CHAPTER 7: The Chief of Filth
We slipped past the pit in silence, the whimpers of the women and the sickening grunts of goblins fading behind us like a nightmare refusing to die.
Neither of us said a word.
Not because we had nothing to say but because anything spoken aloud would break the fragile, simmering rage hanging between us. And right now, I needed that anger. It was better focused than released.
The tunnel beyond the den was long and twisted, more deliberate than the rest of the maze-like passages. The deeper we went, the more the stone walls changed. Less natural. More structured. Etched with primitive carvings. Symbols. Images that looked like some foul, idiot god tried to draw a history book using blood and broken fingernails.
Every torch we passed had been freshly lit.
The goblins weren't hiding.
They were proud of what was down here.
The air grew warmer again. Not fire-warm but flesh-warm. Sweaty. Claustrophobic. It clung to the skin like breath on the back of your neck.
After another bend in the tunnel, the light ahead grew stronger. Steadier.
And then the walls opened.
We stepped into a cavern so massive it could've swallowed the entire village I grew up in.
Rordan's breath caught audibly.
I didn't blame him.
It was another orgy chamber but bigger. Worse.
A cathedral of filth.
Dozens of goblins swarmed the chamber, most of them half-dressed, rutting in open view, like twisted animals without shame or purpose. They moved in chaotic rhythms grunting, howling, slapping, drooling as they used the bound and broken bodies of women who didn't even flinch anymore.
There were so many.
At least two, maybe three dozen women chained to posts, nailed to slabs, or simply collapsed in piles of furs and straw, eyes empty or wide with unshed screams. Most were human. A few had ears too sharp, tails curled between bruised legs, or horns half-broken.
Demihumans. Elves. Even one with white scales running down her shoulders and arms.
Victims.
I couldn't even begin to count how many goblins were in the room, maybe twenty. Maybe thirty. There was no way to tell. They moved constantly, flowing from one girl to another like insects swarming spilled honey.
But at the center on a throne made of skulls, bones, and iron was the real monster.
The Goblin Chief.
He towered above the others, a living monument to everything they were and worse.
Eight feet tall. Packed with muscle so dense it looked like it barely fit inside his skin. Veins bulged across his arms like worms, pulsing with every flex. His skin was a darker green than the rest closer to obsidian than jade, and his eyes glowed with an unnatural, red sheen.
He wore no armor. No crown. Just a torn cloak made of stitched hides draped over one shoulder like a cape.
And he was surrounded by women half-naked, bent, curled at his feet while he thrust into one with primal, animalistic grunts, not even acknowledging the moans around him. It was like he didn't see them as beings. Just holes. Flesh. Objects beneath him.
Rordan looked like he was about to vomit. He backed up slowly and pressed against the cave wall, mouth hanging open.
I didn't move.
I stared.
Because as much as I wanted to charge in, sword drawn, scream my fury into the stone, I couldn't.
I had to understand what I was dealing with.
This wasn't just a big goblin.
This was something else. Something engineered. Something fed on cruelty and blood, grown not in wombs but rituals and conquest.
His hands alone were the size of my chest. His fingers looked like they could crush a human skull without trying. The muscles on his back rippled with every movement, like ropes twisting under wet canvas.
He didn't need armor.
He was armor.
And yet he was intelligent. I could see it in the way his eyes moved. The way he occasionally barked commands at the others between thrusts. The way he sat at the center of this depraved empire like a god of rot and ruin.
This was not a monster acting on impulse.
This was deliberate. Controlled.
Organized.
I pulled Rordan back into the shadows before we could be seen. He stumbled, nearly fell, but I caught him by the collar and shoved him into a crouch.
He didn't protest. He just stared at me, wide-eyed, his face pale.
"That's him," I said quietly.
Rordan nodded shakily. "That's… that's the Chief?"
"Has to be. Look around. They worship him."
Rordan swallowed. "How… how do we kill that thing?"
"We don't. Not like this."
He stared at me, breathing hard.
I kept watching. Studying.
"Two swords won't be enough," I said. "Not against that. He'll take a hit like it's a scratch."
Rordan glanced around, whispering, "Then what? What do we do?"
I exhaled slowly.
"I don't know yet."
But I would.
One way or another, that bastard was going to die.
And when he did, he wouldn't see it coming.
