George's shout still hung in the air when the clearing went still.
Not peaceful—still the way a blade hovered a breath before it fell.
Roman lay at the base of the tree, half-slumped where the impact had thrown him. His bent shield rested beside him like ruined scrap, useless now. He tried to push himself up anyway—more instinct than sense—but his arms shook and he failed, coughing through clenched teeth.
Erica didn't spare him a glance.
Her spear stayed leveled at the hobgoblin's chest, feet planted, weight balanced—ready to lunge or retreat in the same motion.
George moved one step forward, sword held high but not committed. His eyes flicked once to Roman, then back to the monster.
"Backline," he said, voice hard and controlled. "Hold. Watch the edges. If anything moves, you call it."
Osric didn't answer out loud.
He didn't need to.
He stood with William and Laurent behind the front, iron sword tight in his grip, senses stretched into the treeline. The goblins were dead—but the forest didn't feel empty. Not anymore.
The hobgoblin straightened fully.
One arm gone, yes—but the way it held the iron sword made that fact feel less important than it should have. It shifted its stance, shoulders turning slightly, letting the blade drag a line through the dirt as it measured distance.
Not wild.
Not desperate.
Focused.
Osric felt his pulse tighten.
The System's challenge flashed in his mind—not as words, but as weight.
Objective: Complete the mission.
Extra Objective: Deal the killing blow.
He hated how quickly his thoughts tried to reach for that second line.
This wasn't his fight to steal.
Not if stealing it got someone killed.
The hobgoblin's eyes moved—briefly—to Roman.
Then it stepped forward.
Just one step.
Enough to promise what it wanted next.
George's posture tightened.
Erica's spear dipped a fraction lower.
And Osric realized, coldly, that the monster wasn't deciding whether to fight—
It was deciding who to kill first.
The hobgoblin's gaze burned into George and Erica.
Not wild.
Not hateful.
Calculating.
Then its eyes slid to Roman—and its lips pulled back into something that could only be a grin.
George felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"Careful—" he started.
Too late.
The hobgoblin lunged toward Roman for several steps, just enough to sell the intent. George and Erica reacted instantly, boots digging in as they surged forward to intercept, hearts pounding with the same thought—
Don't let him reach Roman.
That was the mistake.
The hobgoblin pivoted.
Not clumsily.
Not desperately.
One smooth, brutal turn—its remaining arm tightening, legs coiling—and then it exploded forward again, this time straight at Erica.
Osric saw it the instant it happened.
It's bait.
Erica had been running, spear angled slightly upward from the sprint, no longer perfectly aligned for a frontal thrust. A fraction off.
Enough.
The hobgoblin knew.
It knew she was faster than George but lighter.
It knew humans hesitated for each other.
And it knew exactly how much distance it had.
The iron sword shot forward.
Erica twisted hard, instincts saving her life—but not her unscathed.
Iron punched into her left shoulder.
She screamed, the sound raw and sharp, as blood sprayed dark against her armor. The blade missed her heart by inches.
The hobgoblin clicked its tongue in irritation.
Then it yanked the sword free and leapt back just as George reached them, his swing cutting nothing but air.
Erica collapsed to one knee, one hand clutching her shoulder, blood already soaking through her fingers.
George was there instantly.
"Erica—"
"I'm alive," she gasped through clenched teeth. "Don't—lose it—"
George didn't.
But his jaw was locked tight as he glanced at the wound—deep, bleeding heavily, dangerous. His body screamed at him to stay. To guard her. To finish this himself.
That was when he saw it.
The hobgoblin was already moving again.
Running.
Straight for Roman.
"Fuck," George breathed.
He snapped his head toward the backline and roared, voice tearing through the clearing.
"You three—protect Roman!"
Laurent and Osric were already moving.
Osric hadn't waited for the command. The instant the hobgoblin disengaged from Erica, he'd broken into a sprint, iron sword low, eyes locked on the monster's path. Laurent moved with him, spear leveled, steps precise and fast.
William followed a beat later, cursing under his breath as he ran, axe coming up.
George took a step after them—
Then stopped.
Erica sagged, blood pooling beneath her.
He couldn't leave her.
Not like this.
George knelt, one hand pressing down hard against her shoulder to slow the bleeding, eyes never leaving the hobgoblin's back as it closed in on Roman.
'Hold', he thought grimly.
'Just hold.'
For the first time since the fight began, George had no control over how this ended.
He could only trust the three behind him.
And hope they were enough.