Dylan rushed forward, machete in hand, sprinting through the trees without restraint, running to her aid.
He picked up the pace when he heard a gunshot. Just one. The last one.
But this time, he was close enough to hear her scream. And it wasn't a cry for help:
— "Die, you filthy pieces of shit!"
It was the voice of the young elf—the one who was supposed to go get food. Clearly, she'd run into something bad. Bad enough to force her to pull her sidearm. That explained the harsh tone and the rage in her voice.
Dylan slowed down. His sprint turned into a calculated walk. He weaved between the trees, his steps nearly soundless. His eyes scanned the hedge separating him from the scene.
What he saw made him shiver.
Élisa was wounded in the arm, blood dripping down to her hand, clenched tightly around her pistol. She stood among three hobgoblin corpses, their blackish blood soaking into the moss at her feet. Two others were still standing, hesitant, but ready to pounce at any moment.
Dylan recognized them as hobgoblins by their build—hulking and hunched—but their skin was grayish, almost slate-colored, unlike the ones he'd fought before. Tribal markings scarred their skin, and their eyes glowed with a feverish light. These weren't rookies.
Élisa, even wounded, kept her gun aimed directly at them. It was the only thing holding them back. A fragile illusion of control, ready to shatter at the slightest mistake.
The two hobgoblins each held a strange axe—crude handles, but the blades… made of bone. Massive, carved, jagged like beast jaws. Those weapons had seen a lot of flesh.
Dylan understood immediately: they were waiting for a moment of weakness. A lapse in attention. And at this rate, they were going to seize it soon.
But he wasn't about to sit and watch.
He inhaled, let the machete slide into his palm, and calculated quickly. He had to surprise them, create a diversion, stab one of them... but most importantly, make sure Élisa didn't panic and fire in confusion. One stray bullet, and he'd be dead beside the hobgoblins.
He quickly searched for an angle. A shout? A noise? A distraction? Or just charge straight in? He had one second to decide.
He didn't hesitate.
Dylan picked up a small rock, weighed it, then hurled it as hard as he could against a dry tree trunk, just to the left of the group. The crack echoed like thunder.
The two hobgoblins flinched. One turned his head, the other grunted something in their guttural tongue.
That's when Dylan struck.
He burst from the shadows like a bullet, machete raised, jaw clenched, eyes locked on his target.
He crashed into the first hobgoblin's shoulder; his blade sank into rough, thick flesh. The creature screamed, flailing.
The second one reacted instantly, raising his axe to strike—but too late.
Élisa, who'd seen Dylan appear, didn't scream. She understood. Or at least, enough not to panic. With a quick reflex, she aimed at the other hobgoblin and fired a second shot.
The shot cracked out, sharp and violent. The bullet hit the monster's collarbone, stopping its movement cold. It staggered, growled, but didn't fall.
Dylan took that half-second. He yanked his blade free, pivoted, and slashed at the same hobgoblin's side. He felt bones shatter under the impact, and the dying scream drowned out the rustling leaves.
A tense silence fell.
The two hobgoblins lay on the ground, one still groaning, the other already lifeless. Dylan, breathing hard, stepped back. His arm trembled. He hadn't had the luxury to think—only to act.
He glanced at Élisa. She was still holding her gun, but her hands were shaking. Her eyes were locked on him. Her wounded arm hung limp, her breath short and ragged.
"I… I'm alive!" she gasped, with a half-smile, her knees slowly giving out.
Dylan rushed over and caught her just before she collapsed.
"How the hell did you get yourself into this mess?" he snapped, torn between anger and relief.
She gave a nervous laugh, then winced. "I ran into their hunting party. These five followed me here."
He nodded, grabbing her firmly to move her away from the carnage.
"If they came from the direction you did... then they're from the village to the right. Damn. Let's hope we didn't blow our cover."
Dylan set her down against a tree not too far off and tore off a sleeve from his shirt to wrap around Élisa's wound. He tightened the knot with care, silent, then drew his dagger from his belt.
Without hesitation, he turned to the corpses. He moved fast, precise, fingers digging into still-warm flesh. He tore out the anima gems embedded in the hobgoblins' bodies, stuffing them into his pocket without caring about the sticky blood coating them.
She could still walk, sure. But this wasn't the time to linger. Dylan preferred to carry her with one strong arm and pushed forward through the foliage until he reached Maggie. He gently set the elf down beside her.
Without a word, he handed the five gems to Maggie. She took them, a bit confused, eyeing them warily.
"What's all this for?" she asked, frowning. The stones glowed faintly in her palm, pulsing with a soft light.
"I saw you were highly compatible with spiritual essence, and you're healing faster than expected. So I'm betting everything on your recovery," he replied, calm, almost detached.
Maggie nodded slowly. Her brown eyes, still dull a few hours earlier, now shimmered with a brighter gleam. The spiritual energy within the gems vibrated around her like an invisible breeze.
Dylan handed her his rifle, then placed the pistol in Élisa's hands. She had started bandaging herself in silence.
"Where are you going, lieutenant?" Maggie asked, her tone suddenly sharp, commanding.
Dylan stopped, barely glancing over his shoulder.
"I'm going hunting, commander. Getting us something to eat."
He grabbed the axe lodged in a nearby trunk, pulled it out easily, then added:
"And lend me your axe. We should've brought more if we'd known it'd turn out like this."
His fingers closed around the worn handle, and he gave it a quick test swing through the air. Balanced. Perfect.
He cast one last glance back. His gray eyes, cold as steel, shimmered with an almost inhuman light. His face had hardened.
Dylan had lied a little.
Yes, he was going hunting.
But not for food.
He was going to clean house.
Now that gunfire had rung out, and the hunters that chased Élisa wouldn't be coming back, the others would definitely notice. Even with their shriveled brains, such a clear loss would raise alarms. They'd come to investigate. That was certain.
And Dylan fully intended to greet them—his way.