Attack On Monsters

Robert stepped forward cautiously to confirm the kill. He nudged the body with his boot, turning it over so he could get a clear look at its face and ensure the creature was truly dead. Kneeling beside it, he leaned in to check its breathing

Then it happened.

The white goblin's eyes snapped open with a sudden jolt. Its pupils ballooned unnaturally, threatening to pop out of their sockets like grotesque orbs.

The unexpected sight made Robert stumble backward, his composure breaking. The confidence he always carried crumbled in a flash, exposing a cowardice buried deep within. His face twisted between fear and disbelief.

But just as quickly, the goblin's eyes rolled back. Its body slumped again, motionless, as if nothing had happened. No twitch. No breath. No life. The corpse was still.

Robert blinked, his heart racing. Had he imagined it?

"Am I losing it?" he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes. "All this hunting... is it finally catching up with me?"

Brushing it off as fatigue-induced paranoia, he gathered the goblin's limp form, hefting the rare prize onto his shoulder. The weight pressed down against him, but it was a burden worth bearing.

A monster's corpse had value whether alive or dead.

If captured alive, a creature like this could serve nobles or high-ranking tamers as exotic pets or combat slaves. But even dead, monsters held significant worth. Their fangs were prized for accessories, their blood could be distilled into potent potions, and their hide, depending on the species often had magical or alchemical applications.

As in case of Ty, he was no ordinary goblin.

A white goblin. A freakish anomaly. Something unheard of in all Robert's years of experience.

The rarity alone could attract attention, alchemists, mages, collectors. Curiosity alone would drive the price sky-high. And if its parts could be harvested into potions? Then the effects would likely surpass anything a normal monster could produce.

He smirked to himself. "No way I'm letting this go. This one'll set me up for a good while."

With his mace in one hand and the goblin's corpse slung over his shoulder, Robert began making his way back to regroup with the others.

"They're probably done by now," he murmured. "Shouldn't take long to—

He froze.

His next step didn't happen. His foot, mid-air, refused to land. His leg stiffened, stuck in place, like a marionette whose string had been cut mid-step.

"What...?"

Robert frowned. He shook his foot slightly, then forced it down.

The step landed. No issue. One step. Then two. Then three.

Everything seemed normal again.

Then came the fourth step.

And again, locked.

His body disobeyed.

"What the...?"

Before the thought could finish forming in his head, he was yanked off his feet as though jerked by an invisible thread. The goblin's body tumbled to the ground beside him with a dull thud.

Panic surged through his veins.

He tried to rise, but something pushed him down, an invisible pressure, pinning him like prey. He strained, struggled, every muscle tense with effort but it was useless. He was shackled by a force beyond his understanding.

Then his right arm began to move on its own.

The mace he held turned ominously in his grip, angling toward his face. The spiked head inched closer.

"What is this...?!"

Eyes wide, Robert hurled his left hand toward his right, trying to wrest the weapon away, to loosen his grip.

But his hand wouldn't obey.

No matter how much strength he put into it, his right hand wouldn't release the mace. It was locked, as if glued by some unnatural compulsion.

Then the real horror began.

His left hand seized up, taken too.

Each finger curled unnaturally, no longer his to control. Panic spilled from him now, unfiltered and raw.

"No! No! STOP!" he screamed.

The mace drew closer. Now it hovered directly above his face, its shadow darkening his vision.

"No, please! Please! Stop! I didn't mean to, I didn't—

No response. No mercy.

His right hand lifted higher.

"No! No! No! NO!" he cried, his voice cracking, eyes burning.

Gone was the confident, cruel man who had laughed at the suffering of others. Gone was the predator. All that remained was a trembling wreck, a six-foot brute reduced to sobbing desperation as death loomed above him, delivered by his own hand.

SMASH!

The mace came down with brutal force. Bone cracked. Flesh folded inward. Blood sprayed.

SMASH!!

A second swing. More devastating than the first. What remained of Robert's face was now a mangled ruin.

SMASH!

The third strike wasn't needed, but it came anyway. Final. Merciless. A punctuation mark at the end of vengeance.

And then, stillness.

Robert lay dead, crumpled and broken by his own weapon.

The one responsible for his execution?

---

"I did it! I did it!" Tyberius's voice echoed triumphantly.

But his body remained motionless, still lifeless, still collapsed.

A shimmering mirage rose from Robert's remains, a blurry, ghostlike figure, flickering as if caught between realms.

It was Tyberius.

His form hovered in the air, translucent and distorted. He looked like an apparition, not entirely here, yet undeniably present.

"Whoa... is the skill timer already up?" he wondered aloud, glancing at his hands, which flickered in and out of visibility.

He floated gently, disconnected from the earth, his body light as mist.

"So... how do I get back to my real body now?"

The question lingered in the air.

He had activated his Unique Skill in a desperate gamble, a last resort. One final effort to ensure that even if he died, he wouldn't die in vain. That Robert wouldn't get to smile at the end of it all.

That his pain would be remembered... and returned.

The skill allowed his will to remain, disconnected from flesh long enough to act. Long enough to deliver justice.

Or maybe vengeance.

But to Tyberius, there was no difference.

What Robert had done, what he enjoyed doing, it was unforgivable.

And now, for the first time, Robert had learned what it felt like to be on the other end.

Tyberius hovered, observing the bloody scene below. He didn't smile. He didn't weep. He simply was...

"I held my grudge," he muttered. "And I acted on it."

Whether it was impulse or purpose didn't matter.

The result was the same.

And vengeance... was complete.