"Hey! You white-haired lizard woman! When your mom gave birth to you, did she grab those two horns on your head and yank you out of her ass?!"
Before anyone could react, the bat's mocking voice echoed through the air, fading as quickly as it came.
Everyone turned to look at Zen. The silver dragon's eyes widened, her entire body trembling with barely contained fury. Her expression was a mix of disbelief and rage.
Yarrow heard the unmistakable sound of her fingers cracking as she clenched her fists.
"By the Dragon Mother, I'm going to shove your head up your ass!"
Zen's wings unfurled with a snap, and before anyone could stop her, she shot forward like an arrow, disappearing into the cave's dark recesses.
"Zen! Wait!" Yarrow shouted, but it was too late.
"Damn it!" he muttered under his breath, rolling the map back into his pouch. He immediately sprinted after her, knowing full well that if she wasn't stopped, the cave might become her personal battleground.
The remaining adventurers glanced nervously at each other.
"The main DPS is gone… Should we still run this dungeon?" one asked uncertainly.
"Of course, we keep going!" Charles declared, stepping forward confidently. He puffed out his chest. "We've come this far, and the villagers are counting on us! We'll rescue them, restore our glory, and—"
Before he could finish, a club swung from the shadows, striking him hard on the back of the head. His body crumpled to the ground with a thud, and his eyes rolled back in unconsciousness.
The adventurers froze. They slowly turned to the darkness behind them, where pairs of glowing yellow eyes gleamed ominously in the shadows.
The bat flapped its wings furiously, zigzagging through the cavern as it made its escape. The narrow, winding passages of the nest provided the perfect cover for it to evade Zen's relentless pursuit. It could hear the dragonkin closing in, her heavy breathing and the crackle of magic charging in the air.
"Eek!"
It pushed itself harder, wings pumping for speed, but a crushing weight pressed down on it from behind.
"This... this is Dragon Clan magic!"
It realized too late that the force it was feeling wasn't just physical pressure; it was a manifestation of Zen's raw power. Unable to move, it could feel her getting closer, the fear rising in its chest.
In a desperate attempt to escape, the bat darted toward a narrow crevice in the cave wall, squeezing its way through and crashing to the ground on the other side.
"Hah, Dragonkin, that's all you've got..." it sneered, trying to steady its breath. "You'll never catch me now..."
But as soon as the words left its mouth, the ground before it exploded in a burst of stone and dust. Zen's form emerged from the wreckage, fury radiating off her.
"By the Dragon Mother, I'll teach you to curse!"
With a single, powerful swing of her tail, she struck the bat's body. It flew through the air like a ragdoll, crashing into the cavern wall with a sickening thud.
Zen landed gracefully beside it, glaring down at the battered creature. As she raised a hand to speak, she froze, staring at the motionless bat's corpse.
"Tsk... it's dead."
With a flick of her fingers, a bolt of lightning shot out, turning the bat's remains to ash. She sighed, glancing back toward the path she'd just obliterated in her pursuit.
The cave was eerily silent now. Zen's gaze drifted around, her golden eyes narrowing.
"I need to find Yarrow."
But the scent of the cave—the stench of decay—hung in the air, blocking her connection to Yarrow's aura. She frowned, frustrated.
"Forget it. I'll just keep moving forward."
Energy crackled around her as she raised her hand, blasting the cave wall open. She marched through the new passage, her wings folding back as she continued to destroy any obstruction in her path.
Meanwhile, Yarrow had been running through the maze-like caverns, searching for any trace of Zen. The terrain was a confusing mess of tunnels, and the goblins' presence felt unsettlingly absent. It made him uneasy—Zen was powerful, but traps could still be deadly, especially with the unknown terrain and whatever forces lay in wait.
He rounded a corner and froze.
A green-skinned goblin appeared out of the shadows, its massive axe raised high, aimed straight for his head.
"Swish!"
Yarrow barely managed to dodge, the axe missing by mere inches, slamming into the stone floor where his head had been moments before.
"Agh!" the goblin howled, raising the axe again for another strike.
But Yarrow was faster. With a sharp motion, he conjured a blast of ice-blue magic. An ice cone shot forward, piercing the goblin's chest with a sickening crack. The goblin's body jerked violently before it crumpled to the ground.
