Goblins.
Of all the monsters that roamed the Kingdom of Natharas, from rampaging ogres to ancient sealed spirits, few inspired as much long-term devastation with so little power.
They were small. Barely half the height of a grown man. Slouched, wiry, with moss-colored skin and twisted grins filled with jagged teeth. On their own, a goblin posed little threat, just a club-waving pest with the intelligence of a drunken rat.
But that was the mistake people always made.
They thought goblins were weak.
They weren't.
They were cunning.
And worse, they multiplied.
Unlike other monsters that required mana saturation or cursed bloodlines to reproduce, goblins used the oldest method known to the cruel: they bred by force.
Wherever they took root, an abandoned mine, a collapsed barn, a dry cave, they created dens. And within those dens, they dragged victims. Women, sometimes elf, sometimes even beastfolk. Anyone unlucky enough to be alive after a raid. The process was brutal, systematic, and grotesquely efficient.
One victim could produce ten goblins in a season.
Ten could become thirty in a month.
And once a tribe had numbers? They began evolving. A larger goblin, a "Hob", would rise, stronger, smarter. Eventually, a Goblin Shaman would appear. Or worse… a Goblin Champion. That was when villages began disappearing.
That was why Red didn't treat them like pests.
He treated them like a disease.
The first location was a hollowed-out ridge near Tazuna Bridge. Trees had grown thin along the trail, opening into a clearing dotted with jagged stones and a small hill with a dark split down the middle, barely visible from the road.
To most, it looked like a random forest formation.
Red saw the signs immediately.
Scrape marks on the stone. Claw scratches on the bark. Droppings, small, oily, acidic. A trail of bones too clean to belong to natural predators.
Goblin den.
He dismounted, tying the Kokoroko to a tree with a soft pat on its flank.
Then he drew his sword.
No hesitation. No war cry.
He moved.
The first goblin didn't even have time to blink.
Red's blade pierced its eye and drove through the back of its skull before the creature could open its mouth to screech. It dropped, spasming, into the dust. The sound caught another goblin's attention.
It turned.
Red was already on it.
Steel flashed. A throat opened. Blood sprayed the moss walls of the tunnel.
Red: "Two"."
He counted each one.
The tunnel system was narrow, with low ceilings, tight turns. Perfect for goblins. Bad for humans. But Red moved like he belonged here. His frame bent low, his blade short enough not to catch stone.
Three more came lunging around a corner with spears.
He ducked the first thrust, stepped into the second, and parried with a wrist twist so sharp it shattered the wooden shaft. A stab through the chest. A sweep of the leg. Another stab.
Red: "Three. Four. Five."
The last one tried to crawl away.
Red didn't let it.
Red: "Six."
Their nest chamber was ahead. He could smell it, rot, filth, and the coppery stench of blood that never faded. He moved slower now, silent, like a predator.
Inside the chamber, five goblins sat around a fire pit made from scavenged wood and skulls. One gnawed on a cooked rat. Another sharpened a blade stolen from a farmer.
They didn't see him coming.
Red lunged from the shadows. The first goblin fell with a crushed windpipe before it could reach its dagger. The others shrieked, but the space was too tight, and Red was too fast.
A sweeping slash cleaved two at once.
Red: "Seven, eight, nine."
The last tried to flee into a crawl hole, squealing in panic.
He threw his dagger.
It landed in the base of the goblin's neck.
Red: "Ten."
When it was done, Red stood in the center of the nest, breath steady, sword wet.
He didn't relax. Not yet.
He moved to the corners of the den, checking alcoves and hideaways. Goblins often stashed their prisoners deep, behind bone cages or beneath floor grates. But this one… this one was fresh. No signs of victims. No birthing sacs. No bloody rags. Just discarded bones, old ones.
Good.
He still took the time to torch the nest.
He gathered what little kindling there was, snapped broken spears, tore up goblin bedding made from moss and hair. When the flames caught, he watched until the smoke thickened.
Then he turned, cleaned his blade with a cloth, and retrieved his dagger.
Back outside, the Kokoroko was waiting.
Red mounted again, eyes scanning the horizon to the northeast. The next nest was near Sasahara. Forty-five kilometers on foot, but less than an hour at mount pace.
He adjusted the straps on his satchel and kicked lightly.
The Kokoroko responded immediately, breaking into a smooth, gliding stride across the dirt trail.
Red didn't look back at the fire.
He never did.
Goblins are like weeds, leave the roots, and they return.
That was why he counted.
That was why he burned.
And that was why he hunted them like demons in the dark.