Supreme Hunter of Beautiful Souls

The sound of the drums was no longer just noise—it was the beat of war. Each beat seemed to scratch the soul, reverberating in the roots of the forest and in the bones of those who dared to listen. The massacre behind Kael had already become a voiceless graveyard: hundreds of twisted bodies lay on the ground, the earth turned to red mud, the air saturated with the putrid stench of blood and entrails.

But the call was ahead.

Kael advanced with steady steps, his golden sword resting on his shoulder. His body bore cuts and scratches, but nothing that diminished his posture. The blood of his enemies ran in trails down his skin, dripped from his chin, impregnated his armor — and yet his eyes shone cold, unbreakable. The golden aura that surrounded him flickered like indomitable embers, oscillating between light and living flame.

"So this is it..." he murmured, as if speaking to the gods themselves. "You want to welcome me."

The trail opened into an unholy clearing. Greenish lanterns hung from the branches, casting grotesque shadows that danced over huts made of bones and straw. Stakes driven into the ground displayed human skulls, deformed by time, like trophies from ancient hunts. Bonfires spewing black smoke tinged the air with a pungent, suffocating smell.

And there they were.

Not dozens. Not hundreds. Thousands.

The entrance to the village was a living wall: at least three hundred goblins formed crooked lines, improvised shields of splintered wood and corroded iron spears raised in unison. Behind them, shamans chanted guttural songs, invoking green flames that painted the horde's faces with demonic reflections.

In the center of the clearing stood a throne of bones.

And upon it sat the one Kael sought: the Goblin Lord.

Tall and grotesque, his skin marked with scars like maps of ancient battles. Bulging muscles supported an almost monstrous body, and viscous saliva dripped from the yellowed fangs that protruded from his mouth. His eyes were red, living embers that burned with fury and cruelty. In his hand, a black stone axe, pulsating as if each beat of the drums came from the cursed heart of that weapon.

The Lord raised the axe.

And the horde roared.

The sound was deafening, like thunder breaking through the sky. The trees shook, the branches creaked, the earth itself seemed to vibrate in response.

Kael just sighed. "Finally."

He raised his golden sword.

The Charge

The front line of goblins responded to the call with a unified cry, banging their spears against their shields. The crash echoed across the clearing before they all charged forward, a tide of foul flesh and worn iron.

Kael leaped.

The ground broke beneath his absence, and when he fell into the heart of the enemy formation, the earth screamed along with him. A crater opened, swallowing the impact, and a golden explosion swept across the line like a rising sun. Ten goblins were disintegrated into dust and flesh before they could even let out a scream.

The sword spun. A horizontal arc tore through the air, and bodies were split in half in a grotesque spectacle. Blood flew like rain, splattering on the still-raised shields, blurring the vision of the survivors.

They did not retreat. The tide closed in again, trying to drown the intruder with sheer numbers.

The spears rained down in unison.

Kael moved as if time were his servant. The blade parried, broke, cut—each blow precise, each counterattack definitive. No weapon touched his skin. Every goblin that dared to approach met its end in seconds: broken torsos, decapitated heads, pulverized bones.

From high in the trees, archers roared orders and fired. Black arrows fell like cursed rain, obscuring the moonlight.

Kael raised his left hand.

His aura exploded in a burst of golden energy that streaked across the sky, disintegrating the arrows into ash before they even touched the ground. Then he ran, shooting straight toward the nearest tree trunk.

He climbed like a cat. The branch creaked under his weight, but his blade was already in motion. Three archers' eyes widened. They didn't have time to scream. They were cut to pieces, their bodies falling silently.

Kael leaped back, diving into the center of the crowd.

The impact shook the clearing. Goblins were thrown like broken dolls, their bones cracking as they collided with the ground and the surrounding huts. The golden wave expanded, engulfing dozens in searing light.

Kael raised his still-dripping sword.

"Is that all?" His voice echoed like muffled thunder.

The answer came in roars and more drums.

From the back of the village, larger warriors advanced—goblins in makeshift armor made from bones and stolen plates. They were taller, stronger, their eyes shining with a more conscious cruelty. Among them, shamans raised hands covered in runes, summoning dark green balls of flame that snaked through the air like serpents.

Kael ran straight into the flames.

His aura shone brighter. The evil fire dissolved as it touched the golden field, dissipating into harmless sparks. The young warrior threw himself into the midst of the shamans, and with a single circular swing of his sword, seven of them were cut in half. Their bodies fell to the ground in grotesque, still-smoldering pieces.

"Weaklings," Kael spat, swinging his blade.

The clearing was now pure chaos. The sound of drums mingled with shrill screams, the smell of burning flesh permeated the air, and each crack of broken bones echoed like dissonant music. But at the center of it all, Kael was an erupting sun, unstoppable, devastating.

And from his throne, the Goblin Lord watched. His crimson eyes unblinking. His lips parted in a snarl that sounded like a promise of death.

Kael stared at him for a moment, even amidst the chaos. Blood dripped from the sword. His chest heaved in a slow, almost relaxed rhythm.

"Soon…" he murmured. "Your turn will come."

The roar of the horde reverberated through the clearing like a living earthquake. Every scream, every howl, every drumbeat transformed the scene into a theater of primitive war. And in the center, the golden figure of Kael seemed like a flaw in the fabric of that dark reality, a light that didn't belong in this profane place.

The goblin warriors advanced, their rudimentary armor clanging, their shields raised in grotesque synchrony. They weren't just slaughter meat: they were veterans of war, creatures who had survived enough battles to know how to surround and kill. Their muscles were taut, their eyes were hungry embers, and each step echoed the promise of tearing the invader's life apart.