Cal sprinted like his life depended on it—because it did. Branches whipped at his face, his dress shoes dug into the dirt with every stride, and behind him, a pack of small, green, very pissed-off goblins were gaining fast.
"No, no, no! What is happening?! I'm supposed to be reviewing quarterly reports, not starring in Escape from Middle-earth!" he yelled as his tie flapped wildly behind him.
He risked a glance back. One of the goblins, tongue out, was licking its jagged, rusted blade while giving him the kind of smile that said, You're next.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Cal shouted. "I am NOT going to be forest skeleton #7! No way!"
Fueled by sheer panic and a dash of athletic memory, he picked up speed. "I used to be a top sprinter back in high school. You guys don't want this smoke!"
For a fleeting moment, he smirked with pride—then the universe struck back.
His foot snagged on something.
Thwack! He went down like a sack of bricks.
"AGAIN?!" he groaned. "How many times do I have to trip before this damn forest is satisfied?!"
He scrambled, kicking at the vine that had coiled around his leg. As he struggled, a familiar sight perched nearby on a branch—the squirrel-thing. Its fur was puffier than a regular squirrel's, its tail sparkled ever so faintly in the sunlight, and worst of all—it was smirking.
"You again?!" Cal shouted. "You laughing at me? Oh, you're so dead when I—"
The squirrel-thing hopped up the tree like a fuzzy ninja, watching Cal with curious amusement.
"Rude," he muttered as he yanked his foot free just as the goblins caught sight of him again. Their little eyes glinted. They began hooting, cheering each other on like they were at a sporting event. A truly horrifying, blood-soaked sporting event.
Cal ran again. Ran was a generous word. More like limped with commitment.
Eventually, his legs betrayed him. "I'm too old for this," he panted, collapsing against a mossy tree trunk. "That was my last ounce of cardio for the year."
He coughed violently. Sweat poured down his face. "I've tripped, fallen, and almost been eaten more times today than in my entire life." He barely had time to catch his breath when the goblins emerged from the underbrush, surrounding him like wolves closing in on a wounded deer.
He looked around, half-laughing. "Okay...guess this is how it ends. But let me tell you freaks something..."
He stood up shakily and slipped into a martial arts stance—albeit in a torn dress shirt and muddy slacks. "I was the martial arts champ at the local rec center's beginner division back in college, alright? You want hands? Fine!"
The goblins cackled. One licked its blade again, making a deliberate slurping sound. "Yeah, you. You're first."
The moment he moved, so did they. Dozens of little green bodies lunged at him, teeth bared and weapons raised. Cal spun and kicked. Two goblins flew back into a bush. "Hah!" he cried triumphantly, right before one yanked his tie and another tried to climb his back like a toddler on a jungle gym.
"Get off!" he yelled, swinging wildly.
He fought hard. Fiercely. Desperately.
But they were small, fast, and freakishly agile. They began to overwhelm him. Cal dropped to one knee, panting. A goblin cackled and pointed its blade at him. It wasn't funny anymore. Their eyes didn't look mischievous anymore—just hungry.
As Cal braced himself for the end, something shimmered in the goblin leader's chest. A pulsing, faint dark glow.
"What… is that?" Cal muttered. It didn't matter. "Guess I'm going out weird and confused."
He shut his eyes. Do your worst, forest demons.
Then—thwip!
A sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by a sudden thud.
Silence.
Cal opened his eyes.
The goblin leader lay dead in front of him, an arrow buried deep in its back. Blood pooled around it, thick and dark.
"Oh god—ugh!" Cal recoiled, vomiting into the dirt beside him. "What the hell... what's happening?!"
More arrows flew. Screams erupted. Goblins dropped like flies, some crying out, others silenced mid-screech. The scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the raw, earthy aroma of the forest.
Horses emerged from the trees—actual horses—carrying armed riders.
People... human people?
A man with a long scar running down his cheek rode up, sword gleaming red in his hand. His presence was commanding, the way he dismounted and knelt by Cal casual yet efficient.
"You alright?" the man asked, voice gruff but steady.
"Y-yeah. I'm g-good," Cal stammered, wiping his mouth, trying not to focus on the corpse beside him.
The man nodded and gestured for others. "Got someone here!" he called out.
Several riders approached, curious and cautious.
"Wow, you were here all by yourself?" one asked, eyeing the torn remnants of Cal's suit. "Are you an adventurer?"
"Adventurer?" Cal blinked. "Uh..."
Before he could answer, another presence stepped forward—a man in worn leather clothing, cloak draped across one shoulder, a brooch of some sigil clasped at his chest. His posture was upright, his gaze sharp and assessing.
The others quieted as he approached. This was clearly the boss.
The man studied Cal in silence.
Then his eyes flicked down—to the edge of Cal's backpack, where a partially exposed book poked out.
He raised a brow.
"A scholar?" he asked, more observation than question. "The book... it's not something our adventurers usually carry."
Cal followed his gaze, then quickly nodded. "Yes! Yes, I mean—correct. I'm a scholar."
The man gave a slow nod, then extended a hand.
"And you are?"
"Calen Brooks, sir. But uh, just Cal is fine."
"Very well, Cal," the boss said, withdrawing his hand. "Do you need a ride?"
He motioned toward one of the horses, then turned to his men. "We're heading to Cindergrove. Let's bring him with us."
And with that, Cal was lifted onto a horse, flanked by steel and leather-clad warriors, the forest now quiet behind them.
But deep inside, he knew—the real journey had only just begun.
To be continued...