The battle turned into a meat grinder.
The goblin charge—fueled by fear and a newborn fury—slammed into the fractured Kobold line. The result was bloody chaos. Kobold discipline shattered into a series of individual duels against a tide of green rage. One goblin was weak. Three goblins on a single target were a problem—no matter how good the armor was.
Wooden clubs splintered against iron shields. Short swords tore through green flesh with sickening efficiency. Goblins fell, their screams cut short. But for every one that dropped, another took its place—scratching, biting, striking with suicidal ferocity.
Ren stayed back, near the sulfur fissure, chest heaving with adrenaline. He wasn't a warrior. Jumping into that mess was death.
He was the brain.
Even in chaos, the Kobolds were smarter. They were trying to regroup, pulling back, reforming a defensive line. If they succeeded, the slaughter would start again.
Ren couldn't allow that.
He picked his target—a Kobold on the flank, pressed by two goblins but still holding them off with skill. It was shifting sideways, trying to link up with another, build a new anchor point.
Ren raised his broken stake. He didn't shout. He pointed—a sharp, unmistakable gesture. Then he let out that same bark. Authoritative. Cutting. It sliced through the noise.
Three nearby goblins, fighting without direction, heard it. They turned. They saw his finger.
The fissure demon.
They didn't question. They obeyed.
The trio abandoned their targets and piled onto the marked Kobold. The reptile, handling two, suddenly faced five. It stabbed one—but the others dragged it down. The last thing it saw was a storm of clubs, rocks, and teeth.
Two Kobolds down. Six left.
The balance tipped.
The Kobold leader—a reptile with a lightning-shaped scar across its helm—saw it instantly. It let out a sharp, piercing whistle. An order that cut through everything.
Retreat.
With terrifying discipline even in defeat, the remaining Kobolds formed a tight rear guard. They fell back in order, dragging two wounded with them. No panic. No rout. A clean withdrawal.
They left their dead behind—but denied the goblins a reckless pursuit.
Within seconds, they vanished into the tunnels.
Victory.
The silence after was almost as shocking as the fight. The surviving goblins—barely a dozen—stood there, gasping, drenched in blood. Theirs. The enemy's.
They looked at the bodies of their fallen.
At the Kobolds.
Then, as one, they turned—
—and looked at Ren.
The small goblin, still standing by the fissure, holding a broken stick.
The tribe regrouped slowly. Two goblins dragged a groaning, bloodied Hugh—his leg ruined, his arrogance crushed. He refused to look at Ren. His eyes stayed glued to the ground.
Zira and the other goblits watched Ren, not with the admiration they'd shown Hugh, but with something deeper. Fear. Reverence.
He wasn't strong.
He was… powerful.
Something they couldn't understand.
Chief Grol approached, heavy and slow. He looked at the dead goblins—a devastating loss. Then at the three Kobold corpses—an unprecedented prize.
Finally, his one good eye settled on Ren.
He didn't understand what had happened. Not really. Tactics. Improvisation. Those weren't concepts he grasped.
But he understood the result.
They had attacked a stronger enemy—and survived.
Ren didn't wait for judgment.
He moved.
He walked past the chief. Past the murmuring warriors. Past Kick—who flinched as he approached.
He stepped into the center of the battlefield.
The stage of his victory.
He ignored the scattered clubs and stone spears. He walked straight to the Kobold body that had been overwhelmed.
And there, beside it—
A weapon.
A short iron sword.
Ugly. Poorly made by player standards.
But it was metal.
Sharp.
Real.
He bent to pick it up.
"My!"
The voice was a rough snarl. One of the largest surviving warriors—a friend of Hugh, with an arm as thick as Ren's waist—stepped forward. He pointed at the sword with his chipped stone axe.
The old law.
Strength.
Ren didn't move.
He didn't look at the warrior.
Slowly, he turned his gaze across the younger goblins. His eyes lingered on Kick for a second.
He said nothing.
He didn't have to.
A low growl spread among the younger goblins. Kick stepped forward—not toward Ren, but toward the larger warrior.
Another followed.
Then another.
In seconds, the big warrior wasn't facing Ren.
He was facing a half-dozen goblins who had tasted victory—and now looked at Ren like he was a war god.
The warrior hesitated.
Brute force still mattered.
But something had changed.
A new force was in play.
With a frustrated snarl, he stepped back.
Ren turned—and picked up the iron sword.
It was heavier than expected. The balance was wrong for his small body.
But when his fingers closed around the leather grip—when real metal met his skin—
He felt more powerful than at any moment since becoming Zephyr.
He stood among the dead.
A small, pathetic creature—the one from the cover of his own story.
But in his hand, no longer a crude stone spear.
An iron sword.
Won not by muscle—
—but by mind.
And in the quiet aftermath of battle, every goblin there understood—with bone-deep certainty—
The age of brute force was over.
The age of intelligence had begun.