"Whew." Yarrow let out a relieved breath. "Lucky I learned a few tricks from Serena."
But as he started to turn away, he heard a rustle from behind. He spun around just in time to see the goblin's body twitch, its hand reaching out to grab him by the throat.
Bang!
A gunshot rang out, echoing off the walls of the cave. The goblin's head exploded, splattering gore across the ground. Its body slumped, lifeless.
Yarrow blinked in shock, staring at the decimated corpse for a moment before turning to look behind him. His eyes widened as a figure stepped out of the shadows.
The figure before Yarrow was clad in heavy, black iron armor, scarred and battered from countless battles. A bright red plume adorned the top of its helmet, while thick animal fur draped over the shoulder armor. A round shield and long sword were strapped to its back, and the gunpowder weapon in its hand was still smoking.
"Holy crap, Goblin Slayer!" Yarrow exclaimed, his finger pointing in disbelief.
Without a word, the armored figure—Goblin Slayer—silently reloaded the gunpowder gun, holstered it at his waist, then took a few deliberate steps forward. He squatted down, inspecting the dead goblin with practiced precision.
A muffled voice emanated from under the armor. "Goblins have strong vitality. Even when their hearts are pierced, they can survive for a while. To kill them with a single blow, aim for the neck or head."
The helmet, with its grid-shaped breathing holes, turned toward Yarrow. "Are you a newbie?"
"I've been at this for two years, but I haven't really dealt with many goblins," Yarrow admitted.
Goblin Slayer shook his head. "Too dangerous. Coming to a place like this without understanding them. The whole cave is filled with traps they've set."
Standing up, Goblin Slayer continued. "I'll get you out of here. Follow me."
"I've got companions. Have you seen a Dragonkin? Silver hair?" Yarrow asked.
"Dragonkin? Didn't see one. But I did hear an explosion near the deep well area of the nest. Could be your companion," Goblin Slayer responded.
"Deep well area? How far is that?" Yarrow pressed.
"It's a bit of a distance," Goblin Slayer answered. "I can take you there."
With little choice, Yarrow nodded and followed him. The heavy armor of Goblin Slayer creaked with every step, and the sound of a ventilator-like breath echoed from within his helmet. A gunpowder weapon, rare in a world dominated by magic, hung from his waist.
"My name's Yarrow. What's yours?" Yarrow asked, hoping to learn more.
"Owen," came the curt reply.
"Owen, what's your purpose here?" Yarrow asked.
"Killing goblins," Owen said simply.
"I figured..." Yarrow mumbled, sensing the depth of Owen's determination.
Suddenly, Owen stopped and pulled Yarrow into the shadows. They watched as several goblins marched past, dragging the bodies of adventurers behind them.
"These guys really gave up," Yarrow muttered, rubbing his forehead.
"Are those your companions?" Owen asked.
"They were," Yarrow replied. "But they're probably beyond saving now."
"Let's leave them," Owen said. "We need to find your Dragonkin."
Yarrow nodded, and the two continued. Owen moved with an eerie familiarity, guiding Yarrow through twisting corridors, carefully avoiding any goblins that came into view.
Eventually, Owen led them to a door and pushed it open. It was an empty room.
"They gather on the second basement floor in the evening for dinner," Owen said, closing the door behind them. "The goblins will be back soon. We'll wait here."
"You know their schedule well," Yarrow remarked.
Owen nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. There was a heavy silence between them. After a while, Owen broke it.
"Do you hate goblins?"
Yarrow thought about it. "Hate? Not really. I don't have a personal vendetta against them. They're just... annoying when they show up during quests."
Owen's face hardened. "I hate them."
Yarrow studied Owen, sensing the weight behind those words. "You must have a reason."
Owen's voice grew colder. "My father was killed by them. My mother was raped and murdered by them."
Yarrow was silent, the truth of Owen's pain hanging heavy in the air. "...That's... a deep hatred."
After a moment of silence, Owen spoke again. "Do you believe there are good goblins?"
Yarrow's brow furrowed. "Well... maybe. It's hard to say. The race is so large, there must be a few that are kind-hearted. But they probably don't last long among their kind."
"That's right," Owen agreed.
Then, without warning, Owen removed his helmet. Yarrow froze, his eyes widening in shock.
