"We need to move," Dobroslav said, voice flat. "Military's purging non-humans. That means us now."
Pajoslav's face drained. "So we're fucked?"
Dobroslav chuckled, low and sharp. "Nah. They are."
He grabbed his hoodie again. "Anyway, let's go."
"But where?" Pajoslav asked, still staring at the hellfire flickering in his palm before snuffing it out.
"First we check on Cysio. He's a retard, but he might be useful."
Pajoslav grimaced. "He'll probably just yell and get us caught at some point, but… if you say so."
They left Pajoslav's apartment on Sandomierska and headed toward Jana Pawła II.
The route forced them across a wide open stretch—huge plaza, low grass patches, a football court in the middle. No real cover. From the surrounding blocks or rooftops, anyone could spot them hundreds of meters away.
But the city had already descended into madness.
Goblins roamed in loose packs, tall and vicious, chasing down screaming humans. Freshly awakened elves—pale, white-haired, ears long—staggered out of buildings, collapsed mid-step from the transformation fever, and became easy meals. Goblins swarmed the bodies before they cooled, claws ripping, jaws tearing.
Military trucks growled along the side streets, soldiers in masks firing bursts at anything non-human. Brass casings clattered on asphalt. Bodies jerked and dropped.
Total chaos.
Dobroslav and Pajoslav sprinted across the open ground, hoodies pulled low, szablas bouncing at their hips. A distant soldier swung a rifle their way, hesitated at the armed "elves," then turned to closer goblin threats.
Not impossible. Not even the worst problem today.
They reached the big street crossing and hid in bushes.
Dobroslav slowed, hand settling on his szabla hilt.
"Keep your hand ready," he said quietly. "These things attack anything that moves."
Pajoslav gripped his own hilt, nerves showing but eyes eager.
"No worries. I got it."
They burst from the bushes near the road, hoodies low, szablas drawn.
The open field stretched ahead—dead grass trampled bloody, littered with bodies. Groups of goblins clustered like rats: one pack hunched over a fallen elf, claws ripping flesh, jaws snapping bone with wet crunches, blood smearing green muzzles. Another wandered aimlessly, sniffing air, red eyes scanning for prey. Loose alliances forming, packs merging into snarling mobs.
Dobroslav and Pajoslav sprinted low, boots kicking clods of earth.
A small group spotted them—three goblins, tall and feral. They charged, howls echoing.
Dobroslav met the first with a szabla sweep—blade whistling, severing head clean, black blood arcing. He laughed darkly as the body dropped.
Pajoslav parried the second's claws—steel clanging—then riposted, gutting it from navel to chest. Guts spilled steaming. The goblin screamed, clutching.
Third leaped at Dobroslav. He pivoted, hilt smashing jaw with a crack, then slashed tendons. It fell writhing. He stomped the skull—crunch—and ground until brains oozed.
They ran on, breathing hard.
Another pack blocked the path—five goblins feasting on a human corpse, ears tearing off elf ears like trophies. They turned, fangs bared.
Dobroslav chanted silently, hellfire flaring in his palm. He grabbed the nearest goblin's face mid-lunge—"Infernal Battle Law!" Green essence tore free; skin shriveled, eyes popped wet. Body husked.
Pajoslav hacked two in quick cuts—limbs flying, cries cut short.
The last two fled, yelping.
They reached the block entrance—concrete stairwell dark and stinking.
The door exploded outward.
A massive goblin erupted, twice the size of others, muscles bulging under thick green skin, red eyes mad. "Wódka kurwa!" it bellowed, voice like gravel.
Dobroslav froze. The face—twisted, but familiar. "Cysio…?"
Pajoslav cursed. "That retard was Ashkenazi? Look at him now."
'Boy,' Bhalzar whispered urgently in Dobroslav's mind. 'That's a Goblin King. Bigger, stronger, commands the packs. Kill it—before it calls them all.'
The massive Goblin King—Cysio's twisted form—towered in the doorway, muscles rippling under scarred green skin, fists like boulders. He tilted his head, red eyes vacant, drool stringing from fangs. No recognition, just primal rage.
Dobroslav drew his szabla slowly. "Cysio... snap out of it."
The creature bellowed, voice mangled and echoing: "Drrrink... wiff meee!" It lumbered forward, swinging a wild haymaker that cracked the concrete wall.
Pajoslav gripped his szabla tighter. "Fuck this. Die, you bloody knob!"
He charged, blade high. The Goblin King roared deranged laughter—"Huehuehue! Nobiss... debilll!"—and backhanded him mid-leap. Pajoslav flew back, slamming into a tree, wind knocked out, szabla skittering away.
Dobroslav seized the opening. He darted low, szabla flashing—curved blade biting deep behind the knee, severing tendons with a wet tear. Black blood sprayed; the leg buckled.
The Goblin King howled, "Kurwaaa! It hurrrts!" and toppled to one knee, furious eyes locking on Dobroslav.
'Good strike,' Bhalzar murmured. 'But at this level, they're beasts—no human thinking. If it evolves to Goblin Overlord, with your current strength... run. Just run.'
Dobroslav flicked his wrists; tactical knives flew—whistling through air, embedding hilt-deep in the creature's chest and shoulder. Thud. Thud. Cysio jerked, black ooze bubbling around the hilts.
"Pooowerrr!!!" it screamed, deranged and unhinged, ripping one knife free and hurling it back wildly. Dobroslav dodged; the blade clanged off pavement.
The Goblin King surged up on its good leg, ignoring the blood loss, and lunged with both fists hammering down like meteors. Dobroslav rolled aside—ground shattering under the impact—and slashed at the exposed arm, drawing more blood.
Pajoslav groaned, staggering up. "Not... done yet."
The Goblin King—Cysio—roared, pounding the ground with fists that cracked concrete. Black blood poured from the knee wound and knife holes, but rage kept him standing.
'I'll teach you another spell. Listen well,' Bhalzar cut in urgently.
'Now?! Fine—let's do it!'
'Concentrate infernal Qi at your fingertips. Shape it into short needles.'
Dobroslav shifted his szabla to right hand only. Left fingers tingled as black-red energy condensed—sharp, burning points forming like obsidian shards.
Pajoslav darted in, szabla flashing to keep the monster's attention. Clang after clang, he parried massive swings, boots skidding backward.
"Pajojo! Hold it a moment—I have a plan!" Dobroslav yelled.
"Okay! But be quick!" Pajoslav shouted back, ducking a fist that shattered the wall behind him.
'Hold your hand forward and chant.'
Dobroslav raised his left palm, needles humming.
"I call upon the Seventh Monarch.
Judge the blasphemous.
Arrest the wicked.
Infernal Binding."
Tens of black-red needles shot forward—silent, vicious streaks. They punched into Cysio's joints: shoulders, elbows, knees, wrists. Tiny explosions bloomed inside flesh—wet pops, bone fragments bursting outward. The Goblin King howled, legs giving out, crashing face-first to the ground in a thunderous heap.
"Pajojo! Now!"
Pajoslav grinned wide, feral. "With pleasure!"
He leaped, szabla arcing high. One clean, powerful cut—steel shearing through thick neck. Head rolled away, eyes still blinking in dull confusion. Body slumped, black blood pooling fast.
'Quickly! Absorb him!' Bhalzar ordered, voice hungry.
Dobroslav dropped to a knee, both palms slamming onto the corpse's chest. Hellfire roared up his arms.
"Infernal Battle Law!"