I don’t remember the last time I played like a normal child. The village, once beautiful and filled with smiles and laughter every evening, has now become a place where no one dares to step outside their homes. The park where I used to play with other children has turned into rows of tents filled with the wounded and sick. Houses that once belonged to people I knew have become temporary shelters, their occupants constantly changing, as if the village has turned into a transient lodging place.

Now, all I can do is swing my hammer, honing my skills as much as possible because when night falls, no one knows what darkness will bring to our homes. I’ve already studied half of the martial arts book, and with each passing day, I can execute more refined movements. Through breathing exercises, I can feel my body growing stronger and more developed than other children my age. Of course, I couldn’t have achieved this alone.

Father Daniel has become my trainer. He easily spots where my movements are flawed and where I lack finesse in swinging the hammer. Every day, there’s no such thing as rest. He comes and pushes my body to train harder than before, saying that what he’s doing is for my own good. But I don’t hate it. I know his strictness and rough teaching come from a place of love.

“Sebastian, time to go home!” my mother shouts from a distance.

“Go home. Let’s hope we can sleep soundly tonight,” says Father Daniel.

“Let’s hope so,” I reply with an empty smile.

A good night’s sleep is now just a dream. Every night, soldiers in the city are busy fighting Stampedes, and crime runs rampant in both the village and the city. Almost every night, I hear someone breaking into houses. I don’t know what they’re looking for in a poor village like this, but many people are desperate and in need of money to survive.

I enter the house and see my mother has prepared oatmeal, as usual. At least this is better than hospital food, though I’ve long forgotten the taste of the meals from my old life.

“Tomorrow, I promise to cook chicken, so today we’ll have oatmeal as usual,” my mother says, forcing a smile.

Oatmeal—a meal low in nutrients, only good for filling an empty stomach. I remember when dinner was something I looked forward to. My mother would always cook something delicious, whether it was chicken, beef, or goat. But now, eating meat is a luxury, as many livestock have been killed by roaming monsters.

“I hope there’s no commotion tonight,” my mother says with a smile.

“Have you heard anything from Dad?”

My mother puts down the spoon she’s holding and looks somber.

“It’s been two months since he last sent a letter, but I believe he’s fine.”

I can tell she’s trying to deceive herself, but what else can she do? Soldiers are dying like flies, and unmarked graves are scattered around the city because the cemeteries can no longer accommodate the dead. I’m doing my best to stay strong for my mother, and I think she’s doing the same. We’re both struggling to survive these harsh times.

In the middle of dinner, the church bell suddenly rings loudly. I immediately rush to the door, gripping my hammer and shield tightly. Another night, another raid. Whether it’s monsters or bandits, it doesn’t matter—every boy and man above the age of ten must gather in the village center and fight to defend the village. It sounds cruel to send children to the battlefield, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

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“Sebastian.”

I look at my mother, her face filled with fear. Her hands seem to want to grab me and hide me in her embrace, but she knows there’s nothing she can do. Every time I walk out that door, it could be the last time we see each other, and we both know it. But we bottle up our feelings and hope for the best.

“I promise I’ll come back as soon as possible,” I say, trying to reassure her.

“Don’t forget to be careful,” she replies with a forced smile.

I run toward the village wall, where dozens of people have already gathered, armed with their weapons. Father Daniel stands at the front, acting as the village commander, giving orders.

“A messenger bird from the scouts! About 50 goblins are approaching!” Father Daniel shouts.

There are fewer than 20 villagers here now. Each of us will have to kill two or three goblins. Night attacks like this have become common. Not all Stampedes attacking the city are fully eradicated, which is why the Sullar Forest, once deemed safe, has now become a nest for various monsters.

Ideally, we would stand behind the village wall and shoot the approaching goblins with arrows. But not everyone has arrows anymore. Those who do are using ones that are nearly broken. So all we can do is wait for the monsters to climb the wall and fight them up close—a highly ineffective and dangerous tactic, but there’s no other choice.

The sound of goblin horns echoes in the distance. From the sound, I estimate they’re very close. The growls from their mouths are clear, and the thundering of footsteps shakes the ground. This isn’t 50 goblins—it’s closer to 100.

A goblin emerges from behind the wall, and an arrow immediately lodges in its head. Dozens more follow, flooding into the village.

I charge forward, attacking the goblins head-on. Moments like these are perfect for honing my combat skills. These goblins are agile and skilled at dodging, but I can keep up, killing several within minutes. I test out martial arts techniques I haven’t fully mastered yet. Sometimes they fail, and I end up with cuts on my body. Thankfully, thanks to the holy magic blessing, minor wounds close within minutes.

I keep killing. More villagers join the fight. Screams echo around me. I catch glimpses of villagers lying lifeless, fresh blood pooling around them. A soldier’s life is fleeting—they either die on the battlefield or in their own yards. It’s no wonder many villagers flee to distant kingdoms rather than become soldiers to survive.

Suddenly, the village wall is breached with a powerful force, and parts of it crumble. A hobgoblin, their leader, appears, wielding a massive bloodstained hammer. Hobgoblins resemble humans more than the short goblins. They can speak and think strategically, making them extremely dangerous.

It’s not the first or second time the village has faced such a monster. For villagers who’ve survived years of Stampedes, this has become normal. If this had happened six years ago, it would have caused an uproar.

This is a golden opportunity to test my skills. Hobgoblins are as skilled as master swordsmen. Fighting one will help me improve further. My previous opponents have been straw dummies and small monsters like goblins and Aaps. I want to see how far I’ve come.

I attack the hobgoblin with all my strength. The clashing of our weapons echoes throughout the village. I press on relentlessly, not giving the hobgoblin a chance to counter. Strike after strike, I unleash everything I have, but the hobgoblin anticipates my moves. There’s no other way—I have to use a new technique I’ve just learned.

“DIVINE HAMMER!”

I slam my weapon into the hobgoblin’s with such force that the ground cracks, forming a crater. I channel all my mana and strength into the attack, but the hobgoblin smirks, mocking me.

Suddenly, a powerful kick strikes my stomach, sending me flying into a house. I crash through the wall, stunned and disoriented. The hobgoblin’s normal attack felt overwhelmingly strong, as if my technique meant nothing.

I stand up, ready to face the counterattack, but no one emerges from the dust. Slowly, I walk through the debris, prepared for an ambush. But instead, I see Father Daniel choking the hobgoblin with one arm.

“You’re not ready yet, Sebastian. You need more training.”

The hobgoblin struggles, clawing at Father Daniel, but he doesn’t even flinch. Blood spurts from the hobgoblin’s neck, splattering onto Father Daniel’s face before the creature finally dies.

“Tomorrow, we’ll train even harder.”

Those words send a shiver down my spine. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I’m not excited about it. I lower my head in shame. I overestimated my abilities, and now I’m paying the price.