"Three!"

  Rysa moved before the word had even finished echoing. She was a streak of red hair and orange light, her boots skidding across the damp stone as she closed the distance to the three goblins on the left.

  She didn't just punch; she flowed. With a spin that sent sparks flying, she delivered a fiery roundhouse kick that caught the first goblin in the chest, followed instantly by a double-strike of flaming fists to the second and third. The movements were so swift and practiced that the creatures didn't even have time to raise their rusted daggers before they were sprawled out, unconscious and smelling faintly of scorched leather.

  Aiven, meanwhile, was struggling with the sudden, violent surge of mana.

  "Master, go! Show them the majesty of your new limb!" Virelle shouted from behind, her voice filled with a cheerleading enthusiasm that was entirely too loud for a stealth mission.

  Aiven lunged at the remaining two goblins. He opened his palm, and the Armvil Mark 3 let out a sharp, high-pitched whine. A white bolt of mana—small, controlled, but intense—shot out, catching the larger goblin square in the shoulder and spinning it around like a top.

  The smaller goblin, seeing its companion fall, shrieked and tried to scramble toward the shadows.

  "Not so fast!" Aiven grunted. He willed the compartment on his wrist to open.

  With a mechanical clack-hiss, the grappling hook shot out. The brass claw clamped firmly onto the goblin’s tattered tunic. Before the creature could even realize it was tethered, Aiven yanked his arm back.

  He expected resistance. He expected a struggle. Instead, the goblin flew toward him as if it weighed no more than a pillow. Aiven’s mechanical fingers caught the creature by the throat, and with a reflexive surge of strength he didn't know he possessed, he slammed it down onto the cavern floor.

  The stone beneath the goblin cracked. The creature went limp instantly.

  Aiven stood over the fallen monster, his chest heaving, staring at his glowing brass hand. "I... I just lifted that thing with one arm," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and horror. "It felt like it was made of paper."

  "MAGNIFICENT!" Virelle cried, floating toward him with her arms wide. "A masterpiece of kinetic violence! Did you see the way the stone buckled? Such raw, unbridled strength! You are a titan among insects, Master!"

  "I'm just a guy who nearly accidentally killed a goblin with a light tug," Aiven corrected, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  Rysa, already busy untying the two women, looked back over her shoulder with a grin. "Okay Aiven, that was impressive as heck. I felt like my years of training were pointless.”

  She helped the terrified villagers to their feet. The women were shivering, their eyes wide as they looked at the mechanical arm and the floating mage, but Rysa’s calm presence seemed to steady them. "You're safe now. Just stay behind us."

  The moment of relief was short-lived.

  A deep, rhythmic rumbling began to shake the cave floor—heavier than a goblin's footstep, more resonant than a falling rock. From two different tunnels deeper inside the lair, two shadows emerged.

  They were goblins, but of a variety Aiven had only seen in textbooks. Nearly seven feet tall, with hulking, muscle-bound frames and skin the color of a bruised plum. They clutched massive stone clubs that looked like they had been torn directly from the cave walls.

  "Hobgoblins," Rysa muttered, her flaming fists reigniting. "And big ones. Stay sharp."

  The two giants roared, their voices a gutteral, wet sound that made the ceiling dust rain down. They raised their clubs, preparing to charge.

  Virelle didn't move. She didn't even look worried. She simply sighed, a look of profound boredom crossing her features. "Stone clubs? In this century? How utterly droll."

  With a lazy, elegant swoop of her wrist—a movement so casual she might have been swatting a fly—Virelle unleashed a wave of shimmering purple force. It wasn't an explosion; it was a localized distortion of space.

  The two hobgoblins didn’t even have time to react. A blade of purple force swept through the air, and their severed heads struck the stone floor with a dull thud.

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  Virelle turned toward Aiven and gave him a slow, playful wink.

  "No collateral damage, Master," she purred. "As requested."

  Rysa stared at the two massive, unmoving forms, then at the floating mage who was now idly checking her fingernails.

  "Okay," Rysa breathed, letting out a long, relieved exhale. "Thank the stars she’s on our side."

  Aiven looked at the glowing white light of his arm, then at the terrifying ease of Virelle’s magic. "I think the stars are the only ones she isn't threatening right now," he muttered.

  One moment, they were standing in the damp, lightless depths of the cave; the next, a swirl of lavender light pulled the air from Aiven’s lungs. Before Rysa could even finish her sentence about the efficiency of walking, they were standing on a grassy knoll overlooking the valley.

  Rysa stumbled, blinking rapidly. "Teleportation? High-tier spatial magic? Virelle, you really are a walking miracle, aren't you?"