The face beneath the helmet was not what he expected. Instead of the rugged human male visage he had imagined, there was:
Green skin. Pointed ears. A long, hooked nose. Small yellow-orange eyes.
"Goblin Slayer..." Yarrow whispered in disbelief. "You... you're a goblin?"
Owen—the Goblin Slayer—looked at him, his expression unreadable.
Yarrow stood abruptly, the shock of revelation rippling through him. What had once been a flickering uncertainty when he'd first met Owen now deepened into something far more unsettling.
Across from him, Owen remained still. Helmet in hand, his posture composed and unreadable.
"You... you're also...?" Yarrow's voice faltered, the words catching in his throat.
"Yes," Owen said quietly. "I am also a goblin."
Yarrow's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken questions and the weight of shattered assumptions. Finally, he found his voice. "Then why...?"
Owen's gaze remained steady, his face unreadable. "Because I'm a goblin," he replied, "I understand exactly what we are."
The words hit Yarrow like a punch to the gut. Slowly, he sank back onto the cold stone floor, as though the weight of Owen's conviction had drained him of strength.
"What happened to you?" Yarrow asked softly, the suspicion in his voice giving way to something closer to compassion.
Owen turned his eyes to the rough cave wall, as if seeking solace in its solidity. A long pause passed before he began.
"My father was a teacher—unusual for our kind. He could read human books, understand their ways. From the time I could walk, he taught me how to read."
Yarrow listened intently, his breath caught by the gravity of Owen's words.
"My father believed knowledge could change us. He used to say, 'We are not beasts. We're capable of civilization. Of restraint.' He taught others to read, taught history, philosophy, built tools. He even tried to teach them to farm, to govern themselves. He wanted to replace instinct with structure—something to temper the chaos inside us."
Yarrow frowned. "That must've been dangerous."
Owen offered a humorless smile. "It was. At first, the Goblin King tolerated him, thought it might make the tribe better hunters. But my father gave them something more—hope. And hope, in the wrong hands, becomes a threat."
His fists clenched, and the calm in his voice thinned, cracking. "They imprisoned him. He died in that cell. And my mother..." He stopped, jaw tight. "She was executed for standing by him. For believing in him."
He drew in a deep breath, forcing the words out. "I ran. Hid. Survived. Eventually, I found a group of adventurers. I begged them to teach me everything. I became one of them. I became... this."
Yarrow stared at him, the weight of Owen's story settling like ash in his chest.
"So now you want revenge? You want to kill them all?"
Owen fell silent. His gaze drifted downward, not in avoidance, but to sink deeper into the memory.
"I used to believe in my father's dream," he said, his voice rough. "That goblins could change. That we could rise above what we are. But that dream is dead."
He looked up again, and there was a terrible weight in his eyes.
"We were made wrong. Twisted. The gods cursed us. We're not misunderstood—we're a plague. No matter how much you teach a fire, it still burns. This world has no place for us. Not in any future worth fighting for."
He met Yarrow's eyes. "We are the villains of history, and the sooner our story ends, the better for everyone."
Yarrow's breath caught. For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared at Owen—at the goblin before him. Not a monster, but a man shaped by grief and loss.
"You really think killing them all is the only way?" he asked, his voice softer now.
Owen nodded. "To kill the root, you must tear out the tree. All of it."
The silence between them grew thicker. Yarrow looked at Owen, but there was no fear in his gaze. Instead, there was something deeper—a flicker of understanding.
"You're not a killer," Yarrow said quietly. "You're a man carrying a truth that no one else dares to face."
Owen rose, sliding his helmet back into place with a metallic click. "Let's go."
Yarrow stood, slower this time, his movements heavy with thought. "What's your plan, after all this?"
"Kill the Goblin King," Owen replied, his eyes flicking to the sword at his back. "It's the first step in ending this. In avenging them."
"You'll go alone?" Yarrow raised an eyebrow. "That's a death sentence."
"It doesn't matter," Owen said, voice like steel. "If I die, I die. But I'll make sure he dies with me."
Yarrow shook his head, a fire igniting behind his eyes. "No. That's not good enough."
Owen turned slightly, just enough to catch the edge of Yarrow's expression.
