Goblins!?!?!?!

Across the horizon, a swarm of green bodies surged forward, their grotesque forms twisting in the flickering torchlight.

"RAHAHAHAH!"

The goblins' guttural screams tore through the sky, a chaotic chorus of bloodlust and madness. Wooden clubs and rusted blades glinted beneath the sun as they charged, their crooked limbs carrying them toward the village with terrifying speed.

The earth trembled beneath the sheer number of them.

The attack had begun.

Noah stood on the village wall, eyes locked on the green horde rushing toward them. Their screams echoed across the valley, a sickening blend of hunger and fury. His hand clenching into a fist.

Around him the townsfolk scrambled into position, their expressions tense but prepared. Bows were nocked, spears braced, and makeshift weapons—anything sharp enough to kill—were gripped by trembling hands. Some of these people were farmers, blacksmiths, or traders, but tonight, they were soldiers.

His gaze snapped to a figure moving along the front lines, barking out orders with the same authority they had grown to fear. The instructor. The same relentless man who had pushed them to their limits, made them run until their legs gave out.

"Mason! Get your men to the south wall! I want you in turtle formation!" the instructor commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. "When those bastards are within two hundred meters, start the volley! No hesitation!"

"Yes, sir!" Mason, a middle-aged man with graying hair, responded without delay, rallying his group with sharp hand signals.

Noah swallowed hard. This wasn't training anymore. This was war.

As if noticing Noah looking at him the instructor turns to him.

Sweeping his gaze over the students, the instructor scowled. They stood around like lost puppies, uncertain, their hesitation painfully obvious.

"For God's sake! Was the week of training I put into you for nothing? Grab a weapon and man the walls!"

His voice boomed across the battlefield, shaking them out of their stupor. A ripple of urgency spread through the group as they scrambled toward the weapon racks.

It was chaos.

Some students lunged for weapons without thinking, hands fumbling as they grabbed whatever felt right. Swords, spears, shields—anything that could kill. Others hesitated, gripping hilts with uncertain fingers, their fear evident.

Noah watched as Ava snatched a pair of iron knuckles—gauntlets that reinforced her fists, turning every punch into a bone-breaking strike. She slid them on effortlessly, rolling her wrists as if she'd been born to fight with them.

Nearby, Devon grabbed a pair of daggers. He held them with a level of familiarity, not quite skilled, but not completely lost either. His grip adjusted slightly as if testing their weight, his expression unreadable.

James, his movements subtly more precise than before, grabbed a tachi, the curved blade gleaming under the sunlight. He turned, steady-handed, and helped Sophia secure a quarterstaff, his actions ridge—as if his body was still adapting to his newfound affinity.

Noah exhaled and turned back to the racks.

Along the side of the rack, a lone spear stood out. Its dark-stained shaft was smooth, the leaf-shaped blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. The ashen wooden color of the handle gave it an almost ancient feel, a weapon both refined and deadly.

Gripping it, Noah tested its weight. The spear was taller than him, but not unwieldy. It had enough heft to deliver devastating strikes, yet wasn't so heavy that it felt like swinging a longsword.

'This will do,' Noah thought, adjusting his grip. 'Hopefully, Amanda got something she's comfortable with.'

Turning, he spotted Amanda inspecting her chosen weapons—a shortbow and a shortsword. A quiver was already strapped to her back, the bow resting lightly in her hand.

However, before he can say anything a horn like sound rings across the air.

The goblins leading the charge can be seen blowing on a horn sound the drums of war.

"MOVE IT, YOU USELESS LOT! GET ON THE WALLS!"

The instructor's voice boomed over the chaos, snapping Noah's head toward him.

Some students were still fumbling with their weapons, paralyzed by indecision. Others had barely secured their gear, their hands shaking as they tried to process what was happening.

There was no time for hesitation.

A war horn howled from the distance.

The goblins were getting closer.

"Archers! Take your positions NOW!" the instructor barked, shoving a student toward the ramparts. "On my mark!"

Amanda was already moving, sprinting toward the edge of the wall, her shortbow firm in her grip. Others followed—some students, a few villagers—scrambling into formation.

Below them, the goblins surged forward, their grotesque faces twisted in madness, their crude weapons raised high. The sound of their footsteps pounding the dirt sent a cold shiver up Noah's spine.

Two hundred meters.

The instructor raised a hand.

One hundred fifty.

The goblins were now close enough that Noah could see their snarling teeth, their beady, hungry eyes locked onto the village.

One hundred meters.

The instructor's hand clenched into a fist.

"Nock!"

Arrows were lifted. Strings pulled back.

Noah's breath caught in his throat.

Fifty meters.

The goblins were practically sprinting.

"FIRE!"

A storm of arrows rained down.

Screams.

The first wave of goblins collapsed mid-charge, their shrieks of rage turning into gurgled howls of pain. Some thrashed on the ground, black blood pooling beneath them. Others stumbled, arrows buried in their shoulders, legs, and throats.

Noah barely had time to process it before—

"AGAIN!" the instructor roared.

Amanda had already nocked her next arrow.

The second volley fell.

More goblins dropped.

But the rest?

They didn't stop.

Noah gritted his teeth. The wall wouldn't hold forever.

The real fight was about to begin.

The horde pressed forward—hundreds of them—trampling over their fallen without hesitation. The ones that stepped past the dead weren't just numerous; they were different. Bigger. Faster. Smarter.

One stood out.

At the far back, a taller goblin moved with an unsettling sense of purpose. But it wasn't its size that caught Noah's attention.

It was what it wore.

