Across the den, the young mage's trembling eyes followed his every move. The last hope she had was being hacked apart before her. If he fell, she knew what would happen to her… to all the women still caged.

Her shaking hands pressed to the ground, dragging her body through the filth.

She crawled, silent, toward a corner half-hidden by rubble.

There—half-buried in ash—was her staff.

She reached it, clutching it to her chest, whispering the first syllables of a spell she hadn't dared to attempt in months. Her voice was quiet, almost drowned by the roars and metal.

A pale glow began to pulse beneath her fingers.

Oliver didn't notice at first.

He was too busy dodging death—each step slower, his muscles screaming. A shallow cut opened across his thigh; another nicked his shoulder. He staggered, the hobgoblin's laugh echoing through the chamber.

Then, suddenly—heat.

A rush of warmth through his veins.

He blinked.

The pain ebbed, the trembling stopped. His vision cleared as golden light wove around him like smoke. The gashes on his arms sealed. His mana surged, flooding back as if a dam had burst.

"What…?" he muttered, staring at his hands.

The hobgoblin didn't wait for him to figure it out—it charged again, roaring, club raised high.

But this time, Oliver met it head-on.

He pivoted on one foot, thrusting his spear. The runes along the shaft flared, twice as bright as before.

The impact thundered through the den—BOOM!—the spear piercing straight through the hobgoblin's shoulder and driving it back.

The beast shrieked, black blood spilling.

Oliver wrenched his weapon free and glanced back.

The mage girl was still kneeling, eyes closed, both hands clutching her glowing staff. Her body was shaking, the strain visible—but the spell didn't stop.

A rejuvenation spell.

She was pouring her mana into him without holding anything back.

"Hang in there," Oliver muttered, turning back to the enemy. "I'll finish this quick."

The hobgoblin let out a guttural roar, clutching its bleeding shoulder. It stomped once, cracking the stone underfoot, and hurled itself forward like an avalanche.

Oliver steadied his stance, mana thrumming through his body. Every rune on his spear blazed white-green, feeding on the flood of power streaming from the girl's spell. The weapon felt almost weightless in his hands.

"Come on then!" he shouted.

The beast's club swung wide. Oliver met it with a slanting parry, sparks bursting where metal met crude wood. The impact rattled his bones, but he spun with the momentum, the blade slicing across the monster's abdomen. Black ichor sprayed; the hobgoblin bellowed in pain and fury.

Behind him, lesser goblins screeched and rushed in, weapons raised.

Oliver thrust his free hand toward them.

"Wind Edge!"

A crescent of compressed air ripped through the horde. Limbs and heads flew; bodies hit the ground in messy heaps. The air filled with the smell of iron and the reek of goblin blood.

He moved again—no hesitation, no pause—driving forward. The hobgoblin tried to guard with its club, but Oliver ducked under, jammed the spearpoint into its thigh, then twisted. Bone cracked.

The beast howled, swinging blindly, nearly knocking him off balance.

Oliver kicked off the ground, sliding back, panting hard.

'Damn thing won't die…' he thought, gritting his teeth.

He felt the magic around him thinning; the girl's chant wavered. A quick glance showed her slumped forward, still glowing faintly, but the light of the barrier flickered with each breath.

'She's running out of mana.'

He had to finish it. Now.

The hobgoblin lunged again, desperate, club raised for a killing blow.

Oliver raised his spear, channeling everything left—his mana, the residual magic she lent him, even the raw adrenaline flooding his veins. The runes along the shaft pulsed in sequence, connecting like a heartbeat.

"Wind Edge—Burst form!"

The spear ignited in a swirling gale. He leapt, driving the point straight through the hobgoblin's open mouth.

Shunk!

The runes detonated on impact.

A shockwave of compressed air and flame tore through the creature's skull, bursting out the back in a mist of black blood and smoke. The monster's body staggered, twitching once before collapsing with a thunderous crash that shook the den.

Silence.

Only the crackle of dying embers and the ragged sound of Oliver's breathing filled the air.

He pulled the spear free, the glow fading. His knees trembled as the last of the borrowed power left him. He staggered but stayed on his feet.

The remaining goblins—those who hadn't been sliced apart—broke instantly, screeching and scattering into the tunnels. Oliver let them go. He didn't have the strength for another swing.

For a long while, only silence filled the den.

The echo of the last goblin's dying shriek had long faded, replaced by the crackle of small fires and the faint drip of blood from the rocks above. The air was thick—hot, foul, heavy with smoke and rot.

Oliver stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, the smell of iron sharp in his nose. His hands trembled around the haft of his spear, not from fear now—but from exhaustion.

