Chapter 21: First hunt(3)

Amon gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles whitening as his gaze locked onto the Hobgoblin.

The monster stood in the cave’s entrance, its grotesque face twisted into pure rage. It let out a guttural growl that reverberated through the cavern, then charged forward with thunderous steps.

The Hobgoblin’s massive wooden club was already raised high, and before Amon could fully brace himself, the creature swung down with terrifying speed. The air hissed around the descending weapon.

Amon’s instincts screamed, and he threw himself to the side, rolling across the rough stone floor just as the club smashed into the spot he’d been standing.

The impact shook the ground, scattering embers from the goblins’ campfire.

Pushing himself back to his feet in one swift motion, Amon retaliated with a horizontal slash. His silver-edged blade met the Hobgoblin’s crude weapon mid-swing, the clash sending a violent tremor through his arms.

The sheer force made his body shudder.

The impact forced him back a step. The Hobgoblin wasted no time—its follow-up strike came like a hammer blow.

Amon barely managed to parry, his hands aching from the jarring collision. His legs trembled as he steadied himself, the creature’s raw strength pressing against him like a wall.

’Damn it… this thing’s power is insane!’ He thought.

The Hobgoblin came at him again, attacks fueled by brute force rather than precision. Amon sidestepped narrowly, feeling the wind of the club’s swing brush past his cheek.

He countered quickly, slashing at the beast’s exposed side. The blade bit into flesh, drawing a roar of pain.

Without hesitation, Amon thrust out his free hand, gathering the last dregs of mana within him. A small sphere of condensed mana energy flickered into existence in front of his index finger.

“Mana Bullet.”

He aimed at the monster’s head, focusing on its left eye. Weeks of practicing his aim—from a revolver shooter—had sharpened his aim. The shot flew true, striking the target with a sharp, wet impact.It was easy since Hobgoblin was closed to him.

The Hobgoblin howled, clutching its shattered, bleeding eye. Its massive chest heaved as it glared at Amon with the one it had left, hatred burning in that gaze. And then it charged again, roaring with unrestrained fury.

But its attacks had changed. They were wild now, frenzied, with no guard or structure—yet they were faster than before. Amon’s mind raced as he ducked, parried, and twisted away from the flurry of blows.

“I can read them… but they’re harder to avoid. My body’s already at its limit…”

His muscles screamed with each movement. The club grazed his side once, a glancing blow that still made his ribs ache. But he couldn’t slow down—not now.

As another swing passed over his head, Amon extended his left hand again, channeling the last pitiful scraps of mana he had left. His voice came out as a strained whisper:

“Shadow Clutch.”

From the fire’s flickering light, the Hobgoblin’s shadow stretched unnaturally. A clawed, inky-black hand rose from it, latching onto one of the monster’s thick legs. The creature stumbled forward with a surprised snarl, crashing onto its front.

Amon seized the moment. He surged forward and drove his sword into the base of its neck, the steel piercing deep into muscle.

But his strength was waning—the blade didn’t push far enough to sever the spine.

Gritting his teeth, Amon yanked his sword free and reached into his trouser pocket, pulling out a small dagger.

It’s massive form writhing in agony as it dropped its club at ground.

The Hobgoblin, now on its knees, clutched at its bleeding neck. Its other hand remained pressed to the ruined socket where its left eye had been, blood pouring freely down its cheek.

With no hesitation, Amon lunged in and rammed the dagger into the monster’s remaining eye. The blade sank deep, destroying its last shred of sight. The Hobgoblin screamed in agony.

Amon didn’t give it the chance to recover.

With a roar of his own, he gripped his sword in both hands and slashed again and again at the beast’s torso.

Each strike left another gash, blood spraying across the cave floor. His breathing turned ragged; his arms burned, but he didn’t stop.

“AHHHHH!”

Finally, with one last desperate surge, he swung at the creature’s neck. The blade cut cleanly through, and the Hobgoblin’s head tumbled to the ground. Its body remained upright for a heartbeat before collapsing with a heavy thud.

For a moment, there was silence—except for Amon’s breathing. Then he felt it: a strange, tingling rush flooding through his veins. Stronger than what he’d felt from killing horned rabbits or normal goblins. Mana. Life force. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating.

He dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

“Hah… hah… hahhh… heh-heh…”

Then, unexpectedly, laughter burst from his throat. It started low, then grew, echoing through the cavern.

He had done it. He had killed a Hobgoblin. For his first real hunt, this was no small feat. His chest swelled with a grim sense of pride.

Covered head to toe in blood, grinning like a madman in the flickering light of the campfire, he looked less like a student of magic and more like madman.

“I should go now…” he muttered, pushing himself shakily to his feet.

He yanked his dagger from the Hobgoblin’s severed head, wiped the blade on its ragged fabric loincloth, and slid it back into its sheath. His sword followed, the steel now darkened with gore.

But before he could take more than a few steps deeper into the cave, movement caught his attention. He turned toward the entrance.

A group of goblins—six, maybe seven—were trudging in from the forest, carrying small game and baskets of roots.

They froze when they saw the scene before them: their leader’s body lying headless in a pool of blood, and the human who stood over it.

Amon sighed, his exhaustion catching up to him.

“Hah… so much work,” he murmured with a tired expression.

But then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

“Now…” he said, his voice low and cold,

“…let’s kill them. Heh-heh~”

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