It had been nearly thirty minutes since Liam began his silent crusade. The first ten were his first victims.
Since then, he had killed fifty more. The barren wasteland was now painted with green blood, coupled with the stench of decaying corpse and dried up blood, yet Liam remained unbothered.
He was having mixed feelings—not about killing the goblins, but about the creatures themselves. Their existence disgusted him to no end. Everything about them—their foul smell, twisted laughter, and shriveled green faces—offended him on a level he couldn't explain.
He didn't want to look at them anymore. Yet, strangely, he couldn't deny the satisfaction he felt each time Silverleaf sliced through their flesh effortlessly.
It wasn't joy—it was relief.
The way their bodies split cleanly, the hiss of the blade as it cut through skin and bone, the quiet that followed each kill—it was all too perfect. Almost soothing.
Was that enough to call him a psychopath?
