'This will be easy,' he grinned, excitement coursing through his veins as he eyed the weapon.
He moved like smoke—dancing around the club-wielding goblins, every motion precise, his body weaving fluidly between their heavy, clumsy swings. Their attacks were wild, uncoordinated, full of brute force but no finesse. And Xavier? He was finesse incarnate.
Each slash of his daggers was deliberate, beautiful even, turning flaws into opportunity. He used every detail—timing, weight shifts, posture breaks—to his advantage. The smallest misstep from his enemies was all he needed.
This was the advantage he had. He was smarter, the goblins found it absurd that he broke their formation so easily.
The flow of goblins didn't stop. Soon, a mix of club-wielders and dagger-wielders emerged from the gate. Still, Xavier dealt with them efficiently, his daggers blurring through the air in arcs of silver, flashing with deadly intent as they struck their marks.
