John stood at the entrance of the village, his arms crossed, Malice looming behind him like a statue made of nightmare. The creature's eight arms hung motionless at its sides, its painted smile gleaming in the fading light, its empty eyeholes staring at nothing. The goblins had huddled together at the far end of the clearing, their yellow eyes wide, their pointy ears flat against their heads. They were terrified. John couldn't blame them.
The femboy goblin he had fucked earlier, the shy one with the curly black hair and the wide hips, broke away from the group and walked toward him. His steps were hesitant, his hands clasped in front of him, his lower lip trembling. When he reached John, he looked up with big, watery eyes.
"Leader," the femboy whispered, his voice shaky. "Are we... are we gonna die?"
John looked down at him.They were all scared. Five elite warriors had been tearing through the forest, slaughtering every goblin settlement in their path, and now they were coming here. To his village. His goblins.
John reached out and ruffled the femboy's curly black hair, messing it up the way he knew the kid secretly liked. "Hell nah," John said, grinning.
"I'm your leader, remember? Leaders don't let their people die."
The femboy's cheeks flushed green. He stood on his tiptoes, planted a quick, soft kiss on John's cheek, and then ran back to the huddled group, his wide hips swaying. John watched him go, then turned to Malice.
"So," John said, clapping his hands together. "Nice weather we're having."
Malice didn't respond.
"Little humid, though. You know? All this forest air. Gets kinda sticky."
Nothing.
"I've been thinking about getting a dehumidifier. You think they have those in this world? Probably not. I'd have to invent it. That's a lot of work, though. Maybe I'll just summon one."
Malice's painted smile gleamed.
"Not the talking type, I see." John sighed. "That's fine. I do enough talking for both of us. Probably for all of us, actually. The system says I talk too much. But what does he know? He's a floating femboy in a tuxedo. His opinion doesn't count."
The creature didn't react. John opened his mouth to continue his one-sided conversation when a metallic rod slammed into Malice's chest.
The sound was sharp, a ringing clang that echoed through the clearing. The rod was pure steel, about three feet long, and it had buried itself halfway into Malice's torso. John expected the creature to roar, to thrash, to show some sign of pain or anger. But Malice didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't even look down at the rod protruding from its chest.
John grinned. It didn't feel pain. Perfect.
In the distance, emerging from the tree line, came the five hands of Thornheim.
Aaris was at the front, her wild red hair bouncing, her clawed gauntlets gleaming. When she saw John, her face split into a wide, flirtatious grin.
"Well, well, well," she called out, her voice carrying across the clearing.
"If it isn't my favorite little goblin. I missed you, you know. I thought you were just a regular animal at first, but then you opened your mouth and spoke, and I realized you were so much more."
She stopped a few yards away, placing her hands on her hips. Her leather armor creaked as she stretched, and then, very deliberately, she reached up and unbuckled her chest plate. The armor clattered to the ground, and she began unbuttoning her undershirt, revealing the tops of her breasts, the swell of her cleavage.
"I'll make you a deal," Aaris purred, her slitted eyes half-lidded. "You come with me quietly, and I'll give you a taste of heaven before I send you to hell. How does that sound, little goblin?"
Before John could respond, Dyros appeared beside her in a crackle of lightning. He slapped the back of her head hard enough to make her stumble.
"Get your head in the game," Dyros snarled. "Stop getting horny over the enemy. We have a job to do."
Aaris rounded on him, her claws flexing. "I wasn't getting horny. I was negotiating."
"You were undressing."
"Negotiating."
Dyros opened his mouth to argue, but Sir Albert Armstrong stepped between them, his black robe swishing. He pushed his glasses up his nose and turned his calm, magnified eyes on John.
"You must be the leader," Albert said. "The one who speaks. The others we've killed today just screamed and ran. You're different."
John shrugged.
Albert's expression didn't change. "I'll give you an ultimatum, goblin. We've already killed every lesser and feral goblin settlement in this area. Your village is the last. If you surrender, we will kill you quickly. A clean death. No suffering. No pain. Your people will be given the same mercy."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"Or," Albert continued, "you can foolishly fight us. And you will die. But it will not be quick. It will not be clean. And your people will watch as we take you apart, piece by piece."
John grinned. "Well, shit. That's a tough choice." He tapped his chin, pretending to think. "See, I didn't exactly do too well in critical thinking class. Dropped out in sophomore year. So I think I'll just go with option B."
He dropped into a fighting stance, his fists raised, his threads ready.
"Die with some dignity, right?"
Albert sighed, adjusting his glasses. "I was wrong to assume you were a reasonable monster."
John's grin widened. "And you were wrong to assume humans in this world had common sense."
Dyros crackled with electricity, arcs of lightning dancing across his arms. "Can we just kill them already? I'm getting bored."
John chuckled. "couldn't have said it better myself." He glanced over his shoulder at the motionless creature behind him. "Ay, Malice, buddy. Go ape shit."
Malice didn't reply. Didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge the command.
And then the sonic boom hit.
The sound was deafening, a thunderclap that shook the ground and sent birds exploding from the trees. Malice was gone from behind John, and in the distance, Aaris was flying backward, her body ragdolling through the air. The creature had stiff-armed her with 4 of its massive hands, its palms planted square in her chest, and she had been launched like a missile. She crashed through a tree two hundred meters away, splintering the trunk, and disappeared into the underbrush.
Before anyone could react, Malice's tail whipped around like a club, catching Luis across the ribs. The Man of Steel was launched sideways, his metallic body carving a trench in the dirt before slamming into an ancient oak. The tree cracked, groaned, and toppled, crashing down in a cloud of leaves and dust.
The remaining three hands turned their attention to Malice, their weapons raised, their bodies tensed. But that was exactly what John had been waiting for.
He sprinted forward, threads extended, and dropkicked Albert in the chest.
Or tried to.
His feet connected with the tall man's torso, but Albert didn't move. He didn't stagger. He didn't even blink. He just stood there, solid as a mountain, his calm expression unchanged. John hung in the air for a moment, his legs pressed against Albert's chest, before gravity remembered he existed and he started to fall.
Albert smiled.
It was a small smile, thin and cold, and it sent a chill down John's spine.
With deliberate, unhurried motions, Albert reached up and pulled off one of his black gloves. His hand was pale, almost translucent, and it seemed to shimmer in the fading light. He looked at John, then at the glove in his hand, and muttered a single word.
"Five tons."
He dropped the glove on John.
The weight was immediate and catastrophic. John's body crumpled, his knees buckling, his spine compressing. The glove, which looked like nothing more than a piece of cloth, pressed down on his chest with the force of a small building. He could feel his ribs cracking, one by one, the sharp stabs of pain radiating through his torso. His lungs couldn't expand. His heart was struggling to beat.
John's face was inches from the dirt. His arms were pinned. His legs were useless. The pressure was building, growing, grinding him into the ground.
"NNNNGH—" John gritted his teeth, blood dripping from his mouth. "SHIT—"
The edges of his vision were going dark. Black spots danced across his eyes. He could hear the sounds of battle in the distance, Malice's silent rampage, the screams of the hands. But they seemed far away, muffled, like he was hearing them from underwater.
He was going to pass out. He was going to die.
And then he teleported.
The world folded, the pressure vanished, and John was standing in his gaming room, gasping for air. His ribs were whole again, his lungs were full, his heart was pounding. He stood there for a moment, hands on his knees, breathing.
Then he teleported back.
He appeared directly above Albert's head, his boots coming down on the man's shoulders, his body balanced precariously. Albert looked up, his glasses glinting, his calm expression finally cracking into something like surprise.
John grinned down at him.
"Nice weather up here," John said.