The chieftain did not move.
Not out of power.
Not out of pride.
But dread.
He had watched it all unfold—the bloodbath, the dismemberment, the divine slaughter. His warriors, carved apart like rotted timber. His hobgoblins, crushed and discarded. His shamans—his last resort—impaled mid-chant, their skulls cracked open like gourds.
He had planned for attrition. For erosion. For numbers.
But none of it had slowed her.
She did not bleed. She did not falter. She did not tire.
Now she walked through the wreckage like a saint of death, the golden light beneath her skin pulsing with quiet, sacred wrath. Her spear swung lazily in one hand like a pilgrim's staff, coated in drying gore.
The chieftain's breath turned shallow. He stared at the blade beside him—his greatsword—scarred, brutal, forged in war. Behind him stood his throne, cobbled from bones of beasts and men alike. A symbol of dominion.
But it meant nothing now.
There was nowhere to run. The woods were silent. His army was gone.
And she was still coming.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and dragged the sword from the blood-soaked dirt. It was heavy in his grip, almost alien. The crude sigils etched into its length—the symbols of strength, conquest, legacy—they mocked him now.
His legs trembled as he rose to meet her.
If he must die, he would die swinging.
Beatriz closed the final steps between them with the calm of inevitability. Her blood-drenched blouse clung to her frame, divine veins glowing like cracks in obsidian. Her mask, splashed with flecks of carnage, remained serene.
She didn't raise her weapon.
The chieftain roared and charged, swinging the massive sword in a two-handed arc meant to cleave her in half.
She sidestepped.
With elegance.
With precision.
Then punished his mistake.
The blunt end of her spear crashed into his elbow with a sickening CRACK. The joint folded sideways. He screamed, dropping the blade.
His free hand clawed toward her face in desperation.
She ducked beneath it and drove her knee into his ribs—bone splintered under divine pressure—then followed with a spin-kick to his chest.
He flew back, armor clanging, body crashing through a collapsed weapons rack. Planks snapped. Iron scattered. He groaned, disoriented.
She was already there.
Beatriz seized him by the jaw—her grip merciless—and dragged him across the dirt, through shattered bone and smoking corpses, toward the throne he had claimed through savagery.
He kicked.
She broke two fingers.
He thrashed.
She broke three more.
Blood oozed from his mouth. Snot, tears, filth—his dignity rotted beneath her touch.
When they reached the throne, she slammed him down into it and drove her spear through his foot, impaling both flesh and wood. The chieftain screamed in agony, pinned like an insect beneath a divine needle.
Then the dismantling began.
The breastplate: ripped from his chest with a single pull.
The chainmail: peeled away link by link.
Then the flesh.
She broke his ribs one by one—sharp, precise strikes—each calculated to rob him of air, of resistance, of hope. Pieces of his armor clattered to the ground like cast-off offerings to a forgotten god.
Still, she said nothing.
Only when his torso sagged forward and blood pooled beneath the throne did her voice finally break the silence.
Low. Even. Not cruel—just absolute.
"You've taken captives."
The chieftain coughed blood, wheezing.
"Where are they?"
He tried to smirk. It split his lip. "F–far south… not villagers… soldiers…"
She stared down at him, unblinking.
"Where."
He coughed again. "Blackridge… th-they took some there. Others… to other camps. I don't know which."
She twisted the spear embedded in his foot. He howled.
"We traded them," he whimpered. "Some still alive! I swear!"
CRACK.
His kneecap collapsed beneath her heel. He sobbed.
"Who received them?" she asked, voice steady. "Answer fully."
"I—I don't know!" he wailed. "Mercenaries, slavers—I never saw their faces!"
She finally stopped.
The chieftain slumped forward, trembling, blood dripping from every joint, every pore. He looked up at her, vision swimming, breath failing.
There was no hatred in her eyes.
No fury.
Only the certainty of judgment.
She raised her spear.
And drove it clean through his heart.
The chieftain twitched once, gasped—and then went still, nailed to the throne he had built from other men's suffering.
Beatriz stood in silence.
Then turned.
Her footsteps crunched softly across ash and ruin. Behind her, the goblin camp smoldered—bones blackened, banners shredded, blood still hissing on the broken ground.
She walked alone, into the trees, her golden light dimming as the forest swallowed her form.
Not a single goblin remained.