Ash woke to the sound of voices.
Not human voices. The guttural, clicking language of the goblins, and they were close. Too close.
His eyes snapped open in the cramped space between the tree roots. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he shifted, trying to see through the gaps in his makeshift camouflage. The light filtering through the canopy had changed—darker now, the alien sky taking on deeper shades of red.
How long had he been unconscious?
The voices were getting closer. He could make out at least four distinct speakers, maybe more. They were methodical, searching. One of them barked something that sounded like an order, and the group spread out.
They're hunting me.
Ash's hand found the goblin spear beside him. His shoulder felt... normal. He rolled it experimentally, expecting pain, but found none. The wound had healed completely, leaving only a faint line of scar tissue.
A shadow passed by his hiding spot, close enough that he could see the creature's scaled feet through the gaps in the rocks and leaves. The goblin paused, head tilted as if listening. Ash held his breath, every instinct screaming at him to stay perfectly still.
The goblin moved on, but Ash knew his luck wouldn't hold. They were experienced hunters, and they were being thorough. Eventually, they'd find him.
He needed to move. Now.
Carefully, silently, he began to work his way out of the hole. The goblin spear made it awkward, but he managed to extract himself without disturbing his camouflage too much. He could hear the searchers on the other side of the massive tree, their voices echoing strangely in the unnatural quiet of the forest.
Ash crept along the stream bank, using the sound of running water to mask his movement. The stream curved ahead, disappearing around a bend flanked by enormous boulders. If he could reach that cover...
A shout erupted behind him. One of the goblins had found his hiding spot.
He ran.
This time, there was no panic. The healing had done more than just close his wound—it had cleared his head, sharpened his focus. He vaulted over a fallen log, his bare feet finding purchase on the moss-covered bark. Behind him, the goblins were in full pursuit, their roars echoing through the forest.
The stream curved sharply to the right, and Ash followed it, splashing through the shallow water. The cold helped clear his head even more. He could hear them gaining on him, their heavier footsteps pounding through the underbrush.
A spear whistled past his ear, embedding itself in a tree trunk with a solid thunk. Too close. He zigzagged, using the massive tree trunks as cover, but the goblins were coordinating their attack. They knew this forest better than he did.
Another spear flew past him, this one close enough to graze his ribs. He felt the bone tip slice through skin, drawing blood. The pain was sharp but manageable—nothing compared to the shoulder wound.
The stream widened ahead, forming a small pool where several tributaries converged. The water was deeper here, maybe chest-deep in the center. Ash didn't hesitate. He dove in, the cold water shocking his system but giving him precious seconds as the goblins reached the bank.
They didn't follow immediately. Instead, they spread out around the pool, cutting off his escape routes. Smart. They were herding him.
One of them—larger than the others, with more elaborate tattoos covering its blue-green skin—stepped forward. It spoke in their clicking language, but the meaning was clear: surrender.
Ash surfaced in the center of the pool, the goblin spear held above his head to keep it dry. "Go fuck yourself," he gasped.
The large goblin's lips pulled back in that unsettling grin. It raised its own weapon—a massive club studded with sharp stones—and stepped into the water.
The others followed.
Ash had maybe thirty seconds before they reached him. The water would slow them down, but it would slow him down too. He needed an advantage.
The goblin spear was long—longer than their weapons. And the pool was deep enough that they'd have to swim or wade, making them vulnerable.
The first goblin reached him, swinging its club in a wide arc. Ash ducked under the water, the club whistling over his head. He came up thrusting with the spear, aiming for the creature's exposed torso.
The bone tip punched through the goblin's scaled hide just below the ribs. Hot blood clouded the water, and the creature let out a shriek that made Ash's ears ring. It stumbled backward, clutching at the wound.
The second goblin was already on him, a smaller, faster creature with twin bone daggers. It leaped from the shallows, aiming to drive both blades into Ash's chest.
Ash twisted, bringing the spear shaft up to block. One dagger skittered off the wood, but the other found its mark, slicing across his forearm. Blood flowed freely, but the wound was shallow.
He grabbed the goblin's wrist, using its own momentum to pull it off balance. They went under together, thrashing in the blood-stained water. The goblin was stronger than it looked, its scaled skin providing armor against his attempts to find a grip.
But Ash had reach. And leverage.
He got his legs under the creature and kicked hard, launching it backward into the shallows. Before it could recover, he was on it, driving the spear point down with all his strength.
The goblin's struggles ceased.
Two down. But the others were circling, and more were coming. He could hear them crashing through the forest, drawn by the sounds of combat.
The large goblin with the club was still in the fight, blood streaming from its wound but its eyes bright with rage. It said something in its language—probably profanity—and charged through the waist-deep water.
Ash backpedaled, using the pool's depth to his advantage. The goblin's club was devastating but short-ranged. As long as he could keep his distance...
The club came down like a sledgehammer, missing his head by inches and sending up a geyser of water. Ash lunged forward, thrusting with the spear. The goblin twisted, the point scraping across its ribs instead of finding the heart.
But the movement left it off-balance. Ash reversed his grip on the spear and drove the butt end into the creature's temple. The goblin's eyes rolled back, and it toppled into the water with a tremendous splash.
The pool was quiet except for the sound of water lapping against the banks. Three goblins floated in the bloodstained water, their scaled bodies already attracting small scavenger fish.
Ash stood chest-deep in the pool, breathing hard, the spear held ready. His forearm was still bleeding, but the wound was already beginning to close. The reality of what he'd just done hit him like a physical blow.
He'd killed them. Not just killed—butchered. The first goblin was still twitching in the shallows, dark blood pooling around the spear wound in its chest. The second one floated face-down, its skull caved in from where he'd driven the spear butt into its temple. And the third...
The third goblin had died slowly, drowning in its blood after he'd punctured its lung. He could still hear the wet, gurgling sounds it had made as it died.
His hands were shaking now, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving him with the full weight of what he'd done. He'd never killed anything before. Not like this. Not with his bare hands, watching the life drain out of their eyes.
But what shocked him most wasn't the killing itself—it was how natural it had felt. The moves he'd made, the way he'd used the spear, the tactical thinking that had kept him alive. None of it had been planned. It had just... happened. As if some part of him had always known how to do this.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The forest around the pool was silent, but he knew it wouldn't last. More goblins were coming, and this time they'd be ready for him. He could hear them in the distance, their voices carrying through the trees. They'd found the bodies.
He needed to get out of here. Find better ground. Maybe even find a way out of this forest entirely.
But first, he had to survive the next few minutes.
The sound of approaching footsteps told him his time was up.
He waded toward the far bank, his enhanced senses picking up the telltale signs of movement in the underbrush. At least six of them, maybe more. They were being careful now, having learned from their dead companions' mistakes.
Ash looked down at the blood on his hands, then at the spear he held. The bone tip was stained red, and he could still feel the resistance it had met when it punched through scaled flesh.
He should have been horrified. Sick. Traumatized.
Instead, he felt... ready.
What the fuck have I become?