted to reach the hobgoblin in one go.

He almost didn’t hear its warning. “Down! Ambush!”

But even if he had, there was no missing the piercing screech or the sudden darkening of his surroundings. Simultaneously, a powerful gust buffeted into Penbrooke from the side, and he had to strain his neck to look in the direction to see what had caused it, whereupon he immediately regretted doing so.

Claws the size of his head descended from above as a voracious giant eagle swooped down on him; given the speed it was diving at, there was no time to react, let alone dodge. It was all over.

Yet, in the next second the eagle’s body sharply veered out of sight and barrelled to the ground, its abrupt change in direction enunciated by a horrid squall: it was as if a boulder had crashed into it, accompanied by a flare up of dust that now obscured his vision.

When the dust cleared away, Penbrooke saw not a grey boulder, however, but a broad green back crisscrossed with scars. In its single hand the orc carried its previously two-handed weapon, and it no longer displayed the sluggishness or clumsiness from before.

When another giant eagle descended onto it, the warrior orc leapt into the sky as if today was opposite day and it was the one pouncing on its prey, clipping the eagle in the wing and causing it to spin out of control and smash into the ground.

Looking to the side, Penbrooke watched then as the archer took a handful of arrows from its quiver and fired in quick succession at the raptors circling above, each shot punctuated by a squawk from the skies.

While its arrows wreaked havoc within the avian order, the hobgoblin dashed towards Penbrooke and took up position where it could watch the orc’s back and vice versa; it was clear the two greenskins were working in tandem to protect the knight.

Finally Cal understood why he’d felt something was off from the start: it must have been cognitive dissonance at seeing these two greenskins dress and act like simple bandits, whilst simultaneously witnessing their mannerisms and bodies that spoke at length of extensive combat experience.

They just didn’t fit the roles they were trying to play, and hence had come across as unconvincing actors right from the start; this spurred an outlandish suspicion in Cal’s mind.

Could it be that someone hired them to do this? Are they professional mercenaries carrying out a job right now?

The convocation of eagles must have concluded similarly – that their quarries were fiercer than even they and, worse yet, that they were powerful perverts who dressed up all vulnerable and prey-like to bait naive assaulters, only to turn it around and get a kick out of the whole thing – for the eagles began to retreat in haste, unwilling to take any further chances.

The raptors that’d been grounded followed behind, flapping their injured wings awkwardly but all the same with desperate urgency, probably thinking it was better to worsen their injuries now than to risk another moment with these degenerates.

Should they stay, even if they were to escape in one piece later on, it would only be in the physical sense they were whole as spiritually they’d be shattered, forever having to live down the shame of what had happened in the darkest saga of their lives. The fact that it was during twilight hours just made it that much worse.

The greenskins allowed the eagles to flee, blissfully unaware of how their moral fibre and decency had been debased and denigrated in the minds of said raptors; instead of musing on such useless matters, the greenskins kept a wary watch in case the retreat was a ruse for them to lower their guard, with the eagles intending to double back on them.

While they stood sentinel, scanning the dusky skies, Penbrooke walked up to the hobgoblin and without hesitation struck it on the shoulder with his cudgel. “Got you.”

It collapsed theatrically at the hit, wailing as it went down.

The warrior looked back at its partner in confusion, then meeting Penbrooke’s gaze realised it too was supposed to be dead, and summarily toppled over as if snuffed of life.

What the miracle of life giveth, it shall also taketh, evidently.

“Yes, let’s go!” Penbrooke yelled out, all too enthusiastically Cal felt given the circumstances. “With that, the combat tutorial quest’s done and dusted. And I levelled up too. Good stuff.”

Without much dallying, the knight started on his path again, the sole difference to the last few times being that this time he actually looked back while walking away.

The first time he turned around the greenskin corpses were still there, although the orc corpse had its eyes open for some reason: like an alcoholic addicted to ambrosia, it was not quite able to stay away from life despite its best efforts.

And Penbrooke was like its sponsor, for when their gazes crossed, the orc closed its eyes and promptly returned to deadness.

The second time he looked back, however, he saw that not only was his sponsee back on the juice, but that it had also done an Eve and made the hobgoblin take a sip as evidenced by the fact they were both gingerly getting up.

On realising they’d been caught, the greenskins threw away the rest of their facade; the warrior saluted the knight with a raised sideward fist, and the archer gave him a thumbs up, signalling their support and best wishes for his journey ahead.

And like that they were gone, slinking back into the forest as though they’d never been there to begin with.