The hobgoblins led the way out of the cave, my host among them, his heavy steps crunching over gravel and fallen leaves. A pack of their domesticated wolves trotted ahead—lean, scarred things with matted fur and yellow eyes—sniffing the ground, tails low. The smaller goblins trailed behind, chittering excitedly, clubs and crude spears clutched in bony hands. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the forest in bruised purples and deep shadows. Twilight bled into night.
They moved in a loose, predatory line, following game trails and old scent markers. The air grew cooler, thick with the smell of pine, damp moss, and distant rain. My host's breath came in steady puffs, his injured arm still throbbing faintly around the old bite. I stayed anchored at the nape of his neck, tentacles hooked into muscle and ligament, feeling every sway of his shoulders, every shift of weight as he walked.
After a long stretch—hours, perhaps—the wolves suddenly froze. Nostrils flared. Ears pricked forward. Then they bolted, a blur of gray fur vanishing into the underbrush. The goblins screamed in delight, high-pitched yips and whoops echoing through the trees as they scrambled after the pack. The hobgoblins followed at a slower, more deliberate pace, growling orders to keep formation.
We caught up minutes later in a small clearing ringed by ancient oaks.
The wolves lay scattered across the ground—throats torn, bellies ripped open, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Blood steamed in the cool night air.
I focused on the corpse through my host's eyes. The Bio Codex activated without prompting, knowledge flooding in clean and clinical.
In the center of the carnage lay a prong deer—massive antlers branching like lightning, hide dappled with white spots, chest heaving in shallow, dying breaths. Its side was gashed deep, entrails spilling. One leg bent backward, bone protruding.
Before the goblins could even cheer, shadows moved at the clearing's edge.
Direwolves emerged—bigger than the domesticated pack, fur black and matted with old blood, eyes glowing faintly yellow in the low light. Six of them, lean and scarred, circling slowly. Then the alpha stepped forward: a massive beast, shoulders broader than my host's torso, one ear notched, muzzle scarred white. It bared fangs the length of daggers.
Fear rippled through the group. Goblins whimpered, backing up. Even the hobgoblins stiffened, hands tightening on weapons.
The largest hobgoblin—the one who had first claimed the captives in the cave—roared, a deep bellow that shook leaves from branches. He hefted a rusted greataxe and charged. The others followed, steel and clubs clashing against fang and claw.
The fight turned into a brutal tug-of-war. Hobgoblins hacked at flanks, goblins darted in with spears, but the direwolves were faster, more coordinated. One goblin went down screaming as jaws closed around his leg and tore. Another was flung into a tree, spine cracking. My host swung his club, smashing one direwolf's shoulder, but another lunged at his side, teeth grazing ribs.
Then the alpha threw its head back and howled.
The sound wasn't just noise. It rolled like thunder, layered with something deeper—pressure, compulsion, terror. My host staggered, eyes widening. The goblins froze mid-swing. Even the hobgoblins faltered.
I recognized it instantly. A skill. Not instinct. Not fear. A deliberate pulse of mana or will that crushed morale, slowed reflexes, made prey easier to run down.
The head hobgoblin snarled, shaking off the effect. He barked orders in their guttural tongue: "Fight! Hold them!" Then he turned, shoving past the others. "Run!"
The hobgoblins broke. They sprinted back the way they'd come, abandoning the goblins who were still locked in the melee. My host ran too—lungs burning, legs pumping. Behind us, the direwolves pursued, crashing through brush, howls echoing.
The head hobgoblin glanced back once. His eyes met my host's—cold, calculating. Without breaking stride, he spun, drew a rusted longsword from his companions belt, and brought it down in a vicious arc.
The blade bit into my host's left leg just below the knee. Bone cracked. Tendon severed. Pain exploded through the limb, white-hot and blinding. My host screamed, stumbling, then fell hard into the dirt. The head hobgoblin didn't stop. He vanished into the trees, leaving his subordinate crippled and bleeding.
The direwolves were closing in.
But this time, the odds were shifting fast.
Three of the direwolves caught up first. Their paws thundered over roots and fallen leaves, breath steaming in the night air. Then two peeled off, chasing the fleeing hobgoblins deeper into the trees. Only this one remained—hungry, relentless, focused on the easiest target, my crippled host.
One direwolf—the same scarred beast my host had clubbed in the shoulder during the fight—lunged ahead of its packmates. It circled wide, yellow eyes locked on the dragging leg. My host, sensing the end, did something unexpected. Instead of facing the threat, he rolled onto his back, exposing his belly and throat, then began crawling backward on elbows and good leg, whimpering low in his throat. A pathetic attempt to retreat.
I felt the motion through his spine—awkward, panicked jerks. A flicker of irritation rose in me.
"Hobgoblins are no different from goblins," I thought. "All bluster when they're winning. Cowards the moment the odds turn."
The same snarling bravado, the same abandonment of their own when danger closed in. Pathetic. Predictable.
Still… I decided to play along. Let him crawl. Let the direwolf grow complacent.
The wolf stalked closer, cautious at first—sniffing the blood trail, ears flat. It tested with a snap of jaws near the ruined leg, drawing a fresh scream from my host. When no counterattack came, its posture relaxed. Tail flicked. It lowered its head, moving in for the kill bite at the throat.
Now.
I triggered "Temporary Override". The familiar thin electric surge flooded the host's body—60 seconds of partial control. Not enough to stand, not enough to run. But enough.
I pushed every ounce of focus into the Bio Codex. Anatomy unfolded in real time: adrenaline glands, heart rate, blood vessels, pain pathways. I forced a massive dump—synthetic adrenaline spiking through the bloodstream, overriding shock, numbing the shattered leg just long enough. Muscles twitched, strength returning in a hot rush.
The host's arms shot forward.
Fingers—thick, calloused, green—clamped around the direwolf's neck. The beast snarled, twisting, but I held. Pulled it down. The wolf thrashed, claws raking the dirt, but the host's weight pinned its shoulders. It snapped at the air, fangs inches from my host's face.
No other options left.
I drove the host's thumbs upward—straight into the direwolf's eyes. Soft orbs burst under pressure, warm fluid squirting across the hands. The beast howled once—raw, agonized—then went rigid as fingers pushed deeper, past the sockets, into the brain cavity. Bone cracked. Gray matter yielded. The direwolf convulsed once, legs kicking wildly, then fell limp across my host's chest, dead weight.
Silence settled. Only ragged breathing and the drip of blood could be heard.
Then the notifications ignited behind my eyes.
The host lay there, chest heaving, fingers still buried in the ruined skull. Blood and brain matter coated his hands. The ruined leg throbbed, useless. The other direwolves were gone—for now.