The next human who ventured down the dirt road was the girl’s father. Despite his hurried steps, every few paces he would stop and call for his daughter in a shout-whisper. Azarus could see the man’s waist held an old sword with a rusted hilt and a tattered leather sheath, hung on a thick belt buckled over sturdy hemp clothes. The dying forest echoed with his voice. He was an older man, thin and haggard, his clothing hanging loose on his broad frame.

With each new human, Azarus gathered a clearer picture of the village’s fate. Beset by bandits demanding a tithe, with starvation and a cold winter tightening like a noose, the village was fated to die. All Moka was doing with her violence was speeding things up. She was doing well, considering her goal. Unfortunately, each kill felt like it was flaying a piece off of Azarus’s domain. Not that he opposed violence. He had not chosen Moka so she could unleash her anger on innocents.

Another branch cracked, echoing against the trunks of the cold, brittle trees like a gunshot. The man’s head whipped toward the noise, drawing his sword as he did so. His stance was much the same as the boy’s. Feet squarely facing the noise, both hands holding the hilt of the sword at waist height, the blade rising at an angle to face the unseen threat. Moka’s spear took him behind the knee.

He collapsed, swinging the sword in an arc as he twisted toward the source of the pain. His sword crashed against a second spear, causing it to explode in a rain of splinters. The man cried out as a splinter pierced his eye. He struggled to stand, the next spear taking him in the shoulder. Collapsing to his knees, he never saw the spear that punched through his throat.

Moka set about her tasks, hiding the body, claiming the sword, and doing her best to clean up the blood and debris. Fresh scuffs and damp spots of blood made the area suspicious by any metric. In her place, Azarus would have elected to change location. Not that he approved of her behavior.

Like clockwork, the next to appear were three men. Azarus nurtured a hunch that the trickle of easily dealt with humanity was Moka’s moderate gift of Luck at play. The men were small but wiry, each one wearing sturdy hemp clothes and holding a thick wooden club with metal bands around the end. Their faces were similar as well, making Azarus think they were brothers. Soft murmurs passed between them as they made steady headway toward’s Moka’s ambush.

The tallest of the three nudged the man next to him with his elbow as they rounded the corner, prompting the shorter man to call out.

“Jeff! Jeff!! Your missus had a bad feeling, so she sent us out to check on you!”

They made it a few steps before they caught sight of the abandoned sled. The men grew silent. As one they spread apart, searching the woods for an ambush with their heads on a swivel, their breath coming out in great clouds of steam. They held their clubs loose in their hands, their familiarity with the weapons radiating from each idle spin.

Azarus nursed a burgeoning sense of hope. Perhaps these men would end his champion’s murder spree before it got worse. If they rushed her after the first spear, they could end it quick. One good knock to the head and Azarus could correct Moka’s thinking and try again before too much damage was done.

The tallest man went to examine the sled, getting on a single knee to study the marks on the ground. Another man examined the woods near that side of the road, searching for clues. The last man wandered close to Moka, doing the same.

The man near the sled cried out, indicating he had found something. The two other two turned towards him. Moka lunged from her hiding place as they did, bringing her axe high overhead. Azarus could almost feel her nervous, fluttering excitement as if it was his own. His mouth twisted in distaste. He wanted to enjoy his champion taking on three opponents. It irked him he could not.

Timing her breath with her strike, Moka exhaled. She swung down, pulling toward herself as she did so, a motion more fitting for an oversized hook than a wood axe. The tool sank into the man’s neck, lodging into his collarbone as Moka pulled him backwards off the road. He died without a sound, allowing Moka to hide his body before the others noticed. She had no chance to cover the spray of blood that coated the ground.

Despite the pinch of pain in his domain, Azarus found himself impressed by Moka’s gift of Luck. The odds of her killing that man without a sound were astounding, or so his instincts insisted. The chances of a single goblin successfully taking on four, soon to be six, humans in rapid succession were slim. But here she was, doing just that.

