Chapter 31: First Mini boss.

  Gaia World, Day 15 After the Shattering.

  Pawel took a quick inventory of his surroundings. The sprawled bodies of the slain invaders made any chance of complete surprise impossible—but had the newcomers heard the fight, or would they assume it had happened much earlier?

  “I should have been faster with those crystals,” he whispered, regret sharpening his voice.

  This was the first time he had consciously managed his abilities and mana flow during and immediately after combat—and it had led to a fresh observation.

  Before the monsters began producing mana crystals, every kill had flooded his soul with all kinds of mana. After the crystals appeared, he had assumed only progression mana required absorbing them. Now he suspected that assumption was wrong.

  Kills alone had added something—he was certain of it. Yet watching his mana levels during the fight showed that neither his “fuel” mana nor his “improvement” mana had increased from the kills themselves.

  So what, exactly, had been added to his soul?

  Either way, he needed those mana crystals—not just to upgrade abilities, but to keep fueling his healing.

  But there was no time.

  He slipped quickly into his prepared hideout behind the foliage.

  If they hadn’t heard the fight, they might assume he was already gone and focus on the bodies—giving him the advantage once again.

  He crouched, grimacing. The unnatural heaviness still hadn’t lifted after improving the new ability.

  Why would strengthening his own ability make things worse?

  “It’s acting like a parasite, not a helpful ability,” he scoffed.

  Then his eyes widened with sudden realization.

  “Like a parasite.”

  That would explain the unnatural hunger, too. When he had examined the ability earlier, it had felt almost alive inside him.

  Perhaps it was more alive than he had assumed.

  It behaved like a parasite—or maybe a symbiont. There were clear benefits. But it fed on his mana constantly, and apparently on normal nutrients as well.

  Movement on the path opposite his position snapped Pawel out of his thoughts. A goblin silhouette emerged from the trees. Between them stretched the clearing, littered with the bodies of the invaders he had just slain.

  Two more shapes forced their way through the brush behind the first.

  The one in front was typical—thin, hunched, draped in filthy strips of animal hide that barely qualified as clothing. A crude spear rested in its grip, the sharpened wooden tip darkened with old stains. It stepped cautiously into the clearing and was immediately shoved forward by the goblin behind it.

  The smaller creature stumbled several steps, nearly tripping over one of the corpses.

  If the situation hadn’t been so tense, Pawel would have laughed at the literal pushover. As it was, he controlled his breathing and watched as the second goblin emerged fully into view. Taller. Broader through the shoulders. Its movements carried more confidence, less twitching hesitation. Unlike the others, it wore properly tanned animal skins fitted tightly to its frame. A leather cap covered its head, and in its hands it carried a round metal shield and a rusty forged sword.

  This one was clearly the leader of the pack—or a bully, probably both. Pawel decided to go with “leader.”

  The third goblin slipped out last. It was dressed much like the first—ragged hides, no visible armor—but instead of a weapon it carried leather straps stretched between its hands. Pawel couldn’t tell exactly what they were.

  The three stepped fully into the open clearing.

  The larger one gestured sharply toward the bodies and barked something in their harsh tongue. The other two turned their heads, muttering in response.

  At that moment, Snack swooped in and landed on a high branch overlooking the clearing.

  All three goblin heads snapped upward.

  The leader pointed at the bird and barked a sharp, commanding order.

  The goblin holding the leather straps loosened one hand and began swinging the looped length in a widening circle. The motion was smooth. Practiced.

  The straps straightened under centrifugal force, a small dark object cradled in the center.

  Pawel’s stomach dropped.

  A sling.

  Not a crude toy—a proper Roman-style sling that could hurl projectiles hundreds of meters.

  The goblin shifted its stance, turning slightly sideways. The leader barked another sharp order, still pointing at Snack.

  The spinning accelerated. The faint hum of air being cut grew louder.

  Snack tilted its head, unaware of the danger.

