The forest had gone quiet again—too quiet.
Klein crouched behind a fallen tree, Whisperfang resting across his knees. The dying fire from the goblin camp flickered weakly behind him, its smoke curling toward the canopy. The scent of blood still lingered in the air, sharp and metallic.
He could hear them now.
The distant shrieks were closer—angry, frantic. Branches cracked in the underbrush. The goblins were coming.
'Seven, maybe eight,' he guessed, eyes narrowing.
"Closer to ten," Paros corrected, his tone almost playful. "The survivors must have gathered reinforcements. How considerate of them to deliver experience right to your doorstep."
'Good,' Klein thought. 'Saves me the trouble of hunting them.'
He scanned the ground one last time. The traps he'd set were crude—thin vines tied to sharpened stakes, a few loose rocks balanced above low branches—but they'd do. Goblins weren't clever. They relied on numbers and noise.
"Do try to keep count," Paros said lazily. "You wouldn't want to lose track of your fans."
'You talk too much,' Klein muttered.
"Someone has to narrate your greatness."
The rustling grew louder. Shadows flickered between the trees. Then came the sound of snarling voices—high-pitched, guttural, filled with fury.
The first goblin burst into the clearing, blade raised.
Klein moved before it could finish its scream. Whisperfang flashed once, black and silent. The goblin collapsed mid-step, throat opening in a clean line.
The next two charged side by side. Klein pivoted, slashing in a tight arc—one fell instantly, the other stumbled, clutching a gash across its chest. Klein kicked it backward, into one of his vine traps. The creature shrieked as the sharpened stakes drove through its legs.
"Efficient as ever," Paros purred.
Another goblin leapt from behind a tree, swinging a crude axe. Klein ducked low, rolling under the swing. He rose smoothly, driving Whisperfang into its gut, then twisting free. Blood sprayed across the dirt, dark and heavy.
'Four down,' he counted.
"They'll start to circle soon," Paros warned. "They always do."
Klein turned his head slightly. He could already hear them moving through the shadows, trying to flank him. A faint smile touched his lips.
'Perfect.'
He waited until one stepped on a hidden vine. The trap snapped, dropping a small pile of rocks from a branch above. The goblin screamed as the stones crashed down, breaking its spine.
The others froze in confusion—long enough for Klein to strike.
He darted forward, his small form a blur of motion. Whisperfang sang through the air, slicing through flesh and bone. One goblin tried to parry with a broken sword; the black dagger carved through it as if through paper.
Klein's movements were calm, deliberate—every strike measured, every step precise. The Dragonheart burned in his chest, flooding his veins with strength.
"Ah, beautiful!" Paros exclaimed. "Poetry in motion! Death in rhythm!"
Klein ignored him. He was too focused—his entire world narrowed to the sound of movement, the rush of wind, the beat of his heart.
A goblin lunged from his right. Klein sidestepped, slashing downward, then spun and kicked another that came from behind. The impact cracked bone. He used the momentum to roll forward, stabbing upward into a third's throat.
He exhaled sharply, pulling the blade free.
'Seven.'
The last three stood at the edge of the clearing now, snarling. One carried a jagged spear; another, a small crude shield. The third—larger, broader—bore a bone crown upon its head.
Paros' tone shifted, curious. "The camp leader. The goblin chief."
Klein tilted his head slightly. 'So that's the boss.'
"Indeed. Crude, stupid, but stronger than the rest. It will try to intimidate you."
The goblin chief roared, beating its chest, saliva dripping from its jagged teeth. The others echoed the sound, clanging weapons together.
Klein didn't flinch. He took one slow step forward, Whisperfang low and ready.
"Intimidation doesn't work on the mad," Paros murmured approvingly.
The chief charged first, spear aimed for Klein's chest. He sidestepped lightly, blade flashing upward. The spear tip grazed his arm, tearing cloth but not flesh. He turned sharply, slashing across the chief's thigh. The creature howled, stumbling.
The two smaller goblins rushed him next, one from each side. Klein dropped low, spinning in a tight circle. Whisperfang traced a dark arc—both goblins fell before they reached him.
He rose smoothly, eyes locked on the wounded chief.
It snarled and swung its spear again, slower now, clumsy from pain. Klein caught the shaft with his free hand, twisting. The goblin struggled, roaring in rage. Klein stepped in close and drove Whisperfang straight through its heart.
The chief froze, eyes wide. Then it collapsed to its knees.
Klein yanked the blade free. The creature fell face-first into the dirt, still twitching.
Silence returned to the clearing. Only the fire crackled softly behind him.
Klein stood still for a moment, listening. His chest rose and fell evenly. The Dragonheart's warmth pulsed through him again, steady and alive.
'That's all of them,' he thought.
"Indeed," Paros replied, his tone softer now. "Effortless victory, as expected. I must say, you do learn quickly. You killed like a seasoned predator."
Klein looked at Whisperfang. The blade glimmered faintly, still slick with blood. 'I'm starting to understand it,' he said. 'The rhythm.'
"The rhythm?"
'Yeah,' Klein said quietly. 'The rhythm of killing. The timing. The silence before the strike. It's… clean.'
Paros chuckled. "A dangerous insight, but a true one. You were born for this, master."
Klein sheathed Whisperfang and glanced back toward the camp. The villager he'd freed earlier was gone—fled, probably terrified of the boy who killed ten goblins without blinking.
He couldn't blame him.
Klein exhaled, stepping over the fallen bodies. His boots squelched softly in the blood-soaked dirt. He paused near the chief's corpse and nudged the crude crown with his foot.
'King of nothing,' he murmured.
Then the forest shifted.
He froze.
The wind carried a new sound—not goblin shrieks this time, but the faint clatter of armor. Heavy, deliberate footsteps.
Paros' voice dropped to a whisper. "Company, master. Not monsters."
Klein's hand went to Whisperfang's hilt instinctively. He turned toward the trees. Between the shafts of moonlight, he saw them—figures in gleaming armor, blue and silver, moving with discipline.
Knights.
At least half a dozen.
They stepped into the clearing, torches raised. The light washed over the scene—dead goblins, blood, and one small boy standing among the corpses.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then one of the knights drew his sword, eyes narrowing. "By the Light… what happened here?"
Another pointed at Klein. "You there, boy! Drop the weapon!"
Klein didn't move. His fingers brushed the hilt of Whisperfang, but he didn't draw it. The tension in the air was sharp as a blade.
Paros' voice slid into his mind, low and amused. "Well, well. Shall we see how your luck holds against humans?"
Klein's expression didn't change. His eyes gleamed faintly in the firelight as he met the knights' gaze.
'Let's find out.'