Darkness pressed around him, thick and suffocating. His breath stayed locked in his lungs, his body frozen against the rough bark of the tree. Even as the rapid footfalls grew closer, he did not dare release a single breath.
The forest was silent, save for the predators hunting him. Sparse moonlight flickered through the canopy, casting jagged shadows across the ground. The cold night air was damp, heavy with the scent of wet earth and blood—his blood. His shoulder throbbed, the pain clawing at the edges of his mind, dulling his focus.
I have only one chance.
His grip on the sword tightened. His fingers pressed so hard against the worn hilt that he could feel the splinters digging into his palm. The blade barely caught any light—rusted, dull, and pathetic—but it was all he had.
A low growl rumbled in the air. Close. Too close.
He stole a glance past the tree's edge, and there they were—the kobold and the goblin, their eyes burning with fury as they closed in on him. The goblin sat hunched atop the reptilian creature's back, bow drawn, a wicked grin spreading across its face.
Now.
Gabriel bit his lip and lunged.
His feet dug into the damp earth, launching him forward with all the speed his battered body could muster. The sword extended before him, a desperate spear thrust toward the advancing beast.
The kobold reacted in an instant. Its slitted eyes widened, nostrils flaring as it twisted its body to avoid the strike. But Gabriel had already committed—he pushed forward, twisting his wrists, angling the blade just enough to clip flesh.
Steel bit into the creature's ribs.
The kobold snarled, jerking back, its momentum carrying it away—but not fast enough. The rusted blade tore through scales, dragging across muscle before ripping free in a spray of dark blood.
A horrible screech echoed through the clearing. The kobold staggered sideways, its footing momentarily lost.
Gabriel's victory was short-lived.
The goblin, perched above the wounded beast, moved faster than he expected. It leapt from the kobold's back, drawing a curved dagger from its belt in one fluid motion.
Gabriel barely had time to react.
The goblin lunged downward, slashing at his face. He jerked his head to the side, feeling the cold kiss of steel as it sliced just past his cheek. Blood spattered across his shoulder, warm against the night air.
The goblin landed, rolling to absorb the impact, then sprang to its feet with a wicked cackle.
Gabriel gasped, stumbling back. His sword dripped with kobold blood, but his breathing was ragged, his limbs growing sluggish.
The kobold wasn't down.
It snapped its jaw in rage, gripping its wound but pushing forward nonetheless. Its tail flicked upward, aiming for Gabriel's ribs.
Too fast.
Gabriel desperately raised his sword, barely managing to parry, but the sheer force of the kobold's strike sent a shockwave through his injured shoulder. Pain exploded in his nerves. He cried out, his knees nearly buckling. The goblin saw the opening. It rushed him again, dagger flashing—Gabriel gritted his teeth and pivoted.
His footwork was sloppy, but instinct pushed him forward. He twisted his sword into a horizontal slash, aiming blindly—Steel tore across flesh. The goblin shrieked as the blade opened a deep gash across its thigh, sending it tumbling backward into the dirt.
Gabriel sucked in air, his lungs burning, his body screaming in protest. The kobold was still coming.
Dark blood leaked from the fresh wound in its ribs where Gabriel had struck earlier, staining its crude armor, but it wasn't enough. The beast still moved with quickly, its tail flicking, its razor claws ready to tear him apart.
Then he saw his sword—bent, dented, barely holding together.
Shit.
Sweat dripped down his spine, and his pulse pounded so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He was trapped. The goblin behind him, bow in hand, ready to strike. The kobold in front of him, waiting for an opening.
"I need to deal with one of them—fast." The words barely left his lips, his voice hoarse, raw. The pain pulsing through his body threatened to pull him under, but he pushed it back. There was no time. He lunged forward. Better to face the devil he could see than the one behind him.
The moment he moved, he heard it—the unmistakable snap of a bowstring.
His body couldn't react fast enough.
A sharp, searing pain tore through his thigh, the force nearly knocking him off balance. His vision flashed white, his scream ripping through the night air.
For a moment, the world blurred, his muscles convulsing from the shock. His leg wanted to collapse beneath him, to give in—but he refused.
"I WON'T DIE HERE!"
He forced himself forward, leg screaming with every step. Each motion was agony, like shards of glass grinding into his bones, but if he stopped—if he hesitated—he was dead.
The kobold saw his weakness.
It lunged, its razor-filled maw snapping for his wounded leg—a killing blow, meant to tear through flesh and muscle, to bring him down for good.
Gabriel reacted on instinct.
With every last ounce of strength, he thrust his sword upward.
The blade pierced through the underside of the kobold's mouth, slicing through soft tissue, past muscle, until it lodged deep into the back of its throat. The creature let out a horrible, choking screech, its limbs seizing up.
Gabriel wrenched at the sword, trying to pull it free—but it wouldn't budge.
Then, a sickening give in the hilt.
The weight in his hands disappeared. He staggered back, staring at the broken handle clutched in his fingers. His weapon was gone—shattered inside the kobold's skull.