  No, you idiot—get out of here! Pawel thought, willing the message through their bond. But Snack just cooed softly, oblivious or defiant.

  Pawel panicked.

  If that stone hit, it would shatter bone or kill Snack outright.

  He surged to his feet and burst from the foliage with a raw shout, hammer already rising as he charged straight into the goblin group, abandoning any idea of stealth.

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  The sudden war cry and movement startled all three monsters.

  The slinger released the stone prematurely, completely missing its mark and not even looking at its target.

  Pawel’s panic—and his intentions—surged through their bond like a thunderclap.

  Without thinking, unintentionally, he hurled a single desperate command: CHAAARGE!

  Snack responded instantly.

  The bird launched from the branch in a blur of wings and talons, diving straight at the sling-wielding goblin’s head.

  None of the goblins noticed the descending threat at first—they had all spun toward the roaring human charging them.

  Pawel saw it in their beady eyes: startle widening into raw fear as his hammer swept down.

  The spear goblin froze completely, indecisive, spear limp in its grip.

  The leader, however, reacted faster. It shifted its stance, raising the round metal shield just in time.

  Pawel’s first strike slammed into the shield with a resounding clang, the impact jarring up his arms. The leader’s eyes widened in raw shock, its ugly green face twisting from smug confidence into sudden panic. It staggered backward two unsteady steps, shield arm buckling, then its heel snagged on one of the corpses and it toppled hard onto its back with a startled, almost comical grunt.

  The pushover goblin finally snapped out of its frozen daze. Its beady eyes darted with fresh terror, but desperation won out; it lunged forward, thrusting its crude spear straight at Pawel’s ribs, lips peeled back in a snarl of frantic courage.

  Pawel released the hammer with his left hand mid-swing, snatched the spear shaft just behind the head, and yanked hard to the side and back. The goblin’s face flashed pure disbelief as it was hauled forward into range. Pawel’s boot slammed into its knee with a wet crack. The joint folded the wrong way; the creature’s eyes bulged in agony and it collapsed screaming, clutching the ruined leg.

  At the same moment the slinger began howling in raw pain and terror, its face a bloody mask of horror as Snack’s talons tore into it. The goblin swung its arms wildly, trying to dislodge the bird, but its eyes were already squeezed shut against the ripping claws that gouged deep furrows across its cheeks and eyelids.

  With the pushover goblin writhing on the ground, clutching its shattered knee and howling in broken agony, and the leader still scrambling to its feet, Pawel risked a quick glance at Snack.

  The bird was doing more than fine. It clung savagely to the slinger’s face, talons buried deep, ripping and slashing with relentless fury. The goblin’s eyes were already ruined—milky and streaming blood—yet Snack didn’t flinch or pull away even as the desperate creature clawed and punched at its feathered body. If anything, the little predator seemed to enjoy the fight, sending a fierce pulse of victory through their bond.

  Good enough.

  Pawel closed the distance to the leader in three long strides, hammer rising again.

  The larger goblin finally regained its footing. Its beady eyes flicked desperately to its two fallen allies—one screaming on the ground, the other still shrieking and flailing blindly under Snack’s assault. Realization hit hard: it was alone. Its ugly green face twisted with sudden panic, lips pulling back from yellowed teeth in a snarl of fear. It whipped its head left and right, scanning for any escape route, but the dense foliage and Pawel’s charging form blocked every path.

  Cornered, its eyes narrowed into slits of desperate rage. With a guttural roar, the leader lunged forward, rusty sword swinging in a wild overhead arc straight at Pawel’s head.

  Pawel shifted his footing at the last instant, pivoting just enough to bring his hammer on a perfect intercept path. The goblin never adjusted its swing—too committed, too furious.

  Weapons met halfway with a deafening clang. The heavy hammerhead overpowered the lighter blade instantly, killing its momentum and driving both weapons downward in a brutal arc. They slammed into the goblin’s shoulder with crushing force.

  But the monster had planned it that way.

