Attack On Monsters

He stood imposing, taller and broader than the rest, one of the very few in the Grubnakh Goblin tribe lucky enough to have attained Evolution to a Hobo-Goblin.

He had a commanding presence through sheer physicality, his stature easily reminding Tyberius of those heavyweight champions back on Earth.

His name was Kagon Gribnakh, the goblin in charge and acting lead observer of the day's training.

In his grip, he held a long wooden plank, slim and sanded down to resemble a sword. His eyes briefly inspected the edge, as if assessing its balance before lifting his gaze to his opponent.

Laden stood opposite him, similarly armed and poised, his stance tight and prepared.

"Go!" Kagon's voice boomed, echoing through the training field like a war drum.

At the sound of the signal, he moved.

Tyberius burst forward the moment the order was given, his body a blur of green muscle and fire. His opponent Laden, was just as swift, sliding into a defensive stance to intercept the charge.

Tyberius's sword came crashing down. Laden raised his own, meeting the strike mid-air. The wooden blades clacked together with a sharp crack! The force trembled through their arms, but neither gave ground. They separated, stepping back, circling like predators.

Eyes locked. Feet shuffled. Breath slowed.

They charged again.

At first glance, it seemed like another mirrored clash was inevitable. But midway through the strike, Tyberius shifted his grip. His sword dipped, arcing upward from below in a sweeping slash.

It was unexpected, clever you could also say.

Laden barely reacted in time, stumbling back with a surprised grunt. The edge of Tyberius's sword missed his face by inches, saved only by a desperate backwards step.

Tyberius didn't let up. He surged forward, his sword swinging overhead once more. Laden parried, but the blow rattled his arms. Before he could recover, Tyberius withdrew and slammed another strike onto Laden's guard.

And then a third.

That one did it.

Laden's grip faltered. The plank slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a dull thud.

Tyberius saw the opening and lunged forward, ready to finish it. He raised his blade, but Laden dropped to the ground with a thump, ducking the swing by inches. It wasn't graceful. He landed on his rear, looking more embarrassed than defeated, but that much could be endured so long as he was still in the fight. A chance would eventually open up to him.

Before Tyberius could land another blow, Laden rolled to the side and scrambled up, slipping just out of reach.

Tyberius gave chase.

Laden was faster, more agile on his feet. In moments, he had created enough distance to think, to adapt.

Tyberius closed in again, his breathing heavy yet managing to be focused. Laden's back was to him. It looked like another golden opportunity.

He didn't hesitate.

However, this time, it was Laden who acted first.

He spun around and charged, catching Tyberius completely off guard. Before Tyberius could swing, Laden slammed into him, grabbing him around the waist and hoisting him clean off the ground. With a grunt of effort, Laden slammed Tyberius down onto the dirt.

His wooden sword went flying.

Now it was a brawl.

Dust kicked up as the two young goblins rolled across the ground, locked in a scrappy fight for dominance. Punches were thrown, limbs tangled, and growls rumbled low in their throats.

Laden landed a hit and got on top, but before he could strike again, Tyberius twisted, flipping his opponent onto his back and climbing over him.

Back and forth it went, neither of them willing to give in. It was messy. Brutal. Real.

Eventually, even they knew it couldn't continue like this.

Still grappling on the ground, both fighters caught sight of their weapons, planks lying not too far off.

Their gazes met. A silent truce. A race.

Laden moved first.

He sprinted for his weapon, intent on reclaiming the upper hand. Tyberius, however, had other plans. He didn't run for his sword. He ran for Laden.

He moved fast, aiming to grab him from behind and drag him back down to the ground.

But Laden had expected something.

Just as Tyberius reached out, Laden shot a leg backwards, his heel smashing into Tyberius's side with painful precision.

Tyberius gasped as the kick knocked him off balance. He stumbled, hit the ground hard, his head slamming against the cold floor.

Darkness flashed behind his eyes.

...

"It hurts, damn it!"

Tyberius winced, pushing himself upright. Pain radiated from his back like fire, but he forced himself to his feet.

Across from him stood a Human, tall and bulky, retrieving a mace from where it had landed half-buried in the ground.

He had thrown it at Tyberius's back.

And it had hit.

The Human grinned, lifting the mace onto his shoulder casually, as if the weight meant nothing. "A white Goblin?". He muttered with surprise. "To think I would get the chance to hunt a Rare monster... My luck today sure is on the roof". He appeared delighted, very delighted.

Rare monsters being a hard-to-find to find type, are generally exemplified due to how they possess a physical trait that singles them out from their kind.

In Tyberius's case, the whiteness of his skin is what singled him out as a rare monster.

"You had a good run, little fella," he said, his tone mockingly cheerful. "Now? It's time for you to die."

That word, die, struck a chord in Tyberius. No. Not like this. Not here.

Not again.

'Die?... No fucking way.'

He wasn't going to be just another victim. Not another stepping stone for someone stronger. He was done being the weak one. The powerless one. The one beneath everyone else's boots.

He looked around, scanning his surroundings. His eyes locked onto something, a long, sturdy stick resting near the edge of the training field.

It would do.

He grabbed it, lifting it like a sword.

Not a perfect weapon, but it didn't need to be.

All it had to do was hurt.

His stance shifted, steady and defiant. His chest rose and fell. His eyes burned. Whatever fear had been in them before had vanished. In its place was rage and resolve.

The Human raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? Looks like we've got a feisty one," he said, his grin widening. "Alright, ugly. Bring it on. Show me what you've got."

He rested his mace lazily across his shoulders. His posture was relaxed. Too relaxed.

A prey wanted to put up a fight, attempt to challenge him. His mind raced at the thought, how could it not? Robert was willing to take any opportunity to make himself look good while watching the suffering of another.

He is what you would call a sadist.