We crouched in a narrow nook behind a crumbling section of the chamber wall, part of the stone had collapsed inward ages ago, forming a shallow alcove just wide enough to hide in, provided no one looked too closely.
The Chief's den pulsed in front of us like a wound.
I could hear the wet smack of flesh against flesh, the sharp crack of a goblin's palm against someone's cheek, the groan of women too exhausted to cry. The air was humid with heat, sweat, and filth. My stomach churned, but I kept it together. Rage was a better fuel than revulsion.
Rordan was still pale, his back pressed against the stone like he wanted to phase through it.
"We can't fight him head-on," he whispered. "You saw the way he moved. That thing isn't just strong. It's fast. It thinks."
"I know."
"And his skin, did you see it? Like armor. You could swing a blade and it'd bounce off."
"I know."
"So what's the plan, then?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly. "We can't get the women out unless we kill him. And we can't kill him unless we get past all the others first."
I closed my eyes, took a breath.
Then I opened them and started sketching the situation in my head.
"Alright. Think." I held up my fingers. "We've got two people. Me and you. I have two iron swords, two crap ones, and one shield. You've got a bronze blade and a prayer. I've got a little Ki but not enough to solo a small army."
"And we're surrounded," Rordan added, nodding down the tunnel. "They have patrols."
I ignored him and continued.
"If we charge in, we die. If we wait too long, we starve or get found anyway. So we need to isolate the Chief. Somehow."
Rordan rubbed his face. "Maybe… maybe we create a diversion. Split the goblins. Draw the small ones away. Then double back and strike when they're distracted."
"Good in theory," I muttered, "except the Chief doesn't seem like the type to chase noise. He hasn't moved since we got here. He's not stupid. He'll stay surrounded by guards and women, doing exactly what he's doing now."
Rordan grimaced. "So we need something big. Something that shakes the whole damn nest."
"An explosion," I muttered.
"What?"
I looked at him. "You said you studied magic. Elemental theory. What if we took one of those orbs from the mages? Forced it to overload."
"You want to detonate one?"
"If it makes a boom loud enough, maybe we can split the room. Cause panic. Confuse them."
He looked skeptical. "That's suicide. We don't know the orb's stability. You could vaporize yourself trying to crack it."
"Then maybe we throw it."
He blinked. "Throw it?"
"Wrap it in rags, rig a sling. Toss it in the middle of the den and pray it reacts to physical trauma."
"That's... maybe."
It wasn't a plan. Not a good one. But it was something.
I leaned forward again, just enough to glance at the open chamber.
The Chief was still there, still rutting like a goddamn animal, barely paying attention to anything outside his personal playground. The other goblins milled around the perimeter. Not organized. Not fully alert. We still had a chance to move undetected. But that window was narrowing.
I looked at the red countdown still faintly pulsing in my vision.
28:47:48... 47... 46... 45...
And then I heard it.
A growl. Low. Wet. Close.
I froze.
My head turned slowly.
And there they were.
Two goblins.
Staring at us.
Eyes wide.
Jaws slack.
Snarling.
Their weapons were raised, one had a curved blade, the other a crude spiked club. One of them sniffed the air like a hound catching scent.
Rordan saw them too.
"Oh shit…"
He screamed.
Loud.
Panicked.
"THEY'VE FOUND US!"
His voice echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap.
I wanted to strangle him right there.
Too late.
The goblins reacted like a hive disturbed. Snarls erupted all around. The low murmur of the den turned into a wave of shrieking chaos. Bodies shifted. Armor clanged. Voices barked orders in that harsh, grating language.
And then the Chief stopped.
Mid-thrust.
His massive, grotesque form rose slowly, and for the first time since we'd arrived, his red eyes scanned the room like a predator catching scent.
Then he roared.
It wasn't just noise.
It was a declaration.
The den exploded.
Dozens of goblins poured out from the chamber, some half-dressed, weapons in hand, their twisted erections still bouncing between their thighs. Others fully armored, carrying polished swords and curved shields like the guards we'd fought before.
And behind them came the mages.
Twelve. Maybe more. All robed in bone and leather, staffs raised, orbs glowing with violent energy. Fire. Lightning. Something purple that looked like disease incarnate.
I grabbed Rordan by the shoulder and yanked him backward.
"Run."
"We're screwed," he gasped, stumbling beside me.
"No shit," I said, eyes wide, mouth dry, heart pounding.
And then we ran.