  Aiven had thought of concealing Virelle’s power before, but since Rysa already witnessed how Virelle could defeat an anomaly rock-shelled lurker in Sector 4, as well as how she decapitated the hobgolbins with a flick of her wrist, lying about Virelle’s powers would be pointless. Plus, they needed to get back to the village quick, just to be safe.

  Virelle didn't respond Rysa with her usual witty retort. She remained suspended in the air, her hair whipping around her face as if caught in a localized gale. Her nose wrinkled, and her eyes flared with a sudden, predatory light.

  "Master," she said, her voice dropping into a register that made Aiven’s skin crawl. "Something is burning. And the mana in the air... it’s wrong. It’s twisted. An anomaly."

  Aiven’s heart plummeted. They didn't wait. They sprinted toward the village, the Armvil Mark 3 humming with a low, anxious vibration against Aiven’s side.

  As they crested the final hill, the smell hit them first—the copper tang of blood mixed with the acrid stench of burning thatch.

  Oakwood was gone.

  The peaceful village they had left only hours ago was a nightmare of orange flames and black smoke. Most of the huts had been smashed into splinters. Goblins were running amok, screeching as they tossed torches into the few remaining structures. Several hobgoblins, even larger than the ones in the cave, were systematically smashing the village's grain stores and livestock pens.

  In the center of the carnage stood a monster that defied every textbook Aiven had ever read. It was a goblin, but it stood ten feet tall, its skin a bruised, pulsating purple. Its eyes were twin embers of malevolent red, and thick, dark-purple swirls of anomalous energy drifted off its body like oily smoke.

  "The Goblin King," Rysa whispered, her face pale. She dropped into a defensive stance, but for the first time, her hands were shaking. "The Chief was right. But this... this isn't just a King. It’s an anomaly.”

  Aiven’s jaw tightened. “We’ve been had. The cave was a lure to pull us away.”

  The two rescued women behind them let out a twin shriek of pure, unadulterated horror. Aiven followed their gaze to the center of the village square.

  Beneath the massive, clawed feet of the Goblin King lay the mangled remains of Chief Bran and his family. The broad-shouldered man who had welcomed them with hope, the weary wife, the teenage daughter who had looked at Virelle with wonder—all were now just broken shapes in the dirt.

  Aiven felt a cold, hollow void open in his chest. His mechanical arm let out a sharp, industrial whine, the white mana stone beginning to glow with a frantic, blinding intensity. "No," he breathed. "No, no, no..."

  Virelle didn't wait for a command. She didn't ask for permission.

  She rose higher into the smoke-filled sky, her prismatic orb glowing with a light so fierce it rivaled the fires below. Her expression was no longer playful or theatrical; it was the face of a goddess who had decided a world was no longer worthy of existing.

  "You dare," she whispered, her voice echoing across the valley like a funeral bell. "You dare corrupt Master’s sight with this tragedy?"

  She raised both arms. From the churning clouds above, hundreds of massive, brilliant white mana arrows materialized. They weren't the artistic bolts. They were jagged, humming lances of pure eradication.

  In a single, synchronized movement, the arrows rained down.

  There was no battle. There was only a massacre. Every goblin and hobgoblin in the village was impaled instantly, the white energy cauterizing the wounds before they could even scream. In less than three seconds, the village square was silent, littered with the bodies of tens of goblins.

  Only the Goblin King remained, pinned to the earth by four massive spears through its limbs.

  Virelle began to float toward the monster. Aiven lunged forward, catching her translucent sleeve with his right hand. "Virelle, wait! We need to—"

  She stopped and turned. Her eyes were cold, but as they landed on Aiven, they softened into a look of profound, tragic apology. "Forgive me, Master," she said softly. "I should have known. I should have ended them before you had to witness this."

  She gently disengaged his hand and drifted toward the immobilized King. The monster let out a guttural, wet roar, the purple swirls around it hissing as they contacted her mana.

  Virelle loomed over the creature, her shadow stretching across the bodies of Bran’s family. "Who sent you?" she asked, her voice devoid of emotion. "Who gave a primitive beast like you the power to twist your own soul?"

  The King only roared again, a defiant, mindless sound.

  "As I expected," Virelle said, her hand descending toward the monster's head. "No answers can be found in the mouth of a plague."

  With a flick of her wrist, two more mana spears materialized and drove themselves through the King’s chest and throat. The anomalous purple smoke dissipated into the air, and the giant slumped into the ash, silent at last.

  Virelle stood in the center of the ruins, the white light of her magic reflecting off the blood-stained dirt. She didn't look back at the horror. She only looked at Aiven, waiting for his judgment.