Quintin reached for the armored throat of the man before him. Sweat dripped from his brow in slow motion, even as the broken half of the bastard sword spun through the air. Helplessness passed through the man's distorting face of panic and became superimposed by an [Intruder Wolf] visage.

At this moment, men become beasts, Quintin recalled.

His metal fingers made contact against chainmail protection, [Crushing] it with a decisive grip that broke off the non-magical coif and the man's throat along with it.

The shocked expression of a dying man flickered back as the beast-form face fell off. Quintin went back in time in a flash of memory.

--

Bilal Abbasi hiked up a leg, putting one hand across his kneecap and spoke, "When a man raises a cow for slaughter, there is a clear delineation between the two. And when the time comes to slaughter, how is humankind any different from other predators? The predator hunts the prey to survive. When the time comes, it hunts and kills even when 90% of its life is spent lazing in relative comfort."

He took a moment to let the idea linger, "At that moment, the past no longer matters. The present takes precedence; a man becomes a beast then. When that moment comes, fight as a beast does for survival as is nature."

His Master stroked his billowy, cloud-like beard in thought. "Motives are stripped away when confrontation occurs. That's when the fight becomes truly basic, and all the machinations fall away, becoming survival."

--

The armored man began to drop while bathing the surroundings in crimson— a red ocean awash with primacy and blood-drenched memories. Quintin raised his hand dispassionately, the familiar pop of his index finger sent a [Projectile] soaring through the close air they all shared.

Quintin began to come back to his senses after a few footfalls towards the remaining men. [Sinisphere] registered new hostilities from behind the tunnel walls. Although the new threat held malicious intent, it was subdued, blending in with the stone, until now.

That was the only warning given.

Noiseless green bodies began to spill out from inside the wall; silent debris seemed to drop to the ground without notice. Some of the goblins were trampled in the initial push but remained silent, even in pain or death. Goblins with pickaxes, short swords, and daggers; more still without weapons but wearing fur armors or misshapen iron plates. Small creatures that barely reached the waist of a [Human]. They poured out to fill up the emptiness of idle hands and winding tunnels.

Quintin had the precious moment of foreknowledge and instantly tumbled into a roll that vaulted him behind the three men who were still processing the events. Aarin's team raised their weapons in a panic as the first [Goblins] swarmed around them. The first man went down under a dog-pile of stabbing motions and screaming desperation. Aarin and the other had managed to put their backs against the wall while making large sword sweeps to gain some space.

Aarin hacked out with his sword and screamed something. His other hand flicked, and many fast daggers spread forth in a fanning pattern. The goblins finally made noise, screeches escaping them as they went down in a semi-circle of spasming. It was only a brief respite, however, one interrupted by others who heartlessly stomped over their fallen numbers. Aarin swung his sword with fear in his eyes, and spat his final words, "Stay back! Stop! No!"

Quintin hadn't been idle during this time. His [Pneumatic] hands delimbed the goblins with ruthless grabs and [Grips]. The Goblins were like an endless tide that tried and failed to surround him in its centermost depths. Time and time again, their severed arms and legs went flopping, uselessly, to the ground. Their weaponry bounced off metal, grabbing hands that ignored the threat of mundane harm completely. When their numbers threatened to overwhelm him, he sent projectiles raking through flesh and organs, no better than tissue paper in their flight-path.

He wasn't keeping count, but more and more, their numbers were in death-shapes on the spacious tunnel floor. Quintin was just getting into rhythm when a giant Goblin peeled itself through the collapsed hole and barked out some gibberish.

Identify.

Quintin began to quicken his movements. A foot[Step] sent him in a flying knee that connected with a crouching face. He pivoted and chopped his leg out with [Pressurized] force upon landing, which sent a tiny body airborne and into another group. The Hobgoblin was coming nearer and pushed its smaller kin out of the way, growling as it smashed out with a massive maul that flattened one that moved too slowly.

The Hob seemed to command the Goblins to make room for their fight, and the goblins made themselves scarce. They formed a one-sided barrier of bodies around the musclebound brute. Their chittering and sign hand was infectious with giddy anticipation as the Hob stepped directly into the one-way fighting pit. Quintin could escape backward if he wanted to, but his blood boiled in excitement.

The fight began in disregard for any formality. The [Hob] closed the distance in two giant steps while it swung its maul downwards right in front of Quintin. He rolled to the side, his [Battle-Robe] helping as the substantial impact split a small crater where he previously stood. Cheer-screeches echoed the impact even while Quintin raised his left hand to pop off [Projectiles] into the [Iron-Beak's] side.

One glanced off some crude metal on its chest, while another drilled halfway through the handle of its maul, and a third pierced a hole through its unarmored bicep, causing it to roar in pain.

A pesky goblin threw a dagger at Quintin from the wings, which clipped the side of his chest. It left a slash through his robe that leaked blood and distracted him from taking more shots. The Hobgoblin let out a [War-Shout] that closed the wound on its bicep before coming once again, this time, in a mad charge.

I need to use my movement advantage and look for an opening, Quintin decided.

The Hob swung in full, brutal sweeps of its maul. Quintin dipped, rolled, and dodged all the while keeping his eye on the crowd of Goblins as thrown weapons, legs, and bodies tried to trip him up if he came too close to them. His [Sinisphere] helped him immensely.

The muscle-mountain seemed to have had enough. It smashed its maul onto the ground, sending a straight line of earthen spikes jutting upward and toward Quintin. The oversized hammer cracked at the handle, which forced the Hobgoblin off balance and falling onto one of the spikes it created. Daggers whirled through the air and cut off his avenues of escape. A spike pushed up, threatening to go through his feet, but instead smoothed out and sent him straight up into the air above the [Iron-Beak Hobgoblin]. He reached the apex of his upward momentum and spun to brace his feet against the tunnel roof before pushing off hard.

He came down speedily in the form of a makeshift elbow drop, and reminiscent of a dive bomber to shatter the hopes and dreams of Goblins everywhere. A brutal, fat crunch of impact slapped out as his elbow drilled into the Hobgoblin's back, which impaled it further onto the earthen-spike. Quintin scrambled up to get to its neck, wrapping his arm around the thing, and pulled back hard.

All was quiet as an anguished Hobgoblin head sailed through the air toward the spectating Goblins, covering them in a - day at the waterpark quantity of blood. Quintin pushed off the twitching back and took several steps back while his sight never left the quite numerous Goblin crowd.

Quintin prepared himself for what came next. It would be an ordeal, but one he was willing to challenge.