When Ethan and Evelyn took down more than a quarter of the goblins in the blink of an eye, chaos erupted among the creatures.
One of them, clutching a clearly handmade wooden spear, lunged at Ethan from behind.
The sharp tip scraped uselessly against the steel plate guarding his vital organs, sending a faint metallic ring through the air.
Ethan twisted his body and slashed.
The blade missed the creature's neck but found its hand instead.
A shriek of pure despair tore through the trees.
The goblin crumpled to the ground, dark rivers of blood gushing from the stump where its hand had been.
Ethan drove his sword into the creature's chest and moved on without breaking stride. He hadn't even needed to use Burning Blood for that.
Evelyn was just as composed.
For a second-stage warrior, only hobgoblins posed any real threat, and fortunately, only the camp leaders, two or three at most, had reached that level.
