Draven stood over the fallen body of the Goblin King, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. The battlefield was a chaotic mess of fallen goblins and exhausted adventurers, but the once overwhelming horde was now in disarray, leaderless and broken. The Goblin King's demise had sent a shockwave through his remaining followers, and those that survived the onslaught were now fleeing in every direction, their savage courage crumbling without their leader's presence.
His swords, still dripping with dark blood, gleamed in the dim light. Draven's eyes, sharp and cold, swept over the battlefield, taking in the scene with a ruthless detachment. The goblins were scattering like rats, and though many might consider it a victory, Draven saw it as unfinished business.
