As they closed in on the rising column of smoke, the trees began to thin. Beatriz halted without a word.
Elrick stopped beside her, following her gaze.
Scattered through the forest ahead were three separate goblin scouting parties—each group numbering at least three, maybe more. The creatures moved with crude coordination, circling the edges of a clearing where the smoke originated.
Elrick exhaled quietly. "Yeah… that's definitely a goblin camp."
Beatriz's eyes narrowed, glowing faintly beneath the golden lines of her mask.
"We will purge them."
Her voice was low and final—like the toll of a distant bell. No trace of doubt, no hesitation.
She turned slightly toward him, speaking as if delivering a verdict.
"There may be signs—tracks, maps, or stolen messages. Clues that point to nearby human settlements."
Then, after a beat, she added with solemn clarity:
"If you command it, I shall cleanse the camp."
Elrick hesitated, unnerved by the gravity of her tone. But he nodded.
Elrick swallowed hard. "If you're confident you can wipe them all out… then go ahead."
Beatriz did not respond.
She simply turned.
She moved—soundless and absolute—into the woods, vanishing into the shadows.
The first group never saw her coming.
She dropped from the trees like a guillotine—her spear extending mid-fall, skewering two goblins through the neck in a single downward thrust. The third turned to scream, but she moved faster than his voice. A twist of her hips. A flash of silver. His upper half slid off his legs before sound could escape his throat.
She didn't pause.
The next group barely had time to draw their crude blades. Beatriz streaked between them like a phantom of divine punishment, her spear snapping to double its length in an instant—slicing through five bodies with a single sweep. One goblin was cleaved entirely in half, his entrails painting the bark behind him in black-red streaks.
The final group ran.
It didn't matter.
Beatriz blurred forward, overtaking them in seconds. She planted her foot in the back of one goblin's skull, grinding it into a tree with a wet crunch. Another raised a makeshift shield—her spear pierced through it, his chest, and the goblin behind him in one effortless motion. Their twitching corpses dangled in the air for a moment before she flicked them off like blood from a blade.
The last one fell to his knees and whimpered.
She drove her spear down through his open mouth without blinking.
Silence.
The woods were clean now—only the faint sizzle of blood on steel, the crackle of disturbed leaves.
Without a sound, Beatriz turned and moved toward the heart of the camp.
---
Beatriz stepped beyond the treeline.
Ahead lay the heart of the goblin infestation—a sprawling, chaotic camp of filth and savagery. Ramshackle tents stitched from stolen cloth and animal hide littered the clearing. Bone totems jutted from the earth like crooked fingers, and iron cages hung from crude wooden frames, some rattling with muffled cries.
The goblins were everywhere. Hundreds of them. Warriors sharpening rusted blades. Archers perched atop hastily built platforms. Muscled brutes in scraps of armor marched in patrols. Three shamans chanted over a bubbling cauldron, their painted faces twitching with unnatural fervor. And scattered among the rabble—taller, broader shapes. Hobgoblins. Towering, thickly muscled, clad in rough iron plates, their jagged swords as long as a man was tall.
And at the far end of it all, seated before a massive blackened tent, sat their commander.
A hobgoblin chieftain—nearly six feet tall, built like a siege engine, plated in heavy armor engraved with crude war markings. He gnawed lazily on a charred bone, yellow eyes squinting at the figure that emerged from the trees.
Beatriz.
Alone.
Unflinching.
A ripple of confusion passed through the camp. Then laughter. Jeering. Mockery.
A lone human? Dressed in white and silver? Carrying a gleaming spear?
Dozens of goblins surged forward—warriors with jagged swords, archers loosing arrows, even a pair of hobgoblins leading the charge, bellowing in rage.
Beatriz moved.
A flash of silver.
A scream.
Then—chaos.
She launched forward like a cannonball of divine judgment, the air splitting behind her from sheer acceleration. Her spear extended mid-sprint—ten, fifteen, twenty feet—skewering three goblins in a line. She whipped it sideways, cleaving through five more in one sweep. The radiant tip sliced through armor and flesh like paper soaked in oil.
Arrows fell like rain.
She flowed between them, her body bending and twisting with inhuman flexibility. Her waist snapped sideways as an arrow flew past her ribs; her spine arched unnaturally as another whistled just above. She cartwheeled through the air and landed in the midst of the archers, spear compacted again—now no longer a weapon, but a scalpel.
She dismembered them.
Limbs flew. Heads rolled. Blood sprayed in wide arcs as she danced through the terrified ranks. One archer tried to flee—she extended her spear backward without turning, the tip spearing through his chest from thirty feet away.
The hobgoblins reached her.
They were stronger. Heavier. One swung a massive cleaver at her head.
She ducked low, legs spreading unnaturally wide, then drove upward into a backflip—her foot colliding with his chin hard enough to snap his neck with an audible CRACK.
The second grabbed her arm.
Mistake.
She twisted with the grip, her torso spiraling like a coiled serpent, then tore his arm from its socket. Before he could howl, she rammed the bladed end of her spear through his throat—upward and out the back of his skull.
Then came the second wave.