By the time the other two noticed their missing friend, a spear had already taken one of them in the hip. The man near the sled hopped to his feet and rushed toward the source of the spear, a war cry on his lips. He battered the spear Moka flung at him out of the air, smashing it into the underbrush. Roots and bare bushes clawed at him as he charged off the road toward the grinning goblin.

Moka moved through the forest unimpeded, hefting another spear into her atlatl. She ran to a small rise, flinging the spear down at the man. He deflected it with ease, growling promises of pain beneath his breath. Azarus could hear him and was not amused. He wanted a quick restart for his champion, not months, days, or even a single second of torture. Moka was his to correct, not theirs to punish. Behind the cursing man, the second survivor limped along the broken trail of his comrade’s passing, clutching his club in one hand and pressing against the spear in his hip with the other.

Letting loose the chittering cry unique to goblins, Moka dropped her spears and hefted the woodcutter’s axe with both hands. She raised it over her head and behind her back, the blunt side nearly touching her tailbone. Taking a step forward, her chest pushed toward the sky, she bent forward in a violent whip-like motion, sending the axe whirling toward the uninjured man with a whistling thrum.

The man read the projected attack’s trajectory and sidestepped. The moment of distraction caused him to miss Moka’s wild charge. She held the old, worn sword in both hands like a lance, the tip level at chest height. He caught her in the arm with a wild swing, but it was not enough. They both fell to the ground in a heap, Moka’s attack bowling the man over. The second survivor cried out and limped forward toward his fallen companion with renewed urgency.

Gasping for air, Moka scrambled upright, leaving the sword buried in the man’s chest. She took a second to yank it out, but her left arm gave out. From his vantage point, Azarus knew she had hyper extended it in the last exchange. It was not working well enough for her to use her full strength, let alone struggle against the old sword embedded in a cage of bone.

“Troll tits,” Moka growled to herself. Mindful of the oncoming threat, out of time to search for the axe, and far away from her remaining spears, she left the sword embedded where it was. She drew her simple knife from her belt, holding it in a reverse grip.

“Go back to where you came from, demon,” the last survivor said, gripping his club tight. His eyes had a feverish look. “We have enough monsters here. Go pick on someone else.”

Moka laughed in his face, baring her teeth so he could see the serrated edges. His face grew pale, but he did not retreat. Azarus admired the man. So much so, he had to resist the urge to close his eyes for whatever happened next. Each death was weighing on him. He did not turn away. Bravery deserved to be witnessed.

“Rich talk, human,” Moka said, spitting on the ground and gesturing toward the body at her feet. “One monster is already dead.”

Azarus looked at Moka’s twisted grimace and touched his chest where tight bands felt like they were cutting into his domain. He knew the feeling was a mere mimicry of a mortal’s internal sensations; a god had no use for organs or the like. Still, in that moment, it felt as real as his divinity. Her rage and grief were justified, but this? Azarus’s hand pushed against the glass. He would fix this. The anger, the fear, the pain. Azarus yearned to reach through the glass and soothe his champion’s broken heart.

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No matter how Azarus pushed, the Mirror of Eons would not yield.

The remaining brother lunged forward, the tip of his club darting out like a spear, aiming to crush Moka’s windpipe. She ducked to the side his injury was on, causing him to stumble as he pivoted to keep her in his sight. With a cry, she lunged forward, stabbing into the man’s shoulder with her good arm like she was sticking a pick into ice. Displaying a burst of strength, she pulled herself closer, using the knife as a handle. Her sharp teeth sank into the man’s throat as she bore him to the ground. With a growl, she wrenched her head to the side, ripping his throat out.

To Azarus’s horror, she ate the chunk of flesh rather than spitting it out. His instincts suggested he should not be surprised. Goblins would eat anything. He felt her rush of elation like it was his own, coursing through the string that tied their fates, even as he watched the man’s heart stagger to a stop.

