Albert raised a clenched fist and the whole line stopped. Atlas formed a shallow wedge toward the temple entrance, Marines stayed spread out to the right, watching the treeline and the broken stonework. The temple itself was ugly up close—built from dark blocks of stone, no windows, only narrow slits and a single entryway shaped like a maw. Smoke still curled from cracks in the roof where Spooky-1's rounds had chewed through the outer layers.
"Predator One, this is Atlas Actual," Albert said over comms. "Confirm no external movement around the structure."
"Actual, Predator One. Negative movement. Only heat signatures are inside the temple. Some are small, maybe bodies, maybe fires. Can't get a clean read, roof is thick."
"Copy. We're going in."
He looked at Claes. "You heard the man. We clear it, room by room. No gaps."
Claes gave a curt nod. "My Marines take the right sector. You don't get in our way, we don't get in yours."
Albert didn't rise to it. "Fine. Ward, Atlas on me."
They stacked at the entrance. The first thing that hit them wasn't darkness but smell, burned sap, wet stone, and something underneath it, something rotten. The interior swallowed the helicopter noise completely; the outside world fell away the moment they crossed in.
"NVGs on," Ward said.
Green washed over the world. The first corridor was straight, wide enough for four men shoulder to shoulder, ceiling low, walls lined with crude carvings, nothing fancy, just jagged symbols, crude depictions of something worshiped. Goblins didn't build this, Albert thought. They just squatted in it.
"Watch for traps," he said quietly. "This is perfect choke territory."
"Atlas copies."
"Bravo copies," Claes said from the rear.
"Actual, this is Ward. Heat signatures ahead, about twenty meters, but stationary. Could be dead."
"Roger."
They moved another ten meters and then saw it, the corridor split.
Left: tight passage, slanted slightly downward, faint torchlight far in.
Right: wider, airflow, maybe an open chamber somewhere ahead.
Albert glanced back. "We split. Atlas takes left. Major, you take right. Keep radio up. You see something, you call it."
Claes rolled his shoulders. "Roger that. Bravo, on me. Weapons low, don't shoot anything that looks human."
They parted.
Atlas disappeared into the left corridor, rifles up, scanning.
Bravo—Claes's Marines—turned right.
Albert led with Ward behind him, then four Atlas operators, last two on rear security.
The left corridor was tighter and colder. The air smelled like damp earth and old blood. There were scratch marks on the walls, like something had been dragged through this way. Not big, small claw tracks. Goblins.
"Actual, this is Ward. This passage goes deeper, looks like it wraps around. No sound so far."
"Copy. Keep pushing. We'll clear and come back to center if nothing."
They kept going.
A low growl echoed once, far away. Not close. Albert raised a fist again.
"Contact?" Ward asked.
"Negative. Could be echo from Bravo side. Keep comms open."
He didn't like it. The corridor was perfect for an ambush, too narrow to maneuver, no room for grenades without killing themselves. But so far no hostiles.
"Predator, can you see our position inside?" Albert tried.
"Negative, Actual. You are under thick stone. We've lost visual."
"Then we're on our own."
They moved on.
Claes's team got the worse side.
The moment they turned right, the smell changed. It didn't smell like burned forest anymore. It smelled like something dead, something that had been rotting in a closed room with no airflow. Even hardened Marines stopped for half a second.
"Jesus…" one of them muttered, pulling his shemagh higher.
"Hold formation," Claes said. "We're in goblin nest territory."
The right passage opened faster than the left. After only twenty meters, the corridor widened into a crude antechamber. Bones were piled in the corners, animal, mostly, but some long bones too, too human to be mistaken. A firepit was still smoking in the center, embers glowing.
"Clear," the point man said.
"Move."
They passed that room and kept going. The smell kept getting worse.
Then they turned a corner and saw the door.
It wasn't even a door. It was an opening draped with patched leather and fur. The smell behind it was so strong it made eyes water.
Claes lifted his hand. "Stack. We're breaching."
"Sir?" one Marine asked. "You smell that? That's… shit and blood."
"Yeah," Claes said grimly. "That's why we're opening it."
Two men took the sides. One man pulled the drape back with the tip of his rifle.
They all froze.
The room inside was big, bigger than the previous chamber. But it was wrong. The floor wasn't clean stone; it was layered with old straw, rags, torn clothes. Buckets in the corners were full of filth. It smelled like a latrine mixed with a slaughterhouse.
And there were women.
Fifteen of them.
Some were lying flat on the ground, chained by the neck or wrists to iron rings hammered into the wall. Some were slumped sitting, heads bowed, hair matted with sweat and dirt. None of them had proper clothes, only torn dresses, undergarments, ripped tunics. Their skin was covered in bruises, scratches, bite marks. Legs thin. Ribs showing. Eyes sunken.
One looked up when the door opened. Her eyes were glazed. She tried to flinch away but her chain stopped her.
"...No… no… not again…" she croaked, voice hoarse.
The Marine in front actually stepped back.
"Holy… fuck."
Claes's face hardened. He'd seen bad things in warzones, but this was different.
"Guns down!" he snapped. "They're civilians!"
His men immediately lowered their rifles, some tearing off gloves to move faster.
"Ma'am… hey—hey, we're human. We're not the goblins. You're safe." One Marine knelt beside the closest woman, checking her pulse. "She's alive."
Another Marine moved to the next. "This one too. Severely dehydrated."
A third gagged, covering his mouth. "Sir… the corner."
Claes looked.
In the far corner, there was a draped curtain, possibly leading to an entrance of a room. He walked towards it and slid the curtain to the side the moment he arrived. And there, his eyes widened.
Multiple newborn-looking goblins looking back at him with wide-eyes. There were around 50 of those creatures huddling.
"Fuck…so this is what the Village Elder meant…they raped kidnapped women and use them for their reproduction."