"The Goblin King is my prey, too," Yarrow said. "You're not doing this alone."
Owen turned to him, silent for a beat. When he finally spoke, his voice gave nothing away. "What are you proposing?"
Yarrow extended his hand, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "We work together. You promise me the king's head after the kill, and I'll help you take him down."
Owen's gaze fell on Yarrow's hand, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then: "You're willing to trust a goblin?"
Yarrow's smile deepened, his eyes gleaming with dry amusement. "After that speech of yours? I'd be an idiot not to."
Owen's gloved hand clasped Yarrow's with unexpected force. "Then thank you... for your trust."
Yarrow nodded, a sense of camaraderie beginning to form between them. "But for now, you still owe me. We've got a dragon to find."
Elsewhere, consciousness clawed its way back to Charles through a haze of pain and confusion. He groaned, eyes fluttering open—only to find himself tightly bound. Around him, the bodies of his companions lay scattered like discarded puppets.
"Where... where are we?" he rasped, his throat dry and cracked.
A piercing scream tore through the air. Charles jerked toward the sound—and froze. One of their group was suspended from a rusted hook, his abdomen torn open, his intestines spilling onto the floor like ropes. Charles recoiled, nausea rising in his throat.
"Charles! You're awake?" The frantic voice of the priestess broke through the shock, shaking with panic.
He turned to see her tied beside him, her face pale and eyes wide with fear. "Where are we?" he asked again, his voice hoarse and strained.
"The goblins' kitchen," she whispered, trembling. "They're going to kill us... all of us. Charles, please—you know Crystal-tier magic, right? Please, you have to do something!"
Her desperate plea cut through him like a knife. Charles's face crumpled, his heart sinking. "I... I lied," he choked out. "I don't know any magic. Not even the basics."
Her breath caught in disbelief. "What? You... you lied?"
But before she could say more, the scraping of claws and the heavy thud of boots echoed through the chamber.
Three goblins swaggered into view, their faces twisted with cruel delight.
"Roar, roar! What a harvest!" one of them jeered. "Eleven meatsacks... and a fine little flower!" He grabbed the priestess's face roughly, sniffing her like a wild animal. She recoiled, disgust flashing across her face.
"So fragrant..." another goblin murmured, licking his lips with sickening intent.
The priestess shrank back, eyes wide with terror, but her restraints held her firmly in place.
Then, a smaller goblin knelt before her, his grin awkward but eager. "H-hello, miss. We're gonna be pulling radishes together real soon... S-so... p-please, treat us kindly."
"No! I don't want to!" she screamed, struggling violently against the ropes. "Let me go!"
The goblin's grin disappeared, replaced by a cold, cruel expression. "It's not your choice," he spat. "The men become jerky. The women... we keep. That's how it's always been."
A sickening silence filled the room.
Then Charles—his voice shaking, barely coherent—blurted, "W-wait. What if you make her into jerky instead? Let me stay. I... I'll be useful."
The priestess's eyes widened in horror. "Charles?! What are you saying?!"
Before he could answer, a goblin boot slammed into his ribs, sending him crashing to the ground.
"Shut it, freak," the goblin snarled. "Nobody asked you."
The goblins turned back to the priestess, their faces twisted with cruel excitement.
"No—please!" she begged, her voice breaking. "If you must kill me, do it!!"
"Hold on," Charles interrupted, his words spilling out in a rush. "Let me join you! You can tie me back up afterward!"
The goblins paused, exchanging bemused glances. Then one of them chuckled darkly. "You're worse than us."
"Charles, you monster!" the priestess cried, voice trembling with betrayal. "How could you say that?! Are you even human?!"
Charles collapsed, tears brimming in his eyes. "I—I'm scared! I don't want to die..."
The goblins' expressions twisted in disgust. One of them kicked him in the head. "Nobody wants you."
The priestess sobbed, her body shaking with helpless fear. She shut her eyes, bracing for the inevitable.
But then—splat.
A sudden, wet crunch echoed through the room, followed by a spray of warm blood across her face, thick and metallic.
Her eyes snapped open.
Standing over her was Yarrow, his sword slick with crimson. At his feet lay the decapitated goblin, twitching in death.
Yarrow turned to her, face grim but steady. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice low and urgent.
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