CHAPTER 37: BEING TACTICAL!

’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.

The narrow gate served him well—it funneled them into his reach without letting them surround him.

Control. He had control.

Then something new stepped into view.

A goblin wielding a long, crude spear.

"This goblin wields a spear, huh? Hmmph, this’ll be tough," Xavier muttered, brows furrowing.

He narrowed his eyes, studying the way the goblin held the weapon. The spear had range. One bad move, and it could skewer him. He couldn’t afford even the smallest injury—not now.

He stopped using wide curves, no wasted slashes. Instead, he moved inside the range, gliding one dagger up along the wooden shaft with unnatural precision—shhk!—until the blade met flesh.

The goblin shrieked—high, panicked, broken. It hesitated for just a moment, enough to seal its fate. Xavier’s blade had already severed the fingers gripping the spear. They fell in chunks, twitching on the ground.

The goblin stumbled back, clutching its ruined hands. Xavier’s gaze remained cold, unreadable. There was no time for mercy. More goblins were already emerging from the gate.

With a swift step forward, he drove one dagger deep into the goblin’s chest, the other slicing clean through its neck. The head spun midair, blood arcing in a graceful spiral before the severed head landed with a solid thud, still wearing that same expression of horror.

It died.

Xavier cursed quietly under his breath, eyes flicking to his interface.

Still no skill gained.

What the hell? It was like his luck had flipped on its head. From good to abysmal in a heartbeat.

The battle raged on. More goblins came, in a mix of dagger-wielders, clubbers, spear users... it was chaos. But Xavier was efficient. Ruthlessly so. His daggers never stopped moving, a flurry of polished metal carving through the enemy. His eyes scanned constantly, always calculating, always adjusting.

And then—another change.

A goblin emerged with a small, dented shield.

"A shield-wielding goblin? Heh. This’ll be easy. Their weapons are flawed," Xavier said, a sly grin curling on his lips. "They can cover their chests—but their legs?"

He lunged low, sweeping a dagger at the goblin’s exposed ankles. The goblin stumbled, shield flaring up too late. Xavier’s other dagger slid in through the exposed side, puncturing deep.

It was almost comical.

They thought themselves tactical, but goblins were still goblins. Crude. Predictable. They couldn’t adapt to human strategy. They couldn’t evolve fast enough to survive.

He used their weakness again and again. Each shield-wielder fell swiftly, their bodies collapsing awkwardly, shields crashing down beside them like broken armor on discarded mannequins.

Then came a new threat.

Archer.

"An archer? Tch. Troublesome..." Xavier’s voice was low, laced with urgency. His eyes narrowed as he instantly shifted his focus.

He dodged a dagger-wielding goblin with a twisting sidestep and dashed toward the archer. Before the goblin could notch a single arrow, Xavier’s dagger embedded deep into its throat. The archer collapsed, blood pouring from its neck.

The same pattern followed—every archer that emerged, Xavier prioritized. Quick, silent, clean kills. He would not let them gain distance or elevation.

Even with the chaos, Xavier remained sharp. Alert. His blade never dulled. His mind never wavered. Every step was measured. Every movement, honed for efficiency.

The battlefield shifted beneath him—quite literally. Goblin corpses littered the ground like refuse. Green blood pooled in thick patches. The stench was overwhelming, and the goblins began hesitating, their footing uncertain.

But not Xavier.

He’d adapted. He danced among the dead with ease, boots slick with blood, his balance perfect. While the goblins stumbled, unsure of where to step, Xavier flowed over the fallen like he was part of the wind.

They had come expecting flat ground—common sense, right?

But Xavier was the unexpected.

Meanwhile, deep in the village, the goblin commander had caught on. Word of the massacre reached it. From the mounting pile of bodies, the blood-slick soil, the agonized shrieks of its dying kin—it knew something had to change.

It barked sharp orders in its harsh language, its voice cutting above the chaos.

The response was instant—frantic.

The goblins began breaking down the fence.

Xavier’s eyes snapped toward the sound. He had already slaughtered more than half of the horde. But now... now they were desperate. And desperation made even beasts dangerous.

The fence groaned under the pressure. More goblins clawed and shoved their way through. Time was running out.

He couldn’t wait.

With a sharp inhale, Xavier summoned the last of his strength and launched into a brutal, all-out assault. His daggers blurred—one, two, three—cutting down goblin after goblin. His body moved with a lethal grace, muscle and instinct working in perfect synchronicity.

The corpses piled higher.

And then the fence broke.

Wood splintered. Screams echoed.

A monstrous goblin stepped forward. The commander. Towering, armor cobbled from bones and leather strapped tightly over its grotesque body. Its eyes gleamed with pure hatred.

Xavier’s grin spread slowly across his face.

"So, you’re the boss, huh? Let’s see what you’ve got."

The commander roared, raised its short sword, and the final wave surged.

Xavier didn’t back down.

He ran straight into them, his daggers singing through the air, meeting blade, flesh, bone. Each goblin that approached was cut down before it could blink. Blood sprayed in arcs, mixing with sweat and the suffocating scent of death.

He moved like a specter—untouchable.

Finally, only two remained.