A cold dread clawed its way up his spine.
No. No. No—
The kobold staggered, gurgling, claws twitching at its ruined maw. Blood frothed at its lips, pooling beneath it as its body jerked once, twice—then fell.
Unmoving.
Gabriel barely had a second to process what he'd done before something blurred in his vision.
A dark shape—a flash of steel.
The goblin was already on him.
A dagger slashed toward his throat.
Gabriel threw himself back. His legs faltered, pain ripping through his wounded thigh, but he had no choice—his body moved before his mind could think.
The blade missed his neck but tore through his collarbone, splitting flesh as it scraped past. Hot blood spilled down his chest.
He staggered, caught off guard, too slow to react. The goblin was fast. Too fast.
It snarled, lunging again, dagger flashing in the dim light.
Gabriel had nothing—no weapon, no plan. He threw the broken hilt forward, aiming for its eyes. The goblin flinched, its movements faltering for a split second—but a second was all he needed. Gabriel lunged, ramming his shoulder into the creature's gut. Pain exploded down his body, but he ignored it, driving forward with all the force he could muster.
They hit the ground together, rolling through the dirt, struggling—Gabriel's wounds screaming at him, the goblin thrashing beneath him, its dagger still clutched in its hands.
It was still fighting, still trying to kill him. Gabriel reached for the blade—The goblin snarled and bit down— On his wounded shoulder. A fresh wave of agony tore through him. Gabriel roared, his body reacting on its own—his fingers closed around the goblin's wrist. And he twisted. A sickening pop beneath his grip. The goblin screamed, its grip on the dagger loosening.
Gabriel ripped the weapon from its fingers— And drove it straight into the creature's throat. The goblin seized, choking, its hands clawing at its neck as blood poured between its fingers. Gabriel didn't stop. He twisted the blade deeper, harder, until the goblin stopped moving. A shuddering breath left his lips.
His arms shook. His body swayed. His vision blurred at the edges. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, Gabriel rolled off the corpse, the dagger still clenched in his trembling fingers. His heart pounded like a war drum. His whole body screamed at him to stop.
But he wasn't dead.
Gabriel's body felt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together with fire. His muscles spasmed, his wounds pulsed in jagged bursts of pain, and his heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a war drum.
Every breath was a struggle, his chest rising and falling in uneven, ragged gasps. His leg burned where the arrow still sat lodged in his flesh, and his shoulder throbbed with a deep, crushing ache where the goblin had bitten into his already battered body. He was alive—barely.
His blurry vision wavered, and then—
A soft, flickering glow appeared in front of him.
Words etched in golden light hovered midair, the letters shifting and reforming, crisp and clear despite the hazy fog creeping into his mind.
You have defeated a [Vhasian Kobold].
Eryndor Essence: +40
You have defeated a [Vhasian Goblin].
Eryndor Essence: +30
Seventy essence…
The number felt surreal. More than he had ever seen before. His mind should have raced with excitement, but all he could feel was the slow, creeping weight of exhaustion pressing down on him.
His hands twitched against the dirt, searching for something—his sword, his dagger, anything to ground himself—but all he found was the broken hilt of his ruined weapon.
His body screamed at him to stop moving. To lay down. To rest.
But he couldn't.
If he stopped now, he wouldn't wake up.
His eyes dragged across the glowing text, scanning the shop, the options laid before him like the last lifeline he had left.
Martial Art: The Flowing Petal Style
A defensive-counter martial art, designed for grace and precision. Masters of this style can evade powerful strikes with minimal movement, using an opponent's force against them. Focuses on agility, footwork, and disabling opponents rather than brute strength.
— Cost: 100 Essence
Gabriel's hand twitched, almost reaching for it—but he hesitated. Too expensive. He was thirty essence short.
His chest tightened as he moved to the next option.
Beginner's Medicine
Basic knowledge of field medicine and wound treatment. Allows for the identification of herbs, dressing of wounds, and crude emergency procedures. Cannot heal injuries instantly but can improve survival in prolonged battles.
— Cost: 30 Essence
His jaw clenched. That… That might actually save his life right now.
He glanced at his leg—the arrow still buried deep in the muscle. His fingers twitched as he imagined pulling it free, only for blood to spill freely from the open wound. If he didn't stop the bleeding…
His vision blurred for a second, the pain throbbing deeper into his skull.
Next.
Fire Magic
The most basic level of elemental fire manipulation. Allows the conjuring of flames for combat and survival. Weak at first but can be trained to devastating levels. Burns enemies, ignites surfaces, and can be shaped into projectiles at higher mastery.
— Cost: 100 Essence
Gabriel almost laughed. Fire magic? Right now?
What good would that do him? He could barely hold himself upright—he doubted he'd be able to lift a hand and spew flames at his enemies. And besides, he didn't have enough essence to afford it.
His eyes burned, the strain of keeping himself conscious weighing heavier by the second.
The last option.