A small wolf skull sat atop its head, plastered against its brow, with a tattered robe draped over its thin frame. In its gnarled fingers, it clutched a staff—adorned with bones, claws… and skulls.

The goblin lifted its staff, a faint purple glow pulsing from the tip. It waved the gnarled wood through the air, chanting in a language that made Noah's skin crawl. Then—it slammed the staff into the ground.

A surge of violet energy erupted outward—violent, unstable.

Boom!

The shockwave tore through the battlefield, streaking forward like a spear of raw destruction.

Noah barely had time to process it before—

"Infernal Arc!"

A deep, commanding voice roared through the air.

The instructor moved.

With a single motion, he drew his sword and swung. Flames erupted along the length of the blade, trailing in a blazing crescent as he slashed through the air.

FWOOOSH!

The arc of fire collided with the incoming magic. For a brief moment, violet and orange flames crackled against each other in midair—then, with a deafening BANG, the fire overpowered the unstable magic, slicing through it like a blade through flesh. The remnants of the goblin's attack exploded outward, dispersing into harmless embers before they could reach the wall.

The goblin shaman staggered backward, its beady yellow eyes wide in shock.

The instructor planted his feet, raising his sword. The fire still danced along the steel, flickering in the wind. His glare locked onto the goblin, a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.

"You think you're the only one who can use magic, you ugly bastard?"

A ripple of awe spread through the students. Noah's breath caught in his throat. He had known the instructor was strong, but this? This was something else.

The goblin snarled, gripping its staff tighter.

Noah's breath hitched.

'Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. I'm going to die!'

Noah's thoughts spiraled, panic hammering against his skull. His grip on the spear was too tight, his palms slick with sweat. 'Think, Noah! Magic, spear—anything! Do something!'

The first goblins crashed against the barricade, rusted blades hacking wildly at the sharpened pikes. Splinters flew. Wood cracked. The defenses—the only thing keeping them safe—were already beginning to give.

Above the chaos, the instructor's voice cut through the battlefield like a whip.

"Archers, fall back! Shield-bearers, hold the front! Warriors, behind them—get ready to engage!"

Even through his rising panic, Noah forced himself to listen to the instructions. His eyes darted around, searching for the closest person with a shield—Mark. The same guy who had struggled to make it up the hill earlier.

Mark, gripping his shield and sword, took position in front of Noah without hesitation, lowering himself into a defensive stance on the ramparts. His broad frame provided solid cover against the incoming goblins.

Noah adjusted his grip on his spear, mirroring the stance he'd been taught. His heart pounded, but he forced himself to focus. Reaching out, he tapped Mark's shoulder.

"Right behind you, Mark. I'll cover your left side."

Mark stiffened for a moment, then nodded. His left hand held the shield, meaning his ability to counter from that angle would be weak. If an attack slipped past the shield, it would be up to Noah to intercept it.

"Got it. Thanks, man. I'll be relying on you," Mark said, exhaling sharply. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

Noah nodded, tightening his grip on the spear. The goblins were closing in.

This was it.

Peering over Mark's left shoulder, Noah's breath hitched as a bony, green hand clawed over the top of the rampart. The skin was sickly, stretched over wiry muscles, its very sight repulsive.

Then, the head appeared.

Sunken yellow eyes. Jagged teeth. The goblin yanked itself up, letting out a garbled, ear-piercing screech.

"ALALRJR!"

Mark stiffened. His grip on the sword tightened, his breathing shallow. For a moment, he hesitated, his body locked in place as the goblin scrambled higher, its clawed foot finding purchase on the stone.

Noah's heart pounded. "Mark—!"

Snapping out of it, Mark took a sharp step forward and thrust his sword. The blade bit deep into the goblin's collarbone. A wet gurgle escaped the creature's lips as its grip failed, clawed fingers slipping from the wood. With a sharp cry, it tumbled backward, vanishing into the darkness below.

A deep red painted Mark's blade, the sight familiar yet unsettling. Blood was nothing uncommon on Earth, but being the one to spill it—that was different.

However, before either Mark or Noah could process what had just happened, more goblins clawed their way to the top of the wall.

This time, Mark didn't hesitate.

He stepped forward, his sword flashing through the air as he slashed, carving into the creatures with growing precision. Steel met flesh, hacking deep into arms and collarbones, severing limbs with each swing.

He aimed for the necks—clean, decisive strikes meant to kill.

With each passing second, his movements sharpened. His footwork steadied. His strikes became more controlled.

His proficiency was increasing with every kill.

Mark moved like a killing machine, cutting through the goblins with ruthless efficiency.

Noah watched, searching for an opening to help. That's when he saw it.

Farther down the wall, a goblin had climbed up unnoticed, its bony fingers clutching a rusted knife. It scurried forward, its beady eyes locked onto Mark's exposed side.

Move.

Noah's breath hitched. His grip on the spear tightened.

Left, right shuffle. The footwork echoed in his mind, the same sequence drilled into him during training.

Left foot forward. Right shuffle.

His body followed instinctively.

Then—push.

Noah lunged, driving the spear forward. The extended reach worked to his advantage—the sharpened tip plunged into the goblin's chest before it could react.

The creature let out a sharp, guttural screech, its clawed fingers loosening around the knife. It shuddered, its bony hands reaching toward the shaft embedded in its chest, struggling to pull it free.

Noah stood frozen, his heart hammering.

The goblin's eyes locked onto his, wide and desperate. Its trembling hand stretched toward him, as if pleading.

Then—the light in its eyes faded. Its arm went limp.

Dead.

Noah swallowed hard, yanking the spear free. The goblin's body crumpled to the ground.

His first kill.