  Its face twisted in pain, eyes squeezing shut for a split second, yet the blow landed squarely on a thick leather pauldron reinforced with bone plates. The impact was painful—Pawel could see that in the goblin’s gritted teeth and flaring nostrils—but harmless. The creature deliberately lowered its shoulder and twisted its body under the strike, bleeding off the worst of the force.

  At the same moment, the round metal shield whipped low in a vicious backhand. The sharpened edge cracked against Pawel’s right shin like a club.

  The makeshift bark shin guard splintered with a sharp crack. White-hot pain exploded up his leg as the bone beneath bruised deeply. Pawel’s breath caught in a hiss; his knee buckled and he stumbled sideways, barely keeping his feet.

  The pushover goblin still writhed on the ground, clutching its ruined knee with both hands and keening in high, broken sobs, its beady eyes squeezed shut against the agony.

  Snack had been knocked off the slinger by a frantic flurry of fists. The bird now stood on the ground just out of reach, feathers ruffled and one wing half-spread, glaring at the blinded goblin with pure predatory fury. The slinger swung wildly at empty air, face a bloody ruin, screaming in panic and pain, but Snack hesitated—clearly unsure how to finish the fight safely without getting punched again. A frustrated pulse of angry / safe? reached Pawel through their bond.

  Pawel’s stumble left him off-balance, the hammer now useless at this awkward angle. In a split-second decision he released the shaft entirely, lunging forward to grab the leader’s shield with both hands and rip it away.

  The move left his throat completely exposed.

  The leader’s eyes lit up with vicious triumph, lips peeling back from yellowed teeth in a savage grin. It saw the opening and drove the rusty sword straight at Pawel’s neck in a quick, lethal thrust.

  Or at least that was its plan, but the loose falling hammer got in the way, pushing the blade slightly off-line. Instead of slicing into his neck, the rusty tip punched painfully into Pawel’s shoulder.

  White-hot agony exploded through him, almost blinding. His leg still throbbed from the shield strike, and now fresh fire tore through muscle and tendon in his shoulder. For one terrifying heartbeat the pain threatened to overwhelm everything.

  But even as the sword sank deeper, Pawel snarled and wrenched the shield out of the goblin’s grasp with both hands. In the same desperate motion he swung the heavy round disc upward in a savage arc, smashing its edge into the leader’s sword-wrist.

  The goblin’s eyes bulged in shock. The weakened thrust lost all power; its fingers spasmed open. Both shield and sword flew away from their reach.

  Pawel was now severely wounded—blood already soaking his torn shirt—but he barely remembered to use his magic. Clenching his teeth against the screaming pain, he forced mana as fast as possible into his healing abilities at full capacity. The familiar warm current rushed to staunch the bleeding and knit torn flesh even while the fight still raged.

  His body twisted at uncomfortable angles, and his wounded leg could no longer support him.

  His legs gave out completely and he crashed to the ground hard, but instead of a fresh pulse of pain he felt only relief, thanks to the numbing and healing effect of his fast-acting magic.

  Now he only needed a little more time to heal.

  The leader goblin froze, eyes wide with shock, its ugly green face slack with momentary indecision. Its gaze darted frantically between Pawel sprawled on the dirt and the sword lying just a few paces away.

  The sudden abundance of openings paralyzed the monster.

  With a snarling hiss it lunged for the blade.

  Pawel’s good hand shot out and closed around the hammer’s familiar shaft where it had fallen within easy reach.

  Using his healthy hand, he pushed himself up, still minding the mana flow. His leg was already good—or at least the pain was a non-issue thanks to the numbing part of the power—but his other arm hung uselessly.

  How much more time was needed?

  He tried moving the shoulder slightly. It was unresponsive. The pain wasn’t that bad, probably because of the magic. Healing itself was unpleasant at this speed—like worms twirling under the skin. It just refused to work properly.

  Pawel clicked his tongue in irritation and took careful steps back.

  Every second mattered.

