Dirga crouched behind a thick, black-leaved bush, eyes narrowed.
He had found the camp.
It wasn’t massive — maybe a cluster of crude wooden huts arranged in a half-circle, smoke coiling lazily from a bonfire at the center — but size was relative out here. Dirga had never seen a goblin camp before. Never even seen a real camp, if he was honest. This was hell. Everything was guesswork. Everything was new.
Still a newbie in this world.
He crept closer, gravity softened around his steps, muffling his movement. The thick forest muted the light, and even the Eye in the sky — that massive red pupil glaring down from above — didn’t reach this deep.
Guttural voices growled ahead. Goblins.
But there was something else.
A voice. Human. Desperate.
Another cry. Faint. Pained.
"Please... someone..."
Dirga froze. That... wasn’t goblin.
His eyes sharpened. His body tensed. He understood the language, even though it wasn’t English or anything familiar. It just... made sense. It flowed into his ears and clicked into his brain, like instinct, like a translation wired straight into his soul.
This is hell. How could there be living people here?
Dirga didn’t know. But what he did know — was that if someone was still breathing in this cursed place, they might have answers.
Maybe even a way to survive.
He pressed a hand to the ground, activating his gravity pulse — his makeshift radar. The ripple of force pushed outward, scanning the terrain through tiny fluctuations in pull.
His senses came back in fragments — the signature of movement, rough shapes. His range wasn’t big enough to see the whole camp, but it was enough.
Enough to know there were at least twelve goblins moving around.
And enough to know that if he went in headfirst...
Dirga frowned, pulling back behind the tree trunk. His breathing slowed. His heart thumped like a drum in his ears.
No. He couldn’t fight a full camp in the open.
One-on-one? Easy. He could cut through them.
But twelve? In unknown terrain? That was suicide.
Dirga leaned against the bark, smirking to himself.
"...Okay," he muttered. "Time to channel those hundred hours of assassin games."
He wasn’t going to rush in like an idiot. He was going to stalk. Learn. Kill them one by one if he had to. Smart. Quiet. Tactical.
First step: watch. Map the sentry paths. Count the guards.
He sent another pulse.
Three near the front. Two guarding the cage. The rest... scattered or asleep.
Too much light. Too many eyes.
Dirga retreated, slipping deeper into the forest shadows. But he didn’t just sit and wait — no. He climbed. He watched. He learned.
From his perch in the black-leafed trees, he studied the camp. Counted the patrols. Tracked the weapons. Measured the rhythm.
At first, he sensed twelve goblins with his gravity pulse.
Most were the same — scrawny, green-skinned, wielding crude swords or chipped spears. They moved with twitchy aggression and mindless glee.
But then... midday came.
And a massive figure stepped out of a wooden hut.
Dirga’s eyes narrowed. He’d fought one before in the previous arena lessons — just a goblin, but twisted with power, taller than a man, bulked with sinew and rage.
But something felt wrong.
If a hobgoblin was here, then someone stronger was pulling the strings.
They wouldn’t send him out to patrol unless there was a master. A leader. A goblin too strong — or too smart — to risk exposure.
Dirga’s gut twisted. Eighteen. Maybe more.
He curled beneath the leaves, resting, saving his strength, waiting for the sky to bleed from red to indigo.
And when it did... he moved.
The Eye in the sky dimmed to blue — its massive pupil pulsing faintly like a sleeping god.
Dirga crawled from the branches like a phantom.
His hand reached for the Crimson Core — and in a flash, it scattered into ten crimson daggers, floating silently around him like blood-forged fangs.
He slipped through the perimeter like a shadow in fog.
Dirga crouched outside, eyes closed — syncing his heartbeat with the breeze.
Three blades floated above their sleeping bodies, and one stayed in his grip.
Four stabs — four gurgles — no time to scream.
He moved to the next.
Three more. Then four. Then two.
They died before their dreams could end.
He targeted the gate next.
From afar, his telekinesis launched three daggers like silent bullets. Each found a neck.
They dropped without a sound.
Dirga slipped around the cage.
Inside were three women — dirty, bruised, barely conscious. But not human.
One had glowing blue skin. Another had pointed elven ears. The third looked almost human, but her eyes... were golden.
Dirga reached for the cage lock — but his instincts screamed.
He jumped, flipping high above the cage.
A massive blade cleaved through the air beneath him, splintering the cage bars.
The hobgoblin roared, snarling, eyes bloodshot with fury, wielding a two-handed iron greatsword.
Dirga soared, and in mid-air—
Gravity locked the hobgoblin in place, pinning its limbs like stone stakes in quicksand.
The ten daggers turned. Aimed.
Crimson streaks of death, one after the other.
The blades buried deep — in chest, throat, arms, legs.
The hobgoblin howled.
And Dirga dropped like lightning, fist wrapped in crimson bandage.
Dirga’s punch shattered the hobgoblin’s skull like a rotten melon.
A final wheeze escaped the beast’s throat.
One of the blue-skinned women screamed, voice sharp and terrified, echoing through the dark forest camp.
"...Well. So much for a quiet rescue."
He turned, putting a finger to his lips.
"Shhh. Don’t be too loud," he whispered, giving the universal ’quiet-down’ hand gesture.
The women fell silent, but the damage was done.