Tharion moved cautiously through the forest. The translucent trees twisted in the wind, shadows shifting unnaturally around him. He had sensed movement — subtle, low, deliberate.
Then they appeared. Three goblins, hunched and quick, their eyes glowing faintly red. One carried a crude spear, another a jagged dagger, the third simply bare hands. They hissed and lunged.
Tharion's grip tightened on his saber. He didn't flinch. Every muscle, every reflex, honed by years of battle, reacted before thought.
The first goblin charged. Tharion sidestepped, spinning the saber in a flawless arc, slicing across its chest. The second lunged from the side. He ducked under the swing, his blade flicking upward in a precise strike that sent the dagger-wielding goblin sprawling.
The third was faster, circling around, aiming to strike from behind. Tharion pivoted mid-step, the saber flashing in a perfect horizontal slash. The goblin screamed, collapsing at his feet.
Three creatures, three seconds, three bodies on the ground. Not a scratch on him. His movements were fluid, elegant, deadly — every strike measured, every defense instinctive.
He paused, breathing steady, eyes scanning the forest. The fight was over before it truly began. Even alone, even a "low-rank monster," he could survive — and dominate.
Tharion sheathed his saber, looking at the fallen goblins. A faint smile touched his lips.
"Not bad for a monster."
But as the wind rustled the trees, he sensed it: he was not alone. Something, or someone, was watching.