Chapter 122: Stolen
If Eli truly stood alone, then how, in Drugar’s name, had he cultivated such strength among what should have been nothing more than weaklings?
His eyes narrowed as he studied the battlefield more closely.
Movement flickered at the edge of his vision—too quick, too deliberate to be chance.
A small goblin darted between shadows, its body shimmering as it slipped in and out of sight. [Stealth]. Each time it reappeared, another of Amon’s warriors collapsed, a green corpse left twitching in its wake.
Then his gaze shifted and locked on a figure he recognized instantly. Zarah. Her bow was drawn, the string taut, and the arrow she loosed was no ordinary shot. It twisted unnaturally through the air, bending around obstacles like a predator on the hunt. The missile pursued its target relentlessly until it buried itself deep in the hindquarters of a fleeing goblin. The creature shrieked, stumbling forward before its skull was split open by the thunderous swing of a bulky warrior’s axe. Blood sprayed, and the cry ended in a sickening silence.
And there were others. Another goblin moved with impossible fluidity, weaving through the chaos with deadly precision, cutting down enemies before they could even raise their blades. Still another fought with raw unpredictability, wielding any weapon he could seize—spear, sword, discarded axe—each one becoming an instrument of death in his grip. The battlefield itself armed him, and he wielded its chaos like a seasoned killer.
Amon’s stomach tightened. This was no ordinary clan. Something had changed them, sharpened them, honed them into predators far beyond the rank and file he had brought here to slaughter.
That realization chilled him more than the firebolts raining from Narg’s staff.
But of all the threats, one stood out above the rest. The most dangerous presence, the one cutting through his forces with ruthless efficiency, was the goblin shaman. Amon’s gaze fixed on him, following the arcs of flame as they erupted from his staff and tore through clusters of green bodies. Each strike landed with deliberate precision—never wasted, never careless—leaving the ground littered with charred corpses.
At first, Amon thought it was simply their own shaman—an annoyance, perhaps dangerous, but nothing beyond his ability to counter. Then his eyes lingered on the staff clutched in those hands, the way the wood hummed faintly with power, the cloak draped over the figure’s shoulders. The memory tugged at him like a thorn buried too deep.
Recognition struck like a knife.
It was his staff.
His weapon. The very same one Eli had torn from him the day of his defeat. He knew every notch carved into its surface, every scorch mark etched from years of use. And now it was being wielded by another, one of Eli’s wretched underlings, as if mocking him with every bolt of fire unleashed.
Bitter heat rose in his throat, almost choking him. It was not only his weapon Eli had taken. His title, his status as Drugar’s Chosen, the skills he had bled to cultivate—all had been stripped away. And now, seeing that staff in the hands of another, wielded against him, twisted the knife deeper.
"Unacceptable!"
Amon’s roar carried across the battlefield, his fury spilling over as he clenched his grip on the crude staff he now carried. It was nothing more than a replacement, a cheap piece of wood he had been forced to settle for. Every time he raised it, he was reminded of what he had lost—and how much weaker he had become without the weapon that should have been his.
The difference was undeniable. His old staff had amplified his spells, magnified their reach, refined their power. This one sputtered compared to the brilliance of his former weapon, its firebolts pale shadows of what he once commanded. And Narg’s every cast made the contrast unbearable.
But Amon was not without resources. Hanging against his chest, half-hidden beneath his cloak, was a pendant set with a dull green talisman. Its surface pulsed faintly whenever his mana stirred, a reminder of the gamble it represented. With it, he could unleash spells at full potency, skipping the fine-tuning, forcing raw power through with devastating effect. As long as his mana held, every cast would strike with frightening strength.
Yet there was a catch.
The talisman was finite. Every time he used it, a tally etched itself invisibly into the jade, bringing it one step closer to shattering. And when it broke, the spell it granted would be gone forever—no reforging, no reclaiming. It was a weapon of desperation, not longevity.
Amon’s jaw tightened as he weighed the risk. To burn one of its charges here, against these upstarts, was to throw away a resource he might never replace. But then his gaze flicked again to Narg wielding his staff, to Eli’s goblins fighting as though they had any right to victory.
The decision settled in his gut like stone.
The pendant had not been his to begin with.
It was a gift from his chief, given to help him recover from his fall and claw his way back to strength. Amon had taken it with one goal in mind: to reclaim what Eli had stolen.
To him, the best skills were not new ones—they were the very ones stripped from him.
But there was no way he could get them back. He had lost it along with his title as Drugar’s Chosen. So now he was only left with spite.
That was why he had cast his lot with Ezekiel and Ingrid. Both were strong, both carried the power and resolve to put Eli in the ground.
And so, even though a part of him burned to be the one to land the killing blow, he allowed himself the comfort of entrusting Eli’s death to others.
For him, it was enough—enough to strike at what Eli cherished most, to tear apart the clan he had built with blood and loyalty, and to watch that foundation crumble into dust before his eyes.
Yet even that grim satisfaction was beginning to slip through his fingers, unraveling like sand carried away by the wind.
His goblins were dying faster than he could command, their screams filling the clearing while Eli’s underlings cut them down like seasoned killers.
Every moment he watched them fall, his fury coiled tighter, until it roared inside him like a storm with no release.
His teeth ground together and...