As Ren stood, he rushed out of the house.
People were screaming—running toward the church in panic.
But Ren sprinted the other way—toward the main gate of the village.
"The village is surrounded by wooden walls... The easiest way to get in is through the gate," he thought, his heart pounding.
But as he arrived, it was already too late.
The massive wooden gate collapsed inward with a thunderous crash.
Several villagers were crushed beneath it—others flung back by the force of the impact.
And then came the monsters.
An army of goblins poured through the breach, snarling and shrieking, followed by towering hobgoblins, their blades already dripping with blood.
They descended upon the villagers without mercy.
A goblin rushed at Ren, claws bared and snarling.
Ren stepped back, twisted his body, and redirected the strike—forcing the goblin's own claw straight into its chest.
It gasped, impaled by its own hand, and collapsed lifelessly.
Across the battlefield, the village blacksmith spotted him.
"Ren! Heads up!" he roared, hurling a sword through the air.
At that same moment, a towering hobgoblin surged forward, its massive blade already mid-swing.
Ren's eyes narrowed.
In one motion, he snatched the sword out of the air—and with a swift, fluid strike—
SLASH!
The hobgoblin didn't even scream.
Its body was cleaved clean in half, split from shoulder to hip.
Blood sprayed as both halves dropped to the ground with a heavy thud.
Ren stood still, sword in hand, eyes burning.
he blacksmith let out a rough, hearty laugh, wiping blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.
"I knew it," he said, eyes gleaming as they met Ren's. "You're a warrior, through and through."
Ren didn't return the grin. His gaze remained fixed on the oncoming tide.
"Get the villagers out of here," he said. "I'll handle this."
He raised his sword slightly. "Give me a signal when they're safe."
There was a pause—then the blacksmith gave a nod and turned, shouting orders. The villagers, wide-eyed and panicked, began to retreat, guiding the old and the wounded toward the church. Only the blacksmith remained at Ren's side, axe in hand.
Ren glanced at him. "So, old timer… ready to fight?"
The blacksmith smirked. "Old? I'm only a hundred."
Then the horde came.
The ground shook beneath the weight of hundreds of goblins and hobgoblins, shrieking with bloodlust as they charged through the ruined gate. Steel glinted. Arrows flew. The air filled with the stench of blood and burning wood.
Ren and the blacksmith stood firm.
They fought together, backs nearly touching, blades slicing in swift, brutal arcs. Goblins fell, screeching, their bodies piling at their feet. A hobgoblin roared as Ren's blade tore through its chest. Another tried to flank them, only to meet the blacksmith's axe.
But they were being overwhelmed.
Blood dripped from Ren's arm. The blacksmith's breathing had turned ragged. They were cut, bruised, tired—and still the enemy came.
Then, high above, a crack split the sky.
A bright red firework burst overhead, its glow scattering across the village like a signal fire.
"That's it!" the blacksmith yelled. "They're in—let's move!"
Ren turned to run—but the motion came a heartbeat too late.
A hobgoblin loomed, its great sword already mid-swing.
He couldn't dodge.
Before the blow could land, a heavy force slammed into him from the side.
The blacksmith.
He tackled Ren to the ground, dragging him by the collar through blood and dirt. "Move, damn it!"
They ran.
Behind them came the howls of the pack—hundreds of goblins in full pursuit, clawed feet scraping over mud and ash.
Ahead, the church stood like a beacon of hope, its doors glowing gold, a shimmering barrier enveloping it.
Sanctuary.
They didn't look back.
They crossed the threshold together—and as the first goblin tried to follow
The creature disintegrated, its body turning to ash before it could pass through.
One by one, the rest collided with the barrier and vanished in puffs of dust.
The horde had been stopped.
Inside the golden shield, silence fell—thick, eerie, and final.
Ren collapsed to his knees, breathing hard.
They were safe.
For now.
The heavy wooden doors of the church groaned as Ren pushed them open. Inside, the dim candlelight flickered across stone walls and stained-glass windows cracked from age and conflict. The pews had been shoved aside, replaced by makeshift cots and scattered supplies. Wounded villagers lay on the floor, some moaning softly, others sitting in silence, eyes vacant with exhaustion and fear.
Ren walked carefully between them, his boots echoing against the cold floor, until he spotted the village chief hunched over a bench, speaking in hushed tones with one of the elders.
"We need to make a plan," Ren said without preamble.
The chief turned, his face lined with worry, and nodded. "The priest has raised a barrier around the church," he said, voice low. "But it won't hold for long."
At the far end of the room, several elders had gathered around a splintered table. Maps, tokens, and scraps of parchment were spread out before them, their hands trembling as they debated their next move. The atmosphere was grim—every pair of eyes was shadowed by sleepless nights and the weight of too many unanswered questions.
Above them, a young man sat perched on the roof, barely visible through a cracked skylight. He held a pair of battered binoculars to his eyes, scanning the dark treeline beyond the village.
Then came the cry.
"GOBLIN KING! I see a Goblin King!"
The words dropped like a stone into the stillness. Heads turned. A hush swept over the church like a cold wind.
Ren's gaze sharpened. "Goblins don't usually attack humans unless they're disturbed," he said.
The chief exhaled slowly, as though he'd been holding the truth inside for days. "Children and women from the village have gone missing," he admitted. "We suspected goblins... but we never struck their cave. We didn't want to provoke them."
Ren's jaw tightened. "Then something else did," he muttered. His gaze swept across the room—at the wounded, the elders, the flickering candles trembling in the draft. "But for now… we plan."
A rough voice cut through the tense silence.
"We need someone to kill the Goblin King. Take him down, and the rest will scatter," the blacksmith said, stepping forward. His face was bruised, streaked with ash, but his voice held steady conviction.
The chief let out a bitter chuckle. "Easier said than done. We don't even have a single soldier left. Who's going to kill that damn thing?"
A voice rose from the edge of the crowd. "The kid can do it."
All eyes turned.
It was Ken.
The room fell into stunned silence. For a moment, even the wounded stopped moaning. Shock spread like fire.
One of the elders stood up, fists clenched. "He's just a child! This is no time for jokes!"
But Ken didn't flinch. "He killed a demon," he said calmly.
The blacksmith nodded in agreement. "He fought beside me. Took down more goblins than any of us. The boy's no ordinary child."
Murmurs spread through the room, uncertain and anxious.
Ren stepped forward. His voice, when it came, was calm. Cold. Steeled.
"I'll kill the Goblin King," he said. "But while I'm gone… you make sure no one else gets hurt. Protect the ones still breathing."
The room was silent again—this time in awe.
Then, slowly, the chief nodded. One by one, the elders followed, bowing their heads in agreement.
Without another word, Ren turned toward the entrance of the church. The blacksmith followed at his side, strapping a thick belt of tools across his chest.
The candlelight behind them flickered as they stepped toward the shimmering veil of the priest's barrier, the only thing keeping the monsters out—and the last hope keeping the village in.