Basic Sword Knowledge
A foundational understanding of swordplay. Grants the ability to hold, swing, and maneuver a blade with proper form. Reduces wasted movement and improves efficiency in combat. Allows for easier learning of advanced techniques later on.
— Cost: 40 Essence
His gaze lingered.
His fingers curled around the hilt of his broken sword, his mind flashing back to the fight.
To the moment his blade snapped inside the kobold's mouth. To the way his strikes had been clumsy, desperate, full of wasted movement. If he had known how to wield a blade properly—how to move, how to strike with precision—would this battle have been easier?
Would he have bled less?
Gabriel's breath hitched as his body threatened to collapse. His legs wobbled, the sheer force of his injuries making his entire body feel distant, disconnected, like he was floating above himself.
No. No time for this. Focus. His teeth clenched. He had to choose and his time was running short.
Gabriel's vision pulsed, the world tilting dangerously. His limbs felt numb, foreign, like they no longer belonged to him. His hand barely had the strength to move, but it reached out, trembling, until his fingers finally brushed against the glowing text.
Beginner's Medicine – 30 Essence.
The moment he made contact, a sudden piercing pain shot through his skull.
A surge of knowledge flooded his mind, not in whispers or slow understanding, but in a violent torrent, like pages of a book being forcefully burned into his brain. His teeth clenched as a splitting headache tore through his temples, and suddenly—
He knew.
Knew how many bones there were in the human body. Knew how much blood a person could lose before death was inevitable. Knew how to set a dislocated joint, how to dress wounds, how to stop bleeding.
The pain in his skull faded, but the knowledge remained. His breath was shallow, ragged, but his hands moved. His first priority was the arrow in his thigh.
His trembling fingers wrapped around the shaft, but he stopped himself before pulling. That would make it worse. If he yanked it out without sealing the wound, blood would pour freely, and he'd be dead within minutes.
Instead, he tore at his ruined shirt, ripping the fabric into strips with his teeth, his hands too weak to do it alone. The blood-soaked cloth was useless, so he reached for the kobold's corpse, clawing at the sash it had tied around its waist. The material was rough, but sturdy.
This will do.
Bracing himself, he wrapped the makeshift bandage around the base of his thigh, just above the wound—tight, painful, cutting into his skin.
A tourniquet. Slow the blood flow.
Only then did he take a breath, grip the arrow—and rip it free.
His vision went white.
Pain exploded through his body, a fresh, searing agony that made his entire leg spasm. He choked back a scream, his body trembling uncontrollably. For a moment, he nearly collapsed, his balance tipping forward—but he forced himself upright.
Blood spilled, but not as much as it could have.
He shoved his fingers into the dirt, grabbing a handful of moist soil. He didn't have herbs, didn't have medicine—but he had earth. It wasn't ideal, but pressing cool dirt onto an open wound would at least help clot the blood. Once the flow slowed, he tightened the bandage over it, biting into his lip so hard it bled just to keep from screaming.
The goblin's bite had torn into his shoulder, leaving jagged, open flesh that throbbed with searing heat. Infection would come fast if he didn't handle it now.
He needed to clean it, seal it.
A sudden idea struck him. The goblin's dagger.
His fingers wrapped around the bloodied weapon lying in the dirt, his grip weak but determined. He brought it close, studying the edge. It was filthy, rusted—but sharp.
Gabriel swallowed hard.
This is going to hurt.
Gabriel stared at his shoulder, his breath uneven, sweat dripping from his forehead. The goblin's bite had torn deep, leaving behind jagged, open flesh—raw, bleeding, and already throbbing with a heat that wasn't just pain.
Infection.
His fingers hovered over the wound, hesitation creeping in. He had nothing—no herbs, no clean water, no fire hot enough to properly sterilize a blade.
He thought back to his leg. That wound, at least, had been treated. The bleeding had stopped, and he could move, even if every step felt like someone was driving nails through his flesh. But this wound—this was different.
This isn't something I can fix out here.
A sharp, nauseating pain flared through his arm, and he gritted his teeth to stop himself from making a sound. He had to do something—even if it was only enough to buy himself time.
His gaze snapped to the goblin's corpse.
With shaky hands, he reached forward, tearing a strip of fabric from its tunic. The material was filthy, reeking of sweat, dirt, and blood—but it was better than nothing.
Gabriel pressed the fabric against his wound, hard. His fingers dug into his own skin, the pain sharp and immediate. His vision blurred for a moment, but he held it there, using the pressure to slow the bleeding.
That was all he could do. Slow it down.
It wasn't a fix. It wasn't even close. But he didn't have a choice.
He had to get back to the city.
He tied the strip of cloth around his shoulder, pulling it tight, making sure it wouldn't come loose. Every movement sent jolts of pain through his arm, making his fingers tremble, his breath come shallow and fast.
He ignored it.
He turned his gaze toward the distant city walls. They weren't close. Not nearly close enough.
But if he didn't start moving now—he wouldn't make it.
And for all the pain he'd endured, dying out here was not an option.