The wind shifted slightly as Red crested the grassy ridge overlooking the Sasahara rice fields. Golden stalks waved in gentle rhythm, masking the ruin beneath.
Charred patches. Torn scarecrows. Blood in the irrigation ditches.
Goblins had been here.
A farmhouse stood on the far end, half-collapsed. Smoke no longer rose, but scorch marks painted the walls like a warning. And beside it, a jagged crack in the earth. A sinkhole, most would call it.
But Red had seen too many like it.
It was no accident.
It was a nest.
He slid off the Kokoroko without a sound, securing the reins to a bent rice cart. The mount chirped once in protest but stayed still. Red knelt briefly, brushing dirt away with his fingers.
Tracks. Small. Light. Clawed.
Fresh.
He unsheathed his blade and moved.
The nest was deeper than the first.
Red descended quickly, sword in hand, boots making no echo. The tunnel twisted, splitting twice, but the stench always gave them away, feces, rotting meat, sweat, old blood.
He turned left.
A goblin looked up from a pile of looted rice, its mouth full, blade sheathed.
Too late.
Red's sword opened its neck in one stroke.
Red: "One."
Another lunged from the shadows. He ducked, shoulder-checked it into the wall, and drove his sword through its chest.
Red: "Two."
A shriek came from deeper within, three, four, five rushing forward with clubs and bone knives. Red stepped into their charge. The first club missed. The second didn't get the chance to swing. His blade moved like wind in a storm, precise, relentless.
Red: "Three. Four. Five. Six."
Blood painted the tunnel.
One tried to flee down the right fork. He threw his dagger. It hit its spine.
Red: "Seven."
The chamber was ahead now, larger, lit with stolen lanterns hanging on ropes. A pit in the center, filled with bones and half-eaten meals. Three more goblins guarded it. One wore a rusted helmet. A hob-in-training, maybe.
Red didn't wait.
He surged forward. Blocked the first swing. Broke the second's jaw with a backfist. Slid his sword under the hob's ribs and twisted.
Red: "Eight. Nine. Ten."
The last one crawled, howling. Red ended it with a heel pressed to its skull.
Red: "Eleven."
Silence returned.
Red lowered his blade, breathing steady. No wounds. No resistance.
He checked the chamber thoroughly, lifted rags, kicked apart crates, peeled back debris. A cage sat in the corner, long since rotted. Blood, but no bodies. No survivors.
Then he heard it.
A soft, wet squirming.
He turned toward a pile of straw and ash. Beneath it, half-hidden, lay a small cavity, dark and damp.
Inside, three small shapes writhed.
Goblin infants.
Naked, half-formed things, green-gray skin slick with afterbirth, blinking with milky, unfocused eyes. One mewled weakly. Another gurgled. The third tried to crawl.
Red stepped forward.
He didn't blink.
He didn't hesitate.
He raised his sword, once, twice, thrice. The sounds stopped.
Red: "Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen."
He stared at the corpses a moment longer. Then turned away.
People liked to think infants were innocent. That evil was something that grew over time.
But goblins were born wrong.
Left alive, they remembered. They learned. They grew. A survivor today became a killer in months. A shaman in a year. And a champion in two.
Red didn't believe in "maybe."
He believed in certainty.
He gathered dry thatch, old bones, rags, anything flammable. Then he lit the fire with flint and steel, watching as the nest slowly filled with smoke.
The fire grew. Shadows danced on the walls like ghosts.
Red climbed out before it reached him.
Back outside, the wind had changed again.
The Kokoroko turned its head as he approached, silent and alert. He mounted without a word, gave a light tap of the heel, and turned east once more.
There were still two nests left.
And if goblins still breathed…
He would find them.
And they would not breathe for long.