Chapter 7 — Blood for Blood
The goblin laughed as Sam rushed forward, its grin unnaturally wide.
He clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing on the goblin standing between him and the rift. The creature's grin split wider, its sharp teeth glistening with saliva.
"Ga! Ga! Ga!" it shrieked, hopping on its crooked legs with childlike excitement.
It was mocking him.
Sam's vision darkened at the edges. His chest rose and fell faster. The sound of his heartbeat drowned out everything else—the chaos outside, the ringing sound in his head from the goblin's strangely disorienting punch, even the goblin's laughter.
He tightened his grip on the knife. His knuckles went white.
Then he charged.
The goblin moved in the same instant, slashing its rusted sword in a wide arc. The swing whistled through the air, missing Sam's neck by inches. He ducked under it, feeling the blade scrape a few strands of his hair.
He spun low, driving his knife upward toward the creature's ribs—but the goblin twisted its wiry body with shocking agility. The blade met only air.
Sam's momentum carried him forward; the goblin used it. It smashed its bony fist into his chest.
The breath was knocked out of him instantly.
Sam crashed into the shelf, gasping for air. The goblin didn't let up. It swung again, the edge of its weapon catching him across the forearm. A thin line of blood opened there, hot and stinging.
"Shit—!"
The goblin cackled, its voice grating and high-pitched. It stomped forward, blade dragging against the floor with a metallic hiss.
Sam's mind raced. He couldn't match its speed—nor fight it head-on. But he didn't need to.
He gritted his teeth, feinted left, and when the goblin swung, he ducked right. His knife flashed once, drawing a line of green blood across the creature's thigh.
The goblin screamed.
It retaliated immediately, slashing down wildly. Sam stepped back, blocking the blow with his knife—but the sheer force sent a jolt of pain through his wrist even bending the blade of the knife a little.
He was losing ground fast.
Every second spent here was another second Serena was farther away.
The thought hit like a spark in his chest, reigniting his fury.
He ducked another strike, rolled aside, grabbed a broken chair leg, and hurled it with all his might.
The goblin hissed as the wood splintered against its forearm, but it barely flinched. It stomped toward him, enraged, snarling something guttural in a language Sam didn't understand.
He didn't care.
He sprinted forward and slammed his shoulder into the goblin's torso. They both went crashing into the wall. The plaster cracked.
For a moment, there was chaos—flailing limbs, guttural grunts, the sound of fists against flesh.
Sam's knife was gone. Lost somewhere on the floor.
The goblin was stronger. Faster. But Sam had something it didn't—desperation.
He jammed his thumb into its eye. The goblin shrieked and clawed at his arm. Sam ignored the pain, headbutting the creature with a sickening crack.
The goblin stumbled back, dazed.
Sam's gaze darted wildly across the wrecked room—and landed on the butcher's cleaver lying beside the broken shelf.
He grabbed it just as the goblin recovered.
It lunged.
Sam swung.
Clang! Steel met steel. Sparks flew. The goblin's crude blade came apart.
The creature froze for half a heartbeat, blinking at its broken weapon—and in that moment, Sam stepped forward and brought the cleaver down.
The first strike took off its hand. It let out a pain screech as green blood poured nonstop from the stub.
The second buried itself in its shoulder.
The third split the collarbone with a meaty crack that echoed through the room.
The goblin staggered, shrieking, its blood spraying across the wall in long green arcs.
It struggled—punching and kicking—but Sam didn't stop.
Rage burned through him—pure, blinding, uncontrollable.
He dropped the cleaver, grabbed the knife from the floor, and drove it straight into the creature's chest.
Once. Twice. Thrice….
In a final note of barbarity, he sank his right hand into its injured chest and ripped out its core, the goblin's screeches stopping midway….
Its body lay still in a pool of green.
For a long time, Sam stood there—chest heaving, hands shaking. The knife remained buried in the creature's sternum. Blood, both red and green—his and the goblin, coated his forearms. His breath came in shallow bursts, each one trembling with adrenaline and grief.
He had won, but he didn't feel like it.
He felt… empty.
He slowly turned toward the rift. It pulsed faintly in the dim light—an open wound in reality, twisting and shifting as if alive. Beyond it, faint outlines could be seen.
He took one shaky breath.
Then another.
"Hold on, Serena…" he whispered, hoarse. "I'm coming."
He wiped his bloodied hands on his shorts, then reached toward the goblin's corpse with an open palm.
"Devour."
The word carried weight.
The air thickened, pressing against his skin. Shadows curled from the edges of his fingers, swirling in black tendrils.
They snaked over the goblin's body, clinging, sinking, consuming.
By the time they returned to Sam, the corpse was no more; swallowed whole by the darkness that eagerly seeped back into him.
Strength flooded his muscles. His vision sharpened. Every nerve in his body sang with power.
The feeling was as stimulating as before but he made sure not to be lost in it. Not even for a moment.