Chapter 4: Red dusk

Frel's rational side screamed at his own body, trying to take back control from whatever was controlling him, but to no avail.

He cut through any wandering animals that dared cross his path, their blood draining instantly the moment the blade cut into them.

Trees fell left and right as nothing could stop his rampage, aimed straight at the heart of Frel's town.

It was night now, and the lights of the town peaked through the canopies, the smoke from the town square rising high into the sky. They were likely preparing for some sort of feast to celebrate 'The Grand Harvest.'

Frel grew more and more desperate as his body came closer and closer to the town. 

He screamed internally as he saw the trodden path. He was close.

...

"Jungles be damned, what is making that commotion?" Several guards now gathered by the northern wall, weapons ready as they watched far in the distance where the trees fell like twigs in a bad rainstorm.

"Get ready, whatever it is, it can't be good." The chief commander, Grog of the Fell Spear, ordered his men. The braziers atop the stone and log walls lit up a dark red fire, signaling for the soldiers to assemble at the Northern wall.

"Get the civilians towards the underground shelters!" Grog swiftly commanded a Company of around 100 men to alert the rest of the state of emergency.

"Archers, ready your bows!" He yelled to the soldiers on the walls. Against a monster of this caliber, melee combat would be suicide.

Grog narrowed his eyes as the monster got closer and closer, nearing the edge of the clearing, where they would have at least a kilometer of open field to let loose arrows. 

His fingers gripped the arrow tightly. Sweat dripped down his brow. He might not live today, but he sure as hell would make sure his family would.

*BOOM!*

The front-most trees that lined the clearing exploded forward as a cloud of dust flew up.

Then, a familiar shaped green figure burst through the dust.

A wave of nervous chattering swept through the soldiers, confused about the situation. Even Grog himself was confused. Why was one of their goblins outside this late? All the scouts sent out to find logs should have returned earlier.

Was he running away from the monster?

"HOLD HOLD HOLD!" Grog yelled. Firing upon a friendly would prove disastrous. He kept an eye on the dust cloud, still watching for the monster that never came.

He leaned over the wall and yelled at the approaching goblin.

"KID, WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUTSIDE THE WALLS THIS LATE?!"

He received no response. 

The goblin was fast approaching now, bound to reach the gates soon. Grog of The Fell Spear felt a sense of unease. The way the goblin moved, how he glid over tens of meters in fractions of a second, and most of all...

Red glowing eyes?

He realized too late that this was no ordinary goblin. It was a rabid goblin, also under demonic possession. 

"FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!" Grog yelled, panicked. The other soldiers picked up on the orders too slowly and hesitated. They didn't have the eyesight Grog had, so they did not know that the monster they were looking for in the dust clouds was fast approaching them.

Grog let loose the first arrow, but it was too late. The goblin was already within a hundred meters now. Any arrow fire was limited entirely to the front lines, the back lines completely useless now.

"CLOSE THE GATES! GET THE SHAMANS!" He ordered another company of 30 goblins to carry out his order.

"THE REST OF YOU NOT FIRING FOLLOW ME! READY YOUR SPEARS!" With that order, he unlatched his spear from his back and leaped down the 10-meter-high walls, landing on both feet.

The goblins atop hurried down, as the rest kept track of the fast-approaching figure. At this range, they could finally see what was wrong. Goblins, due to their intimate relationship with nature, can "see" the auras of people they came across. Red crimson eyes, a blood-red sword, a faint aura the color of dried blood, and the smell of death lingered around the goblin.

Dried blood color meant that the person who held it was something that killed thousands in cold blood.

"30 METERS SIR!" A  patrol high atop a watch tower yelled.

"20 METERS!"

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"10 METE-" Grog of The Fell Spear glanced up to see his patrolman's head flying, his blood evaporating midair.

He had miscalculated. He believed that the monster would be stopped by the enchanted doors, and if it did break in, the entire might of their army would face it 1,000 to 1.

"THE ENTITY HAS BREACHED THE WAL-" Another soldier screamed before he was cut short, bisected in half, blood drained from every inch of his body.

"RUN!" A soldier yelled, as the soldiers scattered from the demonic being atop the walls. 

The soldiers had not run for less than a few meters before the demonic being lept at them. To Grog's horror, he watched as a flash of light from its sword erupted, before the proud men he called his comrades were turned into little more than minced guts, their enchanted wooden armor doing little to stop the blade.

"Sir! What's the situation?!" Behind him, a familiar voice cried. It was his friend, Jak of the Maple branch, the chief Shaman in charge of everything from healing to enchanting gear. 

"DO YOU KNOW ANTI-DEMON SPELLS?!" Grog screamed. 

"Yes-" Jak barely had time to answer before Grog ran and lept for the walls. "PREPARE THE STRONGEST ONE YOU KNOW OF!" 

It was then a severed goblin torso, devoid of blood looking like a mummified corpse fell off the walls, landing near Jak. 

"Fuck." He cursed.

...

Frel watched from his own eyes as he slaughtered the soldiers atop the wall. 

He watched as his arm that was not his swung, each swing bringing down another soldier. 

Those that tried to fight back had an even worse fate, being diced before drained, rendering them nigh unrecognizable.

He knew many of these soldiers. Some were his father's friends, some were his friends, and some he had met in army school. 

And he butchered them.

His wails deep within his mind could not escape. He tried to close his eyes to avoid the slaughter, but he could not. Tears flowed down his face, but his actions did not stop. 

His body let out a mad laugh as he beheaded one of his friends, Cawl, before draining his body of blood.

NOOOOOOO! 

"DEMON! YOU FIGHT WITH ME!" His blood ran cold as he heard the voice. It was commander Grog of The Fell Spear. Someone he adored and admired for as long as he had lived. Someone he had served under and respected. Someone who always had his back in times of hardship.

He watched as his body slowly turned towards Grog.

A sickening smile loosened from his face.

"Kid?F-Frel?" Grog hesitated. 

RUN!

He charged at Grog, his cursed sword held high as it glowed red.

Grog quickly came to his senses and countered. In a fight between sword and spear, the spear would always win, simply because of its range benefit. But that is nullified when the swordsman enters past the spear range.

Grog had mere seconds to react before he held out his spear to block. 

*Thwack!* The blade hit the enchanted wooden end, a small chip forming.

The impact pushed Grog several meters back. He cursed under his breath. 

"I'm sorry kid."

Im sorry too, sir. 

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