Spittle flew past my face as the last remaining Goblin - what I now knew was the evolved variant called an Ogre, albeit a weak example of the evolution - roared at me, its wooden armor splintered and cracked everywhere as blood trickled through the myriad puncture wounds that peppered its body.
Despite the disgusting wave of hot, repulsive, putrid breath that was blasted against my cheeks, I was grinning as I danced to the side, pleasure rushing through my body as the Ogre swung its gigantic gnarled tree trunk club straight at me again, though the power behind it was severely lacking thanks to the many wounds I had already inflicted on it.
My Khopesh remained silent as I relied on my Tonfa alone, the spike of ice caked in the wonderful, beautiful red liquid that I had become addicted to, which dripped onto the floor to create some pretty patterns.
