Beasts emerged from the darkness, their low growls echoing in the eerie silence of the forest.
Alan stood poised, his right hand firmly gripping the hilt of his blade, the other resting on the soft fur of his Nighthound.
His breath was steady, his mind razor-sharp. His eyes glowed with an otherworldly intensity, narrowing as they focused on the massive creature lurking in the final corner of the clearing.
The beasts surrounding him weren't all wolves like his own companion, the Nighthound. No, these were different.
Alan had read about them in textbooks at the Tamer Academy — his one and only education on the magical creatures in this brutal world.
The creatures circling them now were goblins, their small frames barely a foot taller than Alan. However, what they lacked in size, they made up for in menace.
They were vicious, and although they weren't known for raw strength, their ferocity and coordination had earned them a reputation among experienced Beast Tamers. The rusty weapons they wielded were as much a symbol of their savagery as their sinister, mocking grins.
Alan's grip tightened on his dagger.
"Maintain your battle formations," came the Captain's voice, calm but authoritative.
Alan's eyes flickered briefly toward him. The Captain stood at the front of the formation, his eyes scanning the beasts around them. The soldiers and Tamers moved quickly into position.
The formation was solid, but Alan knew better than to rely solely on it. These goblins weren't dumb. They knew tactics, and they would exploit any weakness they saw.
The Captain spoke again, his voice steady, "It's just a bunch of goblins. Stick with the formation, fight smart, and remember the goal: seize the Core of any beast you kill. That's your reward."
A wave of anticipation surged through Alan. He'd trained for years for this. This was the reason he'd come here, the reason he had embarked on this dangerous mission — The Cores.
They were prized commodities in the world of Beast Tamers, and for someone like Alan, they represented far more than a simple trophy. They were a way out, a means to a better life. The more he gathered, the higher his standing would be, the greater his wealth.
His focus sharpened. His Nighthound's black fur bristled at his side, eyes gleaming with the same fierce determination that burned in Alan's chest.
The goblins circled, moving with a ferocity born of hunger and a deep-seated animosity. Alan could feel the shift in the air as one of the creatures locked eyes with him.
It was a goblin with an oversized, rusted sword. It grinned, showing rows of yellowed teeth, before breaking into a shrill cackle that grated against Alan's nerves.
The goblin laughed tauntingly – almost like it was trying to talk but Beasts couldn't speak, at least Beasts of this grade.
Alan's stomach tightened. He had fought goblins before, but this one… it was different. The goblin lunged with surprising speed, its rusty sword swinging in a brutal arc.
The air around Alan seemed to slow as he reacted instinctively, his body moving faster than his mind could process.
He raised his dagger in defense, just in time to meet the blow. The clash of metal on metal was deafening, and sparks flew into the air.
Alan's hands buckled slightly under the force, the sting of the impact reverberating up his arms. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let go of his dagger.
The goblin's laughter continued to ring in his ears, mocking him, daring him to fail.
Alan's stance was faltering; he could feel himself being pushed back.
His legs were unsteady beneath him as he tried to regain his balance, the goblin's relentless strikes threatening to overwhelm him.
Then, like a flash of darkness, his Nighthound sprang forward, its sleek body cutting through the air. With a vicious snarl, it leaped onto the goblin, its jaws snapping shut around the creature's arm. In one swift, brutal motion, the Nighthound tore off the goblin's hand, its rusted sword falling to the ground with a clatter.
The goblin screeched in pain, stumbling back as its hand, now nothing more than a bloody stump, dripped onto the dirt.
The opening was all Alan needed.
Without hesitation, he moved. His body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He lunged forward, the dagger in his hand a blur of silver. The goblin's eyes widened in terror as Alan drove the blade into its forehead with a precise thrust.
The force of the impact sent a sharp jolt through Alan's arm, but he kept his grip tight, plunging the dagger deeper, twisting it for good measure.
The goblin gave one last, pathetic gasp as its body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Alan stood over the fallen creature, chest heaving, his heart pounding in his ears. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing in on him — the sharp taste of victory, the harsh reality of the kill. His dagger was slick with the goblin's blood, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at the still body, trying to steady his breath.
The Nighthound padded over to his side, growling softly as it nudged its head into Alan's hand, seeking reassurance. Alan gave a small, appreciative smile and ran his fingers through its fur.
"Well done," he whispered, the words a mix of pride and gratitude.
But there was no time for celebration. The rest of the goblins were still circling, eyes darting between the remaining Tamers. The formation had held, but the battle was far from over. Alan knew he couldn't let his guard down.
The Captain's voice cut through the tension. "Keep moving! Don't get distracted. Focus on your targets."
Alan nodded, wiping his dagger on the goblin's clothing before clenching his palm around it.
He turned his attention back to the other goblins, his grip tightening on his weapon. The battle was far from over, but the first step had been taken.
For the Cores... For the money... For the future of his family.