He looked around.

Dozens of cages lined the walls. Inside, women stared blankly at him—some with wide, disbelieving eyes, others still curled up, clutching their knees, their minds far from the present. A few had already started crying softly, the release of terror breaking through numb silence.

Those who could move tried to help each other. A woman with torn clothes crawled to another whose belly bulged with pregnancy, whispering reassurances neither of them truly believed.

Oliver clenched his jaw.

'Bastards… what have you done to them…'

He walked up to one cage, prying at the lock with his spear tip until it snapped. The door creaked open. The woman inside flinched, but he raised a hand calmly.

"It's alright. You're safe now."

No response—just a blank stare. She moved only when another woman pulled her out.

He checked another cage—same thing. Most were malnourished, covered in bruises, and reeked of dirt and fear. His single healing potion wouldn't be enough to help even one properly.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead.

"Damn… I don't even know where to start."

He turned toward the mage girl—she was lying motionless near the entrance, her staff beside her. Her face was pale, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow. She'd fainted from mana exhaustion.

Oliver crouched beside her, brushing aside a lock of hair sticking to her forehead. "You really went all out, huh…?" he muttered quietly.

Just then—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Heavy footsteps echoed from deeper within the tunnel.

He snapped up, spear in hand, eyes darting toward the entrance.

"Already? Don't tell me there's another wave—"

The shadows moved closer. Torches flared to life.

But what came into view weren't goblins.

"Adventurers!" someone shouted.

Dozens of figures poured into the den—men and women in armor bearing the guild crest. Some carried swords and axes, others staffs glowing faintly with healing runes. Behind them came a few city knights, their polished breastplates reflecting the torchlight.

The leading adventurer—a tall man with a scar across his jaw—looked around at the carnage, then at Oliver standing amid the corpses.

"Well… shit."

His companion, a short archer, whistled low. "Guess we were late to the party."

Oliver blinked, lowering his weapon slightly. "You guys from the guild?"

"Yeah," the scarred man said, stepping closer. "Got a report from a village girl earlier—said a lone adventurer went into the forest chasing a goblin horde. She came back half-dead, said you went alone to save someone."

Oliver exhaled slowly. "So she made it back, huh…"

"Yeah," the man nodded, then looked around again at the battlefield. "Damn good thing you did. But—uh—judging by the mess here, looks like we're just here to clean up."

His archer companion laughed. "Figures. We rush all the way here thinking we'll play heroes, and this guy already did the final act."

Oliver gave a tired chuckle. "Sorry for stealing the spotlight."

"Heh. Don't apologize for saving lives."

More adventurers streamed in, some immediately tending to the wounded women, others securing the area. Healers began casting restorative magic—soft green light filling the den. The faint sobs of pain started fading, replaced by sighs of relief.

One of the knights approached Oliver, saluting slightly. "You're the one who handled this?"

Oliver nodded, wiping a bit of dried blood from his cheek.

The knight looked at the countless goblin corpses, then back at him. "By yourself?"

"Mostly," Oliver said simply.

The man gave a small, impressed nod. "The guild and city hall owe you for this. The farmers around these parts can sleep easy now."

Behind them, the adventurers had already started combing through the cavern. Wooden crates and sacks were piled in one corner—loot the goblins had stolen from traders unlucky enough to cross their path.

"Look at this," an archer called out, kicking open a chest filled with silver coins, jewelry, and merchant seals. "Guess the little bastards were getting rich off robbery."

"Mark everything," the scarred man ordered. "We'll report it to the guild for redistribution."

Oliver just stood there for a moment, breathing in the now-familiar stink of smoke and death, watching as order slowly replaced chaos.

The women—freed, tended, comforted—were being escorted out. A few of them gave him tearful bows as they passed. The mage girl was carried out gently by a pair of healers.

Oliver followed behind, dragging his spear, the metal tip leaving faint scratches on the stone.

Once outside, he looked back at the den entrance. The flames had died down, but faint trails of smoke still curled into the night sky.

He exhaled a long breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Finally…"

The scarred adventurer came up beside him, crossing his arms.

"You've got guts, kid. Most who go in alone against a hobgoblin tribe don't come back."

Oliver shrugged weakly. "Guess I got lucky."

The man chuckled. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just that good. Either way—next round's on me when you're back in town."

Oliver smiled faintly. "I'll hold you to that."

The night wind blew softly through the trees.

Behind him, the rescued women were led toward the carriages waiting on the dirt road. Ahead, the faint lights of Valebridge twinkled in the distance.

For the first time that day, Oliver felt the tension drain from his body.

It was finally over.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.