The village was still burning.
Not loudly—no screams remained for that—but in a low, endless crackle. Wood collapsed in on itself. Roofs sagged. Smoke coiled into the sky like something trying to escape.
In the middle of it stood a boy.
He didn't move.
Didn't cry.
Didn't even breathe properly.
Because if he did—if he made even the smallest sound—
something might hear him.
He was crouched behind what used to be a wall. Now it was just charred debris and broken stone, barely enough to hide a child.
His hands were shaking.
His entire body was shaking.
Not from the cold.
From what he had seen.
His parents.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
No.
Don't think about it.
Not now.
Thinking meant remembering.
Remembering meant breaking.
And breaking meant death.
A sound.
Wet.
Dragging.
Close.
His eyes snapped open.
Something was moving through the ruins.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Searching.
It stepped into view.
Small—smaller than the monsters that had destroyed the village—but wrong in every way that mattered. Its limbs were thin and crooked, its skin stretched too tightly over bone. Its mouth hung slightly open, revealing jagged teeth stained dark.
A goblin.
Weak—compared to others.
But not weak enough.
Not for him.
The creature stopped.
Its head tilted.
Listening.
The boy froze.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Too loud.
Too fast.
No—stop—stop—
The goblin smiled.
It heard him.
Run.
His body moved before his mind did.
He bolted from the ruins, feet slamming against dirt and ash, lungs burning instantly as he forced himself forward.
Behind him—
A shriek.
Excited.
Hungry.
It followed.
He ran through fire.
Through smoke that clawed at his throat and blinded his eyes. Through broken paths and scattered corpses he refused to look at.
Faster.
Faster.
Faster—
His legs screamed.
His chest felt like it was tearing apart.
But he didn't stop.
Because if he stopped—
He knew exactly what would happen.
A shadow flashed beside him.
Too fast.
He stumbled.
Hit the ground.
Rolled.
Barely—barely—missed the strike that tore through the space where his neck had been a second ago.
He scrambled back, gasping.
The goblin stood there, grinning wider now.
Enjoying it.
The boy grabbed the only thing near him—
A broken wooden stick.
His hands tightened around it.
It felt useless.
It was useless.
But it was all he had.
The goblin lunged.
He swung.
The stick cracked against its arm—
And shattered instantly.
No effect.
No damage.
Nothing.
The boy froze.
For just a second.
And in that second—
He understood.
I'm going to die.
The goblin's blade flashed.
Pain exploded across his forehead.
He didn't even understand what happened at first.
Just heat.
Then wetness.
Then—
Blood.
His vision blurred.
Something was wrong.
Something was missing.
He touched his face.
His hand came away red.
Too much red.
A scream tore out of him—raw, broken, instinctive.
The goblin laughed.
Actually laughed.
It stepped closer.
Slowly now.
Confident.
Certain.
The boy fell back, shaking violently, his mind collapsing under the weight of pain and fear.
He couldn't think.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't move.
Do something.
The thought came from nowhere.
Sharp.
Violent.
Do something or die.
The goblin moved again.
Faster this time.
Ending it.
And something inside the boy—
Snapped.
He didn't run.
Didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
He lunged forward.
The goblin's blade drove toward his face—
And pierced into his right eye.
The world went white.
But he didn't stop.
He bit down.
Hard.
Teeth sank into flesh.
Hot.
Thick.
Alive.
The goblin jerked violently, shrieking, its body twisting as blood poured from its neck.
But the boy held on.
He bit deeper.
Tore harder.
Ignoring the pain.
Ignoring the blade still lodged in him.
Ignoring everything—
Except one thing.
Survive.
Flesh ripped.
The goblin collapsed, thrashing, choking on its own blood as it clawed at its ruined throat.
Its screams turned into wet gurgles.
Then—
Silence.
The boy let go.
He fell backward, gasping, trembling uncontrollably.
Blood covered his face.
His hands.
His mouth.
He didn't understand what he had just done.
Only that—
He was still alive.
The world spun.
Darkened.
Faded.
But before the darkness took him—
He forced his shaking hands to move.
Tore a piece of cloth.
Pressed it against his ruined face.
Wrapped it tightly—too tightly—but he didn't care.
Pain didn't matter.
Nothing mattered.
Not as long as he lived.
When he woke again, the fire had died down.
The village was quieter now.
Empty.
Dead.
He tried to move.
Failed.
His legs trembled violently beneath him.
Slowly—slowly—he pushed himself up.
Using what remained of the broken stick.
One step.
Then another.
Each movement sent pain tearing through his body.
But he didn't stop.
He didn't look back.
Not at the village.
Not at the bodies.
Not at the life that had ended there.
Because looking back—
Would mean feeling.
And feeling—
Would kill him.
So he walked.
Slowly.
Silently.
Bleeding.
Toward the forest.
And he did not know—
If he was still a child anymore.