Ron was up against six goblins. He wondered whether the goblins had sniffed him out from their base, or these goblins were returning back from whatever vile mission they had done. His heart was pounding in his chest as he surveyed the scene before him. The six goblins were armed with crude weapons, but they were fierce fighters nonetheless. The young lord knew that he had to be careful, or he would be overrun.
“Five points to strength and agility,” Ron said. Using the points he gained for reaching level five. He waited for them, unmoving. His shield was steady in his hand, as the strength he gained made the shield’s weight unnoticeable. Then the first goblin attacked. The creature's dagger hit the shield with a sickening thud, but Ron stood his ground. In a quick motion, Ron thrust his sword forward, piercing the goblin's chest. The creature fell to the ground with a shriek.
The other goblins closed in on Ron, their weapons glinting in the moonlight. He swung his sword with all his might, cutting down two of the creatures in quick succession. But the remaining goblins were cunning, and they knew that they had to work together to bring down the young lord of Greylock. They circled around him, their weapons poised for the attack.
The goblins were closing in on him from all sides, their weapons poised for the kill. With a fierce cry, Ron charged toward the remaining goblins, swinging his sword with all his might. He could hear their grunts and snarls as they closed in on him, but he did not falter.
In the scuffle, Ron felt a sharp pain in his side, and he stumbled back. One of them managed to cut him. The goblins, sensing victory, rushed forward, their sharp teeth bared. Ron raised his sword and shield and clashed against the many daggers held by these goblins. The cooperative strength of these goblins staggered him back, his shield and sword wavering. It seemed as if he was about to fall.
But Ron was not going to let his life be taken by goblins. He burst with strength, pushing his sword and shield upwards, sending these goblins rolling on the ground. Ron surged forward, swinging his sword with all his might. He cut through most of them, leaving them dead on the ground.
Yet a sneak attack went for his blind spot. A dagger pierced through the back of his shoulder and he yelled in anger. The shield was gone and Ron grabbed the goblin behind him by the wrist and flung it forward like a rag doll. The sound of cracking bones echoed as the goblin wailed in pain. Ron held fury in his eyes as he stabbed the goblin right in the eye. The goblin stopped squirming and another was dead.
Ron got up. His glare was like a fierce beast watching its prey to be devoured. The lone goblin was now trembling on its own. Its squad members dead were on the ground as nothing they did could take this human bastard down.
Ron stood there, breathing mildly heavily. His armor was drenched in sweat and blood. Both his and his enemies. Then a rough voice escaped his lips, “come goblin,” he said. His eyes never left the sight of the lone goblin. But the goblin ran away, fleeing for its life.
Ron refused to let the goblin go. He let his sword rest in his inventory, replaced by a short steel spear. His years of training had prepared him for moments like these. In a split-second decision, Ron loosely gripped the short steel spear, eyeing the fleeing goblin with unwavering determination. With the confidence of an Olympic javelin thrower, Ron let the spear fly through the air. His training in combat, both close quarters and long-range had honed his skills to a fine edge. The sound of a sharp yelp echoed through the air, followed by the sight of the small goblin figure tumbling to the ground in the distance.
Ron won. He looked around at the carnage he had wrought, and pride was not in himself. The young lord was rather disappointed in himself. He should have won cleanly against these goblins as they were nothing but the bottom rank of monsters that he knew. Since he got injured from this slight ambush, he could imagine the peril he would face if it was a stronger monster.
Ron dislodged the knife at the back of his shoulder, wincing slightly in pain. He threw it to the ground as his armor vanished into his inventory. It left him only in his tunic, a bloody one at that as the blood kept dripping from the fresh wound. Ron tore the lower part of his tunic and wrapped it around his shoulder. He equipped the Dastan-style Leather Cuirass and used the tightness of the armor to compress against the wound.
For now, his current state of equipment was for the better. As he engaged in combat, he realized that his metal armor often impeded his range of motion, making his attacks awkward and ineffective. It was in situations like this that he preferred to train and fight in simpler clothing, with minimal armor such as the leather cuirass he currently wore. As he thought about it, Ron couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't tried this approach sooner. Not to mention this cuirass had quite a beneficial effect on it.
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[Dastan-style Leather Cuirass]
[Rating] [Uncommon]
[Defense] [25]
[Descriptoin: A leather armor made by a craftsman from Dastan, instilling the style commonly known by Dastan people. The creator is somewhat highly proficient with rune marking.]
[Effect: 1. 30% increase in natural recovery. 2. 50% Adaptable to hot weather climate.]
