Chapter 130: Reinforcement
Then his blood ran colder still as he caught sight of the two goblins advancing toward Zarah and Narg—Gobbo and Zonk.
One of them, among the two who had torn through his soldiers with terrifying ease, Gobbo.
That wasn’t good.
If those two joined the fight now, his chances were finished. He would be crushed between them, pinned with no hope of escape.
Amon made his choice. He would run.
Snarling, he swerved sideways, narrowly avoiding an arrow that hissed past his head. He slammed his staff into the ground, summoning a wall of vines behind him. The tendrils surged upward, thick and wild, just in time to intercept the fireball Narg hurled. The explosion lit the barrier, burning away the first layer, but it bought him the space he needed.
He bolted.
His feet pounded against the dirt, every muscle screaming with pain as he forced his battered body forward. But then—
Shhrrkk!
The hiss of a blade cutting through the air. Amon’s head snapped toward the sound too late. A streak of silver crossed his vision, and pain flared hot across his face. Blood sprayed as the edge bit into his cheek.
He stumbled, his body pitching sideways, barely catching himself before he fell completely. One hand flew to his face, warm blood leaking between his fingers.
Amon’s eyes darted to the side, and there he saw him.
Another goblin. Small, wiry, his movements so fast they blurred. Daggers glinted red in his hands.
Thok.
Amon’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t seen him coming. Not once. The hell? How had he gotten so close without being noticed?
Amon lashed out in panic, swinging his staff hard. The ground split as thick vines erupted upward, lashing toward Thok and forcing the dagger-wielder to retreat with a blur of motion.
Breathing raggedly, Amon scrambled back to his feet and stumbled into a run, blood still dripping down his cheek. His mind raced, disbelief twisting inside him.
What the hell...?
Thok had moved like a phantom, appearing out of thin air. It had to be stealth—some kind of concealment skill. Goblins using [Stealth]? That was absurd. Impossible. And yet, here it was, staring him in the face. Just how advanced were these creatures? How had Eli twisted them into something like this?
He barely had time to process it when another threat cut in from his flank.
Narg.
The shaman had reappeared, his staff blazing with gathered mana. Three fireballs spun into existence at once, their cores glowing white-hot before they launched forward in a deadly barrage.
Amon cursed under his breath and swung his staff wildly, his vine talisman glowing once more. The ground beneath him ruptured, vines shooting upward in thick coils, weaving into a wall of living wood in front of him.
The fireballs struck.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
Each detonation hammered the barrier, flames splashing outward in waves of heat and smoke. The vines hissed and blackened, the acrid stench of burning plant matter filling the air. The wall trembled, splintering under the force, but it managed to hold—barely—shielding him from being torn apart.
Narg fired three more.
The first fireball slammed into the vines and the barrier held, shuddering but not breaking. The second struck immediately after, burning deeper into the wall, the coils groaning as blackened husks began to collapse.
But when the third fireball landed, the talisman gave out.
The vines shattered, splintering into cinders and ash as the glow of the pendant on Amon’s chest cracked violently. With a sharp snap, the talisman broke apart completely, fragments scattering across the ground.
Amon froze. Vulnerable.
He realized it instantly, his heart lurching in his chest as he saw the flare of light from Narg’s staff. There was no time to raise another defense.
The fireball came screaming forward and struck him square in the chest.
The impact tore the air with a thunderous crack, sending Amon hurtling backward. He hit the ground hard, tumbling across dirt and stone before skidding to a halt. Smoke curled off his burned chest as he clutched the wound, a guttural scream ripping from his throat.
Gasping, writhing, he forced himself onto his side. He could hear footsteps—slow, steady, drawing closer. The sound of killers closing in. His eyes widened, and with a desperate groan he dragged himself upright, his chest heaving, his body trembling from the effort.
He had run out of talismans. All of them spent.
All except one. The last. The one he had never wanted to use.
Panting, staggering, he rose fully to his feet—only to find himself hemmed in. Shapes closed around him on every side. Zarah with her bow drawn taut, Narg with his staff blazing, Gobbo and Dribb advancing like towers of muscle, Thok crouched low with daggers gleaming, Zonk already shifting weapons in hand.
Goblins.
The very same goblins he had once dismissed as fodder, easy kills, weaklings beneath notice. And yet here they were—surrounding him, weapons steady, eyes cold with intent.
Amon’s lips curled back, his teeth bared in a snarl.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.
Narg’s staff flared with heat, mana swirling at its tip as he prepared to fire.
Zarah stood beside him, her bow drawn tight, the string trembling with tension as the arrow’s head glinted faintly in the firelight.
Gobbo, Zonk, and Thok tightened their circle, weapons raised and bodies crouched low, ready to spring forward at the first sign of weakness. The rest of Eli’s clan held back just enough to give the vanguard room, their eyes fixed on the shaman who had brought them so much pain.
Amon exhaled slowly, the sound carrying more defeat than defiance. His shoulders sagged for a moment, his expression darkening as he took in the noose tightening around him.
He hadn’t wanted it to come to this.
But the situation left him no choice.
Amon’s jaw tightened, bloodied lips curling back over his teeth as his eyes narrowed in grim resolve.
Zarah released, the arrow hissing through the air, whistling straight toward his head.
Amon sighed:
"Aah...fuck it!"