Claes stood frozen for a moment, staring at the writhing mass of tiny, green-skinned creatures huddled in the darkness. The baby goblins squeaked and blinked at the sudden light, their bulbous eyes reflecting in the Marines' night vision like insects. Their little mouths opened and closed, some letting out faint, guttural noises that barely passed as cries.
They weren't human.
They weren't even close.
"Jesus Christ," one Marine muttered, lowering his rifle in disbelief. "They're… newborns."
Claes's jaw tightened. He keyed his radio.
"Atlas Actual, this is Bravo. You're gonna want to hear this."
Static crackled for a second, then Albert's voice came through. "Go ahead, Bravo."
"I found another room past it." He hesitated for a second, then continued. "Dozens of newborn goblins. Looks like… they were bred here."
Silence. Only the faint hum of static and the sound of the baby goblins' pitiful chittering filled the air. Then Albert responded, voice low and cold.
"Say again, Major?"
"You heard me. Fifty, maybe more. Newborn goblins. Fresh. Breathing. Probably just born in the last few days."
Another pause. This time, it lasted longer. Then Albert's tone hardened.
"Bravo, listen carefully. In this world, goblins aren't a species,they're monsters. Every one of them, even newborn, carries the same curse. The villagers told us: they grow fast, they breed faster, and they'll kill anything human the moment they can stand."
Claes's eyes flicked back to the creatures, who were staring up at him like animals. Their small, sharp teeth glistened in the dim light. One crawled weakly toward his boot, reaching with a tiny hand that was already tipped with claws.
"So what's the call?" Claes asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Exterminate them," Albert said flatly. "All of them. That's an order."
Claes didn't even hesitate. "Understood."
He lowered the radio and turned to his men. "You heard the Commander."
For a second, nobody moved. The Marines looked at each other, faces unreadable beneath their NVGs. Then Claes's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Those things aren't babies. They're ticking bombs that'll grow up to do the same to others. You think they'll ever stop? You think they can be civilized?" He motioned toward the chained women behind him. "That's what they did to them. You want that to happen again?"
The hesitation disappeared. Cold professionalism took over.
"Stack up," Claes ordered. "Two mags each. Make it quick, clean, and quiet."
One Marine swallowed hard, but his voice stayed steady. "Aye, sir."
Claes chambered a round, the sharp metallic clack echoing off the walls.
He took one last look at the huddled mass. Some of the newborn goblins tried to crawl closer, weak limbs trembling, their pitiful whines rising into the air. It sounded almost human—almost.
He shut that thought down.
"Bravo," he said evenly. "Fire."
The chamber erupted in a thunder of suppressed shots.
Pfft—pfft—pfft.
Muzzle flashes lit the small room like camera flashes in the dark. The tiny bodies convulsed, then fell still. The cries turned into silence within seconds. Casings clinked softly against the stone floor, bouncing among the straw and filth.
No one said a word.
When the last round was fired, Claes raised a hand. "Cease fire."
The echo of gunfire faded, leaving only the faint hum of the NVGs and the ragged breathing of the Marines. The stench was unbearable now—blood mixing with rot and smoke.
Claes scanned the room. Not one of the creatures moved.
Good.
"Clear," one of his men said quietly.
Claes keyed his radio again. "Atlas Actual, this is Bravo. Area clear. All hostiles neutralized."
"Copy, Bravo," Albert replied. "Good work. You did the right thing."
Claes exhaled through his nose, switching his rifle to safe. "Yeah. Feels like it."
He turned to his men. "Alright, check weapons and reload. And please get those girls out of their chains."
The Marines nodded and got to work. They knelt by the nearest woman, fingers working at the crude iron shackles that bound her wrists. The locks weren't complicated—rusted clasps, twisted wire, and rough pins hammered through holes in the metal. With a firm push and a bit of leverage, the first one came loose with a clank.
The woman flinched, recoiling instinctively before realizing she was being freed. Her lips trembled, dry and cracked.
"...No more… please…" she whispered.
"You're safe," the Marine said softly. "You're safe now."
Across the chamber, others worked quietly. Metal unlatched, one shackle after another. The women were weak—many too frail to stand—so the Marines supported them carefully, laying them down on folded tarps or their own field jackets.
Claes watched them for a moment, jaw tight. "Med check," he said. "Now."
The team medic dropped his pack, kneeling beside the first freed captive. "Pulse faint. Dehydrated. Multiple bruises, cuts… signs of infection." He looked up at Claes. "They've been here a while."
"Get water in them," Claes said.
Another Marine moved to a different captive. "Sir, this one's barely breathing."
The medic shifted over quickly. He pressed two fingers to her neck, then reached into his pouch. "She's alive. Weak pulse. Get her flat, elevate her legs." He unclipped a saline IV bag, primed the line, and slipped the needle into a visible vein. The woman didn't even react.
Claes crouched beside him. "She going to make it?"
The medic didn't look up. "If we keep her warm and hydrated, maybe. But she's on the edge."
He signaled for one of the men. "Give me a thermal blanket."
Soon the room was filled with the muted rhythm of work—chains being unlatched, water poured carefully into trembling hands, medkits opening. The stench of the place was overwhelming, but no one complained.
A woman suddenly grabbed a Marine's wrist weakly, her voice a whisper. "A-are… you from the capital?"
Claes heard it. He turned toward her and answered himself. "No. We're not from your kingdom. But we're here to help."
Her eyes watered. "T-they took us… when the caravans disappeared…"
Claes nodded once, voice low but steady. "You're safe now. The goblins won't hurt you again."
A few of the women began sobbing quietly, others just stared in disbelief. They looked like ghosts—bones under skin, hair matted with dirt, wrists raw and swollen.
Ward stepped in from the corridor, scanning the room. "What's their status?"
The medic answered without pausing his work. "Fifteen in total. Three critical. Severe malnutrition, dehydration, infection. Two appear pregnant, late term. They need evac now."
"Copy that," Ward said. He keyed his radio. "Atlas Actual, we have confirmed survivors. Fifteen total, three critical, two pregnant. Recommend immediate medical evacuation."
Albert's voice came back through the comms. "Understood. We are calling it in."