Goblins — the same corrupted strain, their eyes glowing yellow in the wand-light, their crude weapons raised. Four of them, charging from the left corridor with the chaotic, uncoordinated aggression of pack predators.
Seraphine's shield met the first one. The impact rang through the corridor — a clear, metallic note that bounced off the stone walls. Her sword came around in a tight arc, the blade catching the second goblin across the throat, and it fell, spraying dark blood.
I raised the Serpent's Fang. The third goblin was three meters away, mid-lunge, its club raised. I fired.
CRACK.
The bullet struck center-mass. The goblin's chest caved inward — the ribs shattering, the organs pulping — and the body flew backward, hitting the far wall with a wet sound. The fourth goblin skidded to a halt, its yellow eyes wide, its primitive brain processing the thunder-sound and the death of its pack-mate in the span of a single heartbeat.
It turned to run. I reloaded. Fired. It dropped.
