Max woke up with a sharp inhale, the last fragments of a dream fading from his mind. Something about flames… and teeth. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, stretched beneath the shelter of his canvas tent, and immediately felt the stiffness in his limbs. His body ached in the familiar way that came after days of constant movement, combat, and just enough sleep to keep going but not enough to truly rest.

  But today wasn’t a day for rest.

  Today was about progress.

  He sat up slowly, rubbing grit from his face and glancing at the light filtering through the treetops. The sun had only just broken over the horizon, casting long shafts of gold across the forest floor. Mist clung to the underbrush in thin curls, and the air was cool, crisp, and damp with morning dew.

  Today, he was going to hit the goblin camp.

  He stood, rolling his shoulders, and mentally reviewed what he knew. The camp was large—too large to charge in blindly. He’d cleared out patrols before, thinned the numbers around the edges, but the core was still intact. If he wanted to stand a chance—especially before confronting The Beast—he needed to go in smarter, not just stronger.

  His stomach growled.

  "Right. Fuel first," Max muttered, grabbing his staff and heading into the trees.

  It didn’t take long to find a target. A fat squirrel perched on a low branch, stuffing its cheeks with some kind of glowing nut. It looked up at Max with twitching curiosity—and that was all the warning it got.

  “Sorry, buddy.”

  He raised his staff, fire swirling at the tip. With a whoosh and a snap of heat, the fireball launched forward, catching the squirrel mid-chew. The poor thing hit the ground with a singed squeak, already halfway cooked by the time Max approached. He barely even noticed the tiny amount of experience he got from the kill.

  It wasn’t glamorous, but it was breakfast.

  He carried the meat back to his camp, quickly skinning it with the goblin chef’s knife he’d looted days earlier. His movements were practiced now—efficient, clean. He got a small fire going with a flick of his staff, careful not to use up too much mana, and set the squirrel over the flames using a pair of scavenged twigs.

  The scent of sizzling meat filled the air. Max sat cross-legged near the fire, practicing on feeling out this new path inside him while he waited. He didn’t get far in his musings before the skin began to crisp and the fat started popping, he pulled the squirrel off and devoured it with single-minded determination.

  It wasn’t exactly five-star cuisine, but it was warm, filling, and not poisoned—so it counted as a win.

  As he licked the grease from his fingers, Max stood and began readying his gear. He checked his robe, adjusted the strap on his potion satchel, and summoned his staff from the storage ring with a flick of thought. The familiar weight settled into his palm. Comforting.

  Then he remembered the axe.

  It was still tucked inside his makeshift storage cubby beneath a pile of scavenged supplies. He pulled it free—a heavy iron weapon with a chipped blade and a leather-wrapped handle that smelled faintly of grease and smoke. Looted from the goblin chef during the camp raid, it wasn’t elegant, but it was serviceable.

  More importantly, it could cut down trees.

  Max’s eyes narrowed as he turned the weapon over in his hands. A plan was already forming in his mind.

  He wouldn’t take the camp head-on. Not this time.

  Instead, he’d set traps—force the goblins to come to him. Trees felled partially, their trunks ready to fall with a nudge or a trigger. A few firebombs placed at choke points. Maybe even a spell-inscribed branch or two if he had the time to experiment.

  He grabbed a strip of vine, tied back his hair, and slung the axe over his shoulder. One last check of his supplies: three health potions, two mana vials, the crude dagger tucked into his boot, and a half-burnt map of the forest paths he’d sketched out two days prior.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He doused the fire, kicked dirt over the embers, and took one last look around his little camp.

  “Alright,” he muttered, gripping the axe handle. “Let’s get to work.”

  And with that, Max disappeared into the woods—silent, focused, and hungry for the grind.

  Max moved swiftly through the forest, the early morning sun filtering through the canopy in golden shafts. He followed the winding path toward where he remembered the goblin camp had been—but something felt off. The birds were quieter. No foul cooking smells drifted through the trees. And worst of all… no smoke.

  Max slowed, eyes narrowing.

  He crept closer, heart rate steady, expecting to hear the usual racket of goblin bickering or maybe the clang of a pot falling off a fire. Instead, he stepped into the clearing… and found it empty.

  “...Huh.”

  He stood there for a moment, brow furrowed, staring at the scattered remains of the old camp. Crushed fire pits, scraps of fabric, and half-buried bones lay abandoned in the churned-up dirt. They had packed up in a hurry—but not carefully.

