The mine was dark, damp, and filled with the acrid scent of mildew and decay. The air was thick, almost suffocating, and within its labyrinthine depths, hushed voices whispered between the shadows. The goblins huddled in clusters, their pale eyes darting between one another, their thin, wiry frames trembling with unease.
Fear spread among them like an infection. Rumors passed from one to the next—whispers of humans who slaughtered without mercy, who tore through the land like an unstoppable force of nature. And though the walls of the mine shielded them from the horrors beyond, the weight of death pressed down on them like an unshakable force.
"The humans are coming"
"They killed the others…"
"They won't stop until we're all dead"
"We can't just sit here and wait to die!" Among them a voice rang out, sharp and filled with fire.
Gork, a younger goblin with jagged scars tracing his arms, stood defiantly. His knuckles were white as he clenched a rusted blade, his posture rigid and prideful. "If the humans find us, they'll kill us all. We should strike first—catch them before they catch us!"
Across from him, seated on a crude throne of discarded bones, Gurk, the shaman, exhaled slowly. His aged, sunken eyes observed the younger goblin with the patience of one who had seen too many reckless fools meet their end.
"You do not understand, Gork" Gurk rasped, shaking his head. "You think fighting will change things? We are nothing to them. Less than nothing. If we stay hidden, if we do not provoke them, maybe—just maybe—we can survive"
"Survive?" Gork sneered. "Cowering in the dark until they come for us anyway? I'd rather die on my feet!"
Murmurs rippled through the gathered goblins. Many nodded, emboldened by Gork's passion. Even those who had once sided with Gurk now looked uncertain. The old shaman opened his mouth to speak—to refute, to remind them of the past—but the words never left him.
A violent cough wracked his frail body.
At first, only Gurk coughed, but then, one by one, others followed. Harsh, ragged hacking, as though their very lungs were being squeezed. Panic flickered across their faces. Something was wrong. The air—Smoke.
Thick, grey plumes billowed inward from the mine's entrance. The scent of burning wood was unmistakable, the realization dawning too late. The mine that had been their sanctuary moments ago was about to become their tomb and they were less than willing to sit and wait for their death.
A stampede of desperate goblins rushed toward the mine's entrance, clawing and trampling over one another in blind panic.
***
Michael stood just beyond the bonfire, his grip tightening on his sword. The thick plumes of smoke billowed into the mine, funneled perfectly by Elijah's wind magic. He watched in quiet awe as the mage manipulated the elements with cold efficiency.
Then came the sound—dozens of footsteps echoing through the mine.
Michael braced himself for a battle.
But no battle came.
The goblins didn't charge with weapons drawn. They didn't attack in formation or scream war cries. They simply ran—desperate, choking, clawing for the open air. Some stumbled blindly into the roaring flames, their bodies consumed in an instant. Others collapsed in the dirt, wheezing.
What then began was not a fight. It was a massacre.
Roman took the lead, his blade carving through the fleeing creatures. Every slash of his sword sent another goblin crumpling to the ground. Similarly to Sarah he walked the path of a knight, swinging his greatsword with practiced ease.
Helga on the other hand moved like a force of nature, her rune-covered fists shattering bones and tearing through flesh. She specialized in a rare subset of magic that being a runecarver. Usually people walking this path used simplified magic—runes to enhance weapons; however she needed no weapon it seemed and treated her own body as a tool of war making her poses strength that was unnatural to say the least.
One of the goblins almost escaped her onslaught however she grabbed him by his head and simply squeezed. The contents of his skull spilled onto the ground and Helga achieved it with such ease it was as if she was squeezing a soft sponge.
Other soldiers also took part in the slaughter. They used various skills and weaponry. Among them the most common path was that of a knight but there were also those that mastered their weapons—swordmasters, bowmasters, spearmasters… However no matter the path they walked or the weapon they used they all were ruthless in their slaughter of goblins. None hesitated even for a split second.
Michael stood at a distance, further back, taking in the full horror of the carnage. In his entire life he did not witness such violence, not firsthand at least. And he was supposed to follow their example? Just kill what is in sight?
His internal struggle was quickly interrupted however.
A goblin, a single survivor, made it through the encirclement and ran at him at full speed. Micheal instinctively raised his sword, ready to strike yet his grip faltered. He took a long look at the goblin. Its eyes were not even focused on him but the forest behind. He held no weapon and clearly had no will to fight, his expression that of sheer desperation and panic.
'What's the point of killing someone that is just trying to survive?'
Micheal's weightless sword began to feel heavy and it slowly began to lower.
The goblin darted past him, ignoring him to the end.
But then a flash of silver blade ran by the corner of Michael's eye.
He turned sharply to see Sarah standing beside him, her pristine armor now painted in crimson. His earlier mercy proved pointless as the goblin now laid on the ground, lacking a head.
She held his gaze but said nothing. She didn't have to. Her expression alone was enough.
Disappointment. That's what it conveyed.
The slaughter ended as quickly as it had begun. The ground was littered with countless bodies. The soldiers barely had a scratch on them. Roman scoffed, flicking blood from his sword before turning to Michael.
"Pathetic. I expected nothing less from someone trained by a woman. You hesitate like one, you fight like one. But it's not your fault. The real fool is whoever thought handing a woman a sword would be a good idea. When this is over, why don't you come to me? I'll teach you how to fight like a man"
Michael ignored him, his attention drawn to Elijah as he waved his hands, dispersing the lingering smoke. The bonfire's flames died instantly, its purpose fulfilled.
Sarah said nothing as she strode toward the mine's entrance. After a moment of hesitation, Michael followed.
***
The deeper they walked into the mine, the heavier the silence became.
Then, Sarah spoke.
"You hesitated"
Michael kept his eyes forward. "I didn't see the point in killing something that wasn't a threat"
Sarah stopped. She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "That's because you still don't understand what they are"
Michael met her gaze. "They were running, Sarah. They weren't fighting. They were just trying to escape"
"And if they had the strength to fight back, they wouldn't have hesitated for even a second" She countered, stepping closer. "Just because they appear slightly intelligent and walk on two legs does not make them human. They are monsters, Michael. If left alone, they will kill without remorse"
Michael clenched his jaw. "Maybe. But that doesn't mean—"
A weak cough interrupted them.
They turned a corner and saw them—small figures huddled on the floor. Goblins, barely half the size of the ones outside. Children. Their frail bodies trembled as they gasped for breath, the smoke having stolen the air from their lungs.
One of them lifted his head only to see Sarah's boot crashing down on it.
The sound of the goblin's skull shattering echoed in the tunnel. Blood and grey matter splattered across the dirty floor.
Michael's breath was unable to leave his throat as he watched her begin to brutally murder the goblins.
One by one, Sarah crushed the skulls of the remaining children, her expression never changing. No hesitation. No remorse. She didn't see them as living things. To her, it seemed, they were nothing more than vermin that needed to be exterminated. Bugs to be stomped on.
Michael stood frozen as Sarah walked past him. Briefly, she grabbed his shoulder, leaving a bloody stain on his black, leather armor.
Slowly, he raised his hand to wipe it away, only to smear it across his fingers.
He exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I did not kill a single creature on this expedition, and yet my hands are stained with blood, huh…"
He clenched his fist, his thoughts heavier than ever.
'Why did I pick up the sword in the first place?'
'Why did I train so intensely for the past few months?'
'What's the point to all of this?'
The silence of the mine felt deafening—unnatural. And in that silence, the weight of his unanswered questions pressed down like a heavy blade.