Dylan straightened slowly, muscles tense, senses on high alert. Silence fell again, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves in the distance. He didn't move. He was listening.
Then he felt it.
Not the chief. Not yet. But another one. Quieter, lighter… — a scout, maybe. Dylan stepped back slightly, slipping between two mossy trunks, and raised his axe.
Seconds stretched into a heavy minute.
A figure passed. Small. Agile. Too young. And too nervous. It hesitated, turned its head… Dylan struck. Clean. Soundless. He caught the body before it fell and gently pushed it against a tree.
He remained silent, as cold as marble.
His gaze lifted, scanning the branches. He knew it — the other one was coming. The real threat. The silent predator. This wasn't a hunt anymore… it was a duel.
And this time, Dylan wasn't sure he was the hunter.
It was his life or theirs.
He exhaled in a breath barely audible.
"I'm gonna love killing you."
---
Dylan moved through the shadows, gliding between the trees like a breath of wind. His axe and machete, smeared with blood, gently tapped against his hips, and his short, steady breathing blended into the rustling of leaves. He wasn't running anymore. He wasn't fleeing.
He was hunting.
No more playing bait. Now, this was his forest. His ground. His hunting domain.
A growl rang out somewhere to his right. This time, he was ready.
Dylan darted forward like an isolated scout, crouched behind a bush, and waited for the exact second the hobgoblin walked past him. He sprang up in one swift motion, twisted the creature's neck with a brutal crack. The poor thing let out a muffled gasp, then collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
And then it turned into a slaughter.
Dylan unleashed himself like a desperate assassin, driven purely by survival instinct.
He'd stopped counting. Three. Four. Five. And it kept going.
He circled his prey, letting them sink deeper into the trap. They were disorganized. Rushed. Nervous.
And Dylan? He was patient.
He struck only when it counted. When he was certain he wouldn't be seen. Never exposed. Always hidden from the chief's eyes.
A rock tossed in the air triggered a panicked scream to his left. A hobgoblin, startled, bolted… straight at him.
Dylan rose, sidestepped, and drove his machete into its gut with a dull thud. He pushed the blade sideways, opening the wound until its entrails spilled onto the ground. He dragged the body to a tree, then wiped the blade in the grass.
The others were close. He could hear their boots, their heavy breathing. One of them called out, but no one answered anymore.
Panic was settling in. One by one, they vanished, swallowed by shadows and silence.
Dylan crouched again, eyes sharp. Only one left. Maybe two.
He guided them without a word, playing on their nerves. A noise here. A movement there. Then he struck. Again. And again.
The forest fell quiet. No more footsteps. No more breathing. Just the wind… and the whispering leaves.
Dylan stood up straight, muscles tight, gaze fixed in the void. He took a deep breath. A rush of air, blood, and moss.
He'd done it.
He'd taken them all down.
Even though he knew that bastard was still out there.
But now, he'd have to be cautious. He was alone. And Dylan was waiting.
He looked up, scanning the treetops. No sign. No movement. Even the birds were silent.
He stayed there a few seconds, savoring the stillness. Adrenaline still pounded in his temples, but his shoulders began to relax.
"Where the hell did you go…?" he whispered.
Then he turned.
And the world exploded.
A massive fist slammed into his temple with brute force, throwing him against a tree in a dull crack. His vision blurred. His skull rang like a bell. He dropped to his knees, shaken, half-dazed.
In front of him, emerging from the thinning shadow, a figure appeared.
Wide. Towering. Standing tall, almost majestic in his brutality.
The chief.
A hobgoblin as tall as Dylan, maybe even more. Bulkier, with lean, corded muscles, bare chest covered in scars and tribal tattoos. His eyes glowed red. Not magical. Furious. Unleashed.
He wore a predator's grin.
And Dylan understood.
He hadn't shaken him off.
He'd led him here.
The chief had followed the bodies. Calculated every step. Let his men die to track him more easily. A cold, methodical strategy.
This wasn't a brute. This was a hunter.
He didn't give a damn about his soldiers. Only the result mattered. Which, deep down, wasn't so different from Dylan himself.
"Vengeful bastard…" Dylan cursed, trying to get up.
But a second blow, heavier, struck his ribs.
He rolled on the ground, groaning in pain, wind knocked out of him. He got back up, barely, still holding his axe.
"What the hell… what kind of strength is that!?" he shouted, spitting blood.
Just from the force of those punches, Dylan felt the bones in his face shift. His jaw seemed to dislocate for a moment, and he had to snap it back into place with a trembling hand, teeth clenched, pain radiating to his temples like a burning blade.
Then — a shift in the air. He rolled instinctively, and inches from his head, the earth exploded with a brutal crash. The spiked club slammed down where he had just been, tearing apart a tree trunk as if it were dry twigs.
Dylan was panting. He could still feel the shockwave vibrating in his chest.
The hobgoblin lifted his weapon again with deliberate slowness, savoring the miss. His smile widened — sinister, theatrical. He looked… delighted. Amused. Like a predator toying with a prey too stubborn to die. He wanted to see him struggle. Writhe. And above all — break.
Dylan's gaze hardened. His heart pounded, his breath quickened. He wasn't calm anymore, not cold like before.
Something had snapped.
His eyes no longer empty — now they burned with a newfound rage, warped by pain and frustration. Every blow had awakened that fury he had long learned to control.
He tasted blood, but didn't care.
He pushed himself up slowly, leaning on his axe, legs shaky but still holding.
Dylan charged.