  Tracks. Crushed grass. Drag marks. They led off toward the northeast.

  Max crouched, running his fingers over a deep bootprint in the dirt. “Couple days, maybe?” he muttered. “Two? Three?” His sense of time was wrecked in this place. No clocks, no calendars, just sleep, hunt, survive, repeat.

  Still, the trail was too obvious to miss. Goblins weren’t exactly stealth experts.

  He followed the signs through the underbrush, stepping over broken branches and the occasional discarded bone. It wasn’t long—maybe a mile, tops—before he saw it.

  The new camp.

  It wasn’t in a clearing this time. Instead, the goblins had sprawled out in a rough circle between the trees, weaving their tents and lean-tos between the trunks in a crude defensive ring. A large tent squatted dead center, fashioned from stitched animal hides and reinforced with sharpened stakes. Max’s lips curled in a faint grin.

  “Well, that’s lazy,” he whispered to himself. “A whole forest to run to, and they move a mile? Guess dragging that chefs pot was too much trouble.”

  The new layout worked perfectly in his favor.

  The forest itself gave Max cover—plenty of vantage points, natural barriers, and, most importantly, trees to use for his traps. He pulled the axe from his shoulder, ran a hand along the rough handle, and began choosing targets.

  He picked trees with natural lean, aiming them toward tent clusters where goblins gathered most. He worked in silence, only striking when the wind blew or when other ambient noise—like a loud goblin shriek—could mask the sound. He didn’t need to fell them completely. Just weaken the base. Score the trunks enough that a shove or jolt would send them toppling at the right moment.

  Each swing of the axe was calculated. Precise. Slow.

  He marked each trap in his mind, creating a map of falling death. Some trees he angled to fall inward, directly toward the central tent. Others would collapse outward to catch reinforcements or retreating goblins. It was tedious work. Sweaty. Nerve-wracking. Every creak of wood risked giving him away.

  He was halfway through weakening the seventh tree when the forest rustled behind him.

  Max froze. His hand tightened on the axe.

  Six goblins, lightly armored, were pushing through the brush on patrol. Judging by their gear and posture, they were nothing special—level fours, maybe. But six-on-one in close quarters was no joke.

  Unfortunately for them, Max wasn’t in the mood to play fair.

  The first goblin barely got out a surprised grunt before Max’s fireball hit it square in the chest, sending the creature flying back in a burst of smoke and flame. The others screamed and charged, blades flashing.

  Max spun, ducking under a swing, and slammed the axe into a goblin’s ribs with a satisfying crunch. He flung a Manabolt at a third, catching it in the face. Another rushed him—he dropped low and drove his staff into its gut, then blasted upward with a flare of heat.

  Two goblins remained. One turned to flee.

  The other hesitated just long enough for Max to summon a searing lance of fire and hurl it like a javelin. The bolt pierced through the runner’s back and scorched through the chest of the straggler behind it.

  Max stood in the smoking aftermath, panting. Six charred corpses surrounded him.

  "Didn’t know I could do that," Max thought, staring at the burning remains of the goblins. The attack hadn’t been just a fireball… and it wasn’t just a mana bolt either. It felt like the two spells had fused in that moment—melding into something more powerful—then unraveled back into their original forms once it was over.

  "I really need to find someone who actually knows how to use magic," he muttered, brow furrowed. "Because I’m pretty sure winging it is not the best way to learn."

  He quickly dragged the bodies into a ditch behind a fallen log, wiping sweat from his brow. “Damn. I’m getting good at this,” he muttered grimly.

  With the immediate threat gone, Max returned to his work and finished prepping the final tree. His traps were ready. His plan was in motion. All that remained was to wait.

  He climbed one of the remaining trees—one of the tallest he’d left untouched—its trunk broad and sturdy enough to serve as both lookout and sniper’s nest.

  From his perch, Max could see the whole camp laid out below. Goblins milled between tents, squabbling over food, weapons, and space. None of them seemed to have noticed the missing patrol. Yet.

  He settled into the crook of a branch, making sure he had a sturdy limb to sit on when the trees started falling.

  This was it. No charging in. No wild duels.

  Just physics, fire… and a lot of falling timber.

  And when the trees began to fall—when chaos truly erupted—Max would already be watching.

  Waiting.