The Forest of Grin loomed, a jagged scar against the bruised twilight sky. Derrick, his axe a familiar weight against his hip, pushed through the last tangle of thorny bushes. The village sounds, once a comforting hum, now faded to a whisper behind him. A chill, damp and earthy, snaked around his ankles, carrying the scent of decaying leaves and something musky, feral. Towering oaks, their branches gnarled like arthritic fingers, clawed at the fading light, weaving a canopy so dense that only slivers of the moon-pale sky pierced through, painting ghostly patterns on the forest floor. The air hung thick, pregnant with unseen life and ancient secrets.
A twig snapped under his worn boot. The sound echoed, too loud, too sharp, in the sudden, profound silence. He froze, muscles tensed, eyes darting through the deepening gloom. The forest, a creature unto itself, seemed to hold its breath. No rustling leaves, no chirping crickets, just the frantic thud of his own heart against his ribs. He waited, a statue carved from fear and resolve, until the silence stretched, unbroken. *Just a twig*, he told himself, the thought a weak shield against the prickle on his neck.
He moved again, more carefully this time, each step measured, deliberate. The path, if one could call it that, wound deeper, swallowed by grasping ferns and moss-covered stones. He sought a clearing, a place to make camp, a temporary refuge from the encroaching darkness. A low, guttural hoot echoed from somewhere far off, a sound that resonated not with a bird, but with something older, something with teeth.
*This place eats men whole*, he remembered the old wives' tales. *Feeds on their fear, their sanity.*
Sanity. The word scraped against his mind like a rusty blade. Ten points. A paltry sum. He pushed the thought down, focusing on the immediate. Survival. Goblins.
A small clearing, barely large enough for a bedroll, opened up between four ancient pines. Their needles, thick and soft, offered a semblance of comfort. He dropped his pack with a soft thud, the sound absorbed by the forest's thirsty silence. He unrolled his bedroll, pulled out a small flint and steel, and began gathering dry tinder. His hands, though calloused from years of shearing and mending fences, trembled slightly.
A spark. A flicker. A hesitant flame licked at the dry leaves, then caught, growing into a cheerful, crackling warmth. The firelight danced, pushing back the oppressive shadows, creating a small, defiant circle of light. He pulled out a piece of dried venison, tearing at it with his teeth. The tough meat, flavorless and dry, was sustenance, nothing more.
He stared into the flames, the day's journey replaying in his mind. The system's voice, cold and mechanical, demanding blood. His son's face, contorted by madness.
"What have you done to us?" he whispered, his voice swallowed by the vastness.
The fire hissed, a mocking answer.
He pulled his axe from his belt, the polished wood of the handle smooth beneath his palm, the cold steel of the blade reflecting the firelight. He ran a thumb along the edge, sharp enough to shave hair. *A shepherd's tool*, he thought, *now a slayer's weapon.*
A faint scuttling sound, a rustle in the undergrowth beyond the firelight. He snapped his head up, axe raised, muscles coiled. His breath hitched, a thin, reedy sound in his own ears.
"Who's there?" he barked, his voice rougher than he intended.
Silence. Then, a low, chittering giggle, high-pitched and malicious. Two pinpricks of yellow light glowed in the darkness, followed by another, and another. Eyes. Goblin eyes.
"Come out," he growled, forcing courage into his tone. "Show yourselves."
A small, hunched figure shuffled into the firelight, its skin a sickly, bruised green. Its head was too large for its scrawny body, its nose a flattened snout, its mouth a wide, toothy grin. It clutched a crude, sharpened stick, its tip glistening with something dark and sticky. Behind it, two more emerged, their movements jerky, their eyes filled with a predatory glee.
"Look, look," the first one rasped, its voice like gravel. "Big man. Alone."
"Fresh meat," the second one hissed, licking its lips.
Derrick's stomach churned, but a cold resolve settled over him. *Three goblins. Three down.*
The first goblin lunged, its stick a blur. Derrick sidestepped, the sharpened wood whistling past his ear. He swung his axe, a grunt escaping his lips as the blade bit deep into the goblin's shoulder.
"*Gyak!*" The creature shrieked, a high, piercing sound, its yellow eyes widening in shock and pain. It staggered back, clutching its wound, blood oozing between its fingers.
The second goblin, bolder, came from his left, its stick aimed for his knee. Derrick brought the axe down, a swift, brutal arc. The blade cleaved through the goblin's skull with a sickening *thwack*, splitting it open like an overripe melon. The creature dropped, twitching once, then lay still, its blood a dark stain on the forest floor.
"One," he muttered, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The third goblin, seeing its comrade fall, hesitated, its chittering turning into a whine. The first one, still clutching its shoulder, snarled, pushing its companion forward.
"Get him! Get him, you fool!"
The third goblin, propelled by fear and the threat from its own kind, charged, its stick held high. Derrick met it head-on. He parried the stick with the flat of his axe, the impact jarring his arm, then twisted, bringing the sharp edge around in a wide, sweeping arc. The blade caught the goblin across its midsection. A wet, tearing sound, a gurgle, and the creature collapsed, its entrails spilling onto the ground, steaming in the cool night air.
"Two," he breathed, his voice hoarse. His chest heaved, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
The first goblin, its shoulder wound still bleeding, stared at its fallen brethren, its yellow eyes now wide with something akin to terror. It let out a whimpering sound, a far cry from its earlier bravado.
"No… no…" it whimpered, backing away slowly, its stick forgotten.
Derrick advanced, axe held ready. The goblin stumbled, its movements clumsy. It turned to flee, a pathetic scramble into the darkness. Derrick didn't hesitate. He launched himself forward, a primal roar tearing from his throat. The axe swung, a final, decisive blow that ended the creature's flight. Its head separated from its body with a wet *shluck*, rolling a few feet before coming to rest, its eyes still wide and yellow, staring blankly at the forest canopy.
Silence descended once more, broken only by his own heavy breathing and the crackle of the fire. Three bodies lay sprawled around his campsite, grotesque offerings to the hungry forest. The scent of blood, sharp and metallic, mingled with the earthy smell of the pines.
He stood over the last goblin, the axe still clutched in his hand, its blade slick and dark. His hands trembled, not from fear now, but from the raw aftermath of violence. He looked at the bodies, then at the axe, then at his own blood-splattered hands. A strange sensation, cold and sharp, pricked at his awareness. It wasn't triumph, not exactly. It was something deeper, more fundamental. A shift.
He had faced them. He had killed them.
A sense of accomplishment, cold and stark, settled over him. He had done what the system demanded. He had survived. And in doing so, he had taken the first step on a path he never imagined, a path paved with blood and the echoing silence of the Forest of Grin. He wiped the axe blade on a patch of grass, the action practiced, almost ritualistic. Three down. Seven more to go. The night was young.