Osric knew they wouldn't reach Roman in time.
The hobgoblin was already moving, long strides eating the distance with brutal efficiency, iron sword dragging once before lifting again. Roman was still on the ground, shield gone, one arm braced uselessly against the dirt as he tried to push himself up. Laurent and William were running—but not fast enough, not positioned well enough.
Osric didn't shout.
He didn't wait.
He stepped past them and ran.
He cut across the clearing at an angle, not straight for Roman.
The hobgoblin was faster than it looked, but it was committed—weight forward, intent fixed. It didn't even look at Osric until the last moment.
That was the opening.
Osric slid in low, boots skidding through dirt, and swung.
Not at the torso.
Not at the sword.
At the legs.
Iron bit into flesh just above the knee. Not crippling—but enough. The hobgoblin snarled as its stride broke unevenly, momentum collapsing into a stagger.
That single misstep saved Roman's life.
The iron sword came down anyway—wide, furious, unrefined—but Osric was already past the arc. The blade cut empty air where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
Osric didn't stop.
He pivoted with the motion, blade snapping back in a short, brutal cut meant to control space, not kill. The hobgoblin recoiled half a step, more surprised than hurt.
It turned fully now.
Its eyes locked onto Osric.
Not confused.
Not enraged.
Interested.
Roman collapsed back into the dirt behind him, gasping—alive, but done.
Laurent hit the fight from the left.
His spear lashed out in precise thrusts, not overcommitting, forcing the hobgoblin to keep turning. William came in from the opposite side, axe raised high, every step heavy with intent.
The fight settled into something ugly.
Not chaos.
Pressure.
Osric stayed close enough to threaten but far enough to survive. He cut, withdrew, stepped in again—never chasing, never retreating fully. Laurent denied space with his spear, turning the clearing into a cage of angles. William struck only when the monster committed, every swing forcing it to react.
The hobgoblin adapted.
It shortened its movements. Stopped wasting strength. Began timing its swings to William's steps, its footwork shifting just enough to slip Laurent's spear by inches.
Time stretched.
Breath burned.
Arms shook.
Osric's grip ached as sweat stung his eyes, but he didn't slow. He couldn't. The moment one of them faltered, someone would die.
Then he saw it.
A habit.
Every time Osric stepped in on the monster's blind side, it overcorrected—turning too far, pulling its sword across its body to compensate.
Osric leaned into it.
He feinted high.
Then cut low.
The hobgoblin twisted hard to compensate—
"Now!" Osric shouted.
Laurent struck first.
The spear scraped across the hobgoblin's shoulder, shallow but enough to break its rhythm. William surged in immediately, axe coming down with perfect timing, every ounce of his weight behind it.
The hobgoblin barely managed to block.
Iron met iron.
Too late.
Too rushed.
The axe won.
It carved deep into the monster's remaining shoulder, bone cracking beneath the impact—but not deep enough. Not fatal.
The hobgoblin roared and kicked William square in the chest, sending him crashing into the dirt.
It raised its sword.
High.
Laurent was too far.
Osric was one step short.
William stared up at the falling blade, eyes wide—
Iron flashed.
The hobgoblin's head left its shoulders.
It hit the ground and rolled.
The body stood for a heartbeat longer.
Then collapsed.
Silence slammed into the clearing.
Osric sucked in air, chest heaving, vision swimming. Laurent lowered his spear slowly. William lay still for a second longer—then coughed and rolled onto his side.
They all looked up.
George stood behind the corpse, longsword dripping, eyes cold and steady.
No triumph.
No relief.
Just certainty.
The fight was over.
And Osric knew, without needing to check the System—
The killing blow hadn't been his.
The clearing stayed quiet.
Not the relieved quiet Osric had hoped for—but the fragile kind, where no one trusted the silence enough to relax.
George moved first.
He wiped his blade once against the dirt and stepped past the fallen body, eyes already scanning for movement that wasn't there. Only when he was satisfied did he turn fully to the others.
William pushed himself upright, chest heaving, one hand pressed to his ribs. He looked at George, swallowed hard, and gave a short, breathless laugh.
"…Thought that was it," he said. "Thanks."
George nodded once. No words. Just acknowledgment.
Then he turned toward Erica.
She was conscious—but barely. Her face was pale, teeth clenched hard enough that her jaw trembled. Blood still soaked through the cloth pressed against her shoulder, but it had slowed.
"Stable," George said after a quick check, voice firm but tight. "The blade missed anything vital. She needs treatment. Soon."
He moved to Roman next.
Roman was awake, coughing, ribs clearly damaged, one arm hanging uselessly at his side. His eyes flicked up when George knelt beside him.
"…Did we get it?" Roman rasped.
George met his gaze. "Yes."
Roman exhaled and let his head fall back against the tree, eyes closing.
That was enough.
George stood and looked at the group—really looked this time.
"We're heading back. Now," he said. "No delays."
Orders followed immediately, clean and decisive.
"Osric. You carry Roman."
Osric stepped forward without comment and crouched beside Roman, easing him up carefully. Roman groaned but didn't resist, slinging his good arm weakly around Osric's shoulders.
"William," George continued. "Take the hobgoblin's head. Proof."
William grimaced but nodded, moving toward the corpse with axe in hand.
"Laurent. Rear guard. Stay sharp."
Laurent inclined his head once and took position without a word.
George bent and lifted Erica himself, careful but firm, her good arm hooking weakly around his neck.
They moved out together.
Not victorious.
Not triumphant.
Just alive.
As they left the clearing behind, Osric felt it—the absence.
No blue light.
No system confirmation.
No reward.
He noticed it—and then let it go.
Right now, it didn't matter.
Roman was breathing. Erica was alive. The monster was dead.
That was enough.
Osric adjusted his grip and followed the others into the trees, boots crunching softly as they headed back toward Ashbrook.
Whatever the System had to say could wait.
For now, survival was reward enough.