Without respite, Moka took a minute to bind her elbow, then salvaged the bodies for what she could; three belt-knives, the wood axe, the old sword, and six salvageable spears. She left the clubs where they lay. Azarus could only assume she wasn’t strong enough to wield them as effectively as a sharp weapon. He wondered if a gift of Might would change that. However, he could ascribe most of Moka’s current success, if it could be called that, to her having a certain Knack and a touch of Luck accompanying her.

Azarus wondered what Moka’s one-person war would have looked like if she was a [Worker] instead of a [Tribesman]. Her gifts of Luck, Spirit, and Knack were allowing her to engage in guerilla warfare. Perhaps she would have gone in through the front door with the Might, Perseverance, and Will, charging into their village like a traditional monster.

The thought made Azarus smirk, a shadow of an expression, then rub his chin thoughtfully. He had a feeling Moka and her tribe of goblins differed from what his instincts suggested they should be.

Despite Moka’s flaws, the flame Azarus saw in her burned bright. He would nurture her no matter her species or her past. From this admittedly catastrophic failure, his champion would rise again and again, better each time. He would make sure of it. The first step was to endure the current failure. If the opportunity arose, he would see her among her kind, to understand her better.

By now, Moka had circled around the village and was peering through a gap in the palisade. She had chosen one of the undamaged sections. Azarus assumed it was [Search] at work. With the back of her axe, she tapped one of her stolen knives into a post at eye level. She shimmed up the wall until she was standing tip-toe on the protruding hilt and looking over. On the other side of the wall, a few dozen feet away from her perch, there was a man limping into his house with a sour expression. His back was bent under the weight of some great stress that had consumed his years.

Moka’s scouting did not take long. She waited for the man to enter his home, checked to make sure it was clear, then vaulted over the wall. Landing softly, she padded after the man, hefting her first knife in her hand.

Azarus looked away. He did not desire to witness the unreasonable ending of a man who had no chance to overcome his tribulations. Azarus mourned that the man would die without dealing with what weighed him down. It was unfitting. At least the others had a chance, as slim as it was.

Moka went from home to home, slaughtering the inhabitants before they could defend themselves. Such a merciless invasion was not the violence they were used to. Azarus felt a ripping at his domain each time, the rattling causing a tearing sensation within him. He bore it with a stoic expression, embracing the cost of his failure to provide proper guidance to his champion. The [Divine Store] blinked at him, tempting him to remedy his mistake. He ignored it. This path was set. He would see it through, but he would not forget the way the Trial sought to humble him.

The screens could have given him the details of the Floor before he spoke to Moka. It could have given him time to prepare her. The decision not to was deliberate. There was a scheme at play here. Azarus would bet his stubble on it.

The villagers were running from Moka now, creating a scene of chaos as she sought to murder or maim anyone who looked like they might rally the people. Azarus had to give her credit as a representative of her species. She was more traditional than he thought.

Moka tackled a guardsman, legs wrapped around his chest as she bore him down, her last throwing spear breaking off in his neck. He died without a struggle. She caressed his plain, unkempt chainmail, a look of longing in her eyes. Screams turned into bellows and she snapped out of it. Moving fast, she took the long dagger at the man’s side, slipping it into her belt, and grabbed his spear off the ground. It was almost a foot taller than her with a nasty iron spike and sturdy crossguard at the end. If the man had seen Moka coming, he would have stood a fighting chance. It irked Azarus to see him dead without even attempting to reverse his fortune.

Spear in hand, Moka scrambled onto the roof of a house, laying down to avoid the notice of whoever was charging her way. The thunderous pounding of feet and the sound of the growing roar gave the scene a certain gravitas. Azarus thought of how he might paint the scene to capture the moment.

A scared but determined goblin girl, covered in blood, hiding on a roof, clutching a stolen spear. Her set jaw and focused eyes could not hide the tremble in her white-knuckled hands. The roof overlooked an intersection of two humble dirt roads covered in a thin layer of frost. A guard’s bleeding body decorated one corner, adding a splash of color to the otherwise drab brown of the dirt and buildings. The skies were gray, bordering on black.