The minor healing boost would do wondrous with his new wound. It would not heal immediately, but at least it would stop the bleeding. Ron made haste on his feet, sprinting towards the goblin base. He had wasted too much time fighting against the ambush, and he feared what would happen to Bron.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he ran towards the looming goblin base. He could see the faint glow of torches and hear the distant sounds of clanging metal and screams of agony. Something had changed. Within that brief time, he was gone, the base gone rowdier.
As he approached the base, Ron’s eyes went wide. He spotted Bron, his sword drawn and his armor battered and bloodied. He was surrounded by a group of goblins, but he was holding his own. Yet the look in Bron’s eyes was not at the goblins around him, but at the massive figure that stood in front of him.
Ron watched in amazement. A monster of dark green skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, emphasizing its towering height and massive width. Ron couldn't help but feel like a mere ant in comparison. The creature's massive cleaver, which looked like it could slice through steel with ease, was held tightly in its hand and to make matters worse, its terrifying cleaver was equally as terrifying as its grotesque smiling face. Ron was sure it was a goblin and it was probably a higher evolution than the hobgoblin he witnessed before.
He kept himself hidden, crouching behind a crate and observing the chaotic scene in front of him. The goblin army numbered in the dozens, their eyes ablaze with bloodlust as they watched their leader, the towering Hobgoblin variant, engage in a fierce battle with Bron. The clash of steel against steel echoed through the air, punctuated by the screams and grunts of combatants.
Bron moved with the agility and precision of a seasoned warrior, dodging the Hobgoblin's massive cleaver with lightning-fast reflexes. But the goblins showed no such finesse, charging recklessly toward Bron with wild abandon. Some were felled by Bron's expert swordsmanship, while others were cut down by the Hobgoblin's brutal swings.
But what struck Ron the most was the Hobgoblin's indifference to the lives of its own kind. It cleaved through its fellow goblins without a second thought, as if they were nothing more than disposable tools.
Ron watched as Bron was gradually overwhelmed by the goblins, sustaining more and more injuries with each passing moment. Though his gut urged him to join the fight, Ron resisted the temptation and instead surveyed their surroundings. The majority of the goblins were preoccupied with the battle, leaving the cages containing the innocent prisoners unguarded. Ron felt a pang of guilt at the thought of abandoning Bron to face the goblins alone, but the lives of the trapped villagers were at stake.
He tore his gaze away from the fight and focused on the cages. Ron knew what he had to do. He sprinted within the shadows, further away from the big fight. In time, he found the first of many.
The sight of a human with a sword gave the prisoners a glimmer of hope. They looked up at Ron with eyes wide, ready to shout and scream for help. But Ron was quick to place a finger on his lips.
“Does anyone know the way through these woods?” Ron whispered.
One of the prisoners stepped forward, a man in his early forties. “I lived in Conham and used to trek these woods during my younger days to go to Shroudtown,” he said.
“Good,” Ron said, nodding. “Once I let you all out, follow this man. He’ll lead you to Shroudtown. Some of you may want to go back home but trust me, head to Shroudtown first. Stick together and don't stray off.”
“Aye, sir,” someone replied, while most simply nodded.
Ron pulled out a mace from his inventory and smashed the lock numerous times until it broke. He beckoned the prisoners to follow him to the outskirts of the base, guarding them until they were safe to venture on their own.
He did this a couple more times, with more villagers trailing behind him. At times, they stumbled across stray goblins that had woken up from their drunken stupor, but Ron's sword did the trick.
After Ron led the sixth batch of villagers toward freedom, a loud scream pierced through the air. His head turned towards the sound, and what he saw made his heart skip a beat.
Bron was on his knees, a cleaver resting on his shoulder. The blade had cut shallowly into his skin, but the weight behind it pushed further into him. Despite the pain, the senior knight held on, his bloody hands gripping the cleaver as if his life depended on it.
The hobgoblin variant, towering over Bron, could have ended him right then and there. But it took pleasure in seeing its foe suffer under its power. It cackled madly, its eyes fixed on Bron's struggle to stay alive.
Ron's eyes burned with an intense fury, the muscles in his arms coiling like steel springs. He would wait no longer, not when Bron's life hung in the balance. Deep in his heart, he apologized to the prisoners in the last three cages, but Ron's patience had run out. His sword vanished from his grip, replaced by a deadly steel spear. Ron's gaze locked onto his target, his steps growing ever faster until he broke into a full run. With a silent roar of primal rage, he hurled the spear at his prey, watching as it sliced through the air with a deadly whistle.