  The goblin read the movement as pure weakness. Its beady eyes gleamed with sudden, cruel delight, lips peeling back from jagged yellow teeth in a savage grin. Forgetting the shield completely, it gave the rusty sword a flashy twirl, the blade whistling through the air, then began circling Pawel unhurriedly—slow, confident, clearly enjoying the hunt now that the big human was bleeding and retreating.

  Stalling gave Pawel the opportunity to study his enemy with more attention.

  His eyes narrowed, studying the creature more carefully. The hand that had held the shield hung idle, slightly shaking—two fingers bent at unnatural angles, already swelling. Broken—most likely. Pawel felt a small, savage spark of satisfaction: at least he hadn’t taken that shield strike for nothing.

  Did it break on the first hammer blow and the bastard powered through it anyway? Or did I snap it when I ripped the shield away?

  He shoved the question aside. No time.

  He remembered his training—what he had planned to do in a real fight. This was the perfect situation to put those ideas into practice. A duel, not an ambush or a one-sided slaughter.

  Unfocus the eyes. Soften the gaze. Take in the whole silhouette instead of locking onto a single point. Breathe. Control the breath.

  And maintain the healing the entire time.

  Who would have thought fighting was so mentally challenging?

  At the edge of that peripheral view, movement caught his attention.

  The spear goblin was no longer trying to fight. It had begun crawling away on its elbows and one good leg, dragging the ruined limb behind it like a broken branch, whimpering softly as it headed for the treeline.

  And Snack—fierce little monster that he was—had latched onto the blinded slinger again. The bird was now perched on the goblin’s chest, talons dug deep, beak hammering downward in rapid, savage strikes straight toward the heart, completely ignoring the wild, panicked fists still flailing at its body. A hot pulse of food / kill flared through their bond.

  Something clicked audibly in his shoulder, and he instinctively twitched the arm—realizing control had returned.

  He had no more time to test.

  The circling broke.

  The goblin roared, leveled its sword at his stomach, and charged blindly, covering the open ground with reckless commitment.

  It was nothing like the calculated fighter from moments ago.

  This was cartoonishly stupid.

  Or mad.

  Pawel frowned, genuinely thrown. “What the fuck?”

  The distance was wide enough to give him time. He brought the heavy hammer up with both hands, then, as it came crashing down toward the goblin’s face, he brought his left forearm down, knocking the sword aside with the bark armor.

  The goblin never even tried to dodge.

  It just kept running straight into the descending hammerhead.

  Pawel felt the impact more as a solid thud than a strike—the weapon’s weight and the goblin’s own momentum doing almost all the work. The creature’s ugly green face slammed into the flat of the hammer with perfect, almost comical timing.

  Its beady eyes flew wide in an exaggerated mask of pure, cartoonish shock—mouth gaping, brows shooting up, the whole expression freezing for a split second like a bad actor realizing the script had changed.

  Then the hammer drove through.

  The goblin’s head snapped back with a wet crunch. It dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing flat on its back in the dirt, eyes rolling up white, sword spinning away into the grass.

  Pawel let the hammer slip from his fingers. It clattered beside the fallen leader.

  For a long moment he just stood there, chest heaving, staring down at the unconscious goblin.

  His gaze flicked left.

  Snack was still perched on the blinded slinger’s chest, talons locked, beak hammering down in wet, rhythmic strikes straight for the heart. The goblin’s flailing fists had grown weaker, its screams reduced to wet gurgles.

  To the right, the spear goblin was still crawling away on elbows and one good leg, leaving a smeared trail of blood and snot, whimpering softly as it dragged its ruined limb toward the treeline like a broken toy.

  Pawel looked back at the leader—out cold, practically knocked out by its own stupid charge—and felt the absurdity of the entire fight settle over him like a blanket.

  He wiped blood and sweat from his face with his good hand, then muttered to the empty clearing, voice hoarse and incredulous:

  “…What? …Seriously? Just like that?”