Green, gray, brown, and red. The scene needed more color.

Just as the thought crossed Azarus’s mind, a guard burst onto the scene with a brilliant blue cape flying from his shoulders like a flag. His war cry died on his lips as he saw the body. With a curse, he checked the crossroads with an experienced eye. By a stroke of luck, he missed seeing Moka, who didn’t duck away quite fast enough.

The guard made his way to the body, sword in hand. He was quite a sight. The gnarled scar on his forehead, extending into his mane of black hair, was what drew Azarus’s attention first. It gave his furious expression a threatening weight. He strode forward with long, confident strides. His steel gorget and gauntlets, worn over a well-oiled mail coat, gave him an imposing air. A sheen of reflected light rose from the burnished steel, casting him in the role of the avenging hero. A playful breeze toyed with the end of his blue cape, causing it to flutter.

Azarus thought this was a strange man to be in such a village. There was a sense of tiredness about him, but Azarus saw no sign of the hunger that haunted the other villagers. He maintained his armor well, even with the burn marks that marred his gauntlets. His cape was too rich for the area, lacking the ragged, study qualities of the villager’s hemp clothing. The two-handed sword he carried with one hand was too fine a blade.

Azarus suspected this man would spell the end of Moka’s rampage. Despite knowing that a new run would be for the best, Azarus was hesitant to watch his champion die. He liked her, even though she was far too murderous for his comfort. Death was not his domain, of that Azarus was sure. If it was, Moka would have been a perfect fit.

Moka ambushed the caped man as he stopped to inspect the body. With her feet on either side of the spear, resting on the crossguard, she dropped on him with all her weight from a few feet above. The motion caught his eye. Despite the short distance and the incessant pull of gravity, he moved with the desperate ease of a battlefield veteran, rolling out of the way without hesitation.

Moka’s spear slid into the earth with a soft thud, burying itself to the crossguard. She left it. Stepping off the spear, she pulled the long dagger from her belt and rushed the man. He swung a warding blow at her as he climbed to his feet. Moka stutter-stepped, charging in as the tip of the blade passed inches from her throat. She planted both feet, allowing her momentum to push the rest of her body forward as she dropped into a crouch. With an explosive burst, she pushed from the ground; the dagger held overhead in both hands, her body as rigid as an oaken staff. To Azarus, it looked as if she was emulating a spear with her body.

In one smooth motion, the man stepped forward, raised the pommel of his sword, and lowered his shoulder. Deflecting her strike with the pommel, he shoulder-checked her into the ground. His parry was not strong enough to fully counter Moka’s attack. The dagger sliced his cheek open, causing blood to flow down his jaw like water. Azarus saw she had cut to the bone. He smiled half-heartedly to himself, pleased with her ability to commit herself to an endeavor in the face of a superior opponent.

Moka slammed against the ground, hard. She bounced off the frozen dirt high enough that she got a hand and leg beneath her. Her wheezing breaths came fast and shallow as she scrambled to her feet. She furrowed her brows, her eyes narrowed in focus. Before she could get fully upright, the man caught her in the gut with his heavy boot. The kick sent her tumbling across the road and into the side of a building.

Azarus’s domain sent pleasing tingles down his spine as he noticed Moka push off with the blow, using it to gain distance. She dry-heaved, breathless and gasping, even as she used the ledge of a window to haul herself upright. The act of defiance sent a wave of energy through Azarus’s soul, mending some wounds from Moka’s repeated killings.

The man spat to the side, hefted his sword, and made his way to finish the job.

“Think you’re tough shit cause your boss can throw a little fire, huh?” he said, circling to block off Moka’s nearest exit. “I’d tell you to give him a message from me, but when you see him in the underworld, it will already be too late. Tell him Alexander sent you.”

The words passed through Moka like ghosts through a wall. Her focus did not waver. She took one look at the man’s armor and sprinted with all her might to the spear embedded in the ground.