"Not while I’m having fun."
The shaman still didn’t respond.
I exhaled slowly, the adrenaline fading from my limbs, leaving behind a hollow calm. As I stood over his crumpled form, I began to question how far I had taken things.
Now that the thrill was gone, I realized something—I didn’t want him dead. Not yet, anyway. There were questions. Things I’d seen. Things that had disturbed me.
So I nudged his limp body with my foot, rolling him onto his back.
His face was a bloody mess. Swollen. One eye was nearly shut, and his cheekbone had clearly fractured from one of the landings. Worse still, a jagged shard of bone jutted from his forearm. I groaned quietly, more from disgust than guilt.
Then, crouching, I checked the small leather pouch tied to his waist. My fingers brushed glass. Bottles.
I pulled them out one by one.
Six potions in total. I ran [Analysis] on each.
Three healing potions. Two mana recovery potions. One... poison.
I set the poison aside.
Opening the first healing vial, I cradled the shaman’s head and tilted it slightly, forcing the contents past his bloodied lips. His throat convulsed as he swallowed instinctively.
A soft blue glow spread across his body, and I felt a sickening squirm under my arm. Bones slowly grinding, knitting together. Flesh shifting.
He groaned—reflexive, pained—but didn’t stir fully.
I gave him the second healing potion.
The light returned. This time, his eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed again. His breathing steadied, but his limbs were still twisted. Some bones hadn’t finished repairing.
He needed a bit of help waking up.
The goblin’s head snapped sideways, and his one good eye widened as he came to. When he saw me, terror bloomed across his face. He tried to recoil, but his pain anchored him to the dirt.
"I’ve got a few questions, boss," I said, grinning.
He coughed, groaned, then muttered through bloodied lips, "You bastard... just kill me already."
"Really?" I tilted my head, raising the last healing potion and letting the glass catch the light. "That’s a shame. I was thinking of giving you this—since you’re clearly in so much pain."
His eye flicked to the bottle.
"Will you answer me... or not?" I asked.
I shrugged. "Alright then. I guess we’ll go back to our earlier game. You remember it, right? I soar, you soar... then you crash. Repeat."
His entire body flinched. I could almost see the memory playing behind his eyes.
"Okay! I-I’ll answer your questions," he stammered, his voice shaking.
I smiled. "Good. First: What clan are you from, and where is it located?"
The shaman swallowed. "I’m from a large clan, about two hundred strong. East of here. I... I’m the shaman of the clan."
"You’re not the chief?" I raised an eyebrow.
That caught me off guard. This guy was powerful, but not even the leader?
Which meant someone stronger was calling the shots.
"What about your chief?" I asked. "Is he stronger than you?"
He hesitated, visibly wincing from the pain. But he nodded. "Yes."
"Is he... a Chosen? Like you?"
That got my attention.
Another Chosen. Possibly stronger. With innate abilities. Great.
"How many Chosen does your clan have?"
He chuckled weakly, and despite his condition, a smug grin tugged at his lip. "I’m just one of many."
I didn’t appreciate the attitude.
Without a word, I lifted my foot and stomped on his injured arm.
Then I grabbed his face and slammed it against the dirt.
"You don’t get to act smug in your situation, geezer," I hissed.
"Answer me..." I paused for emphasis. "Humbly. Got it?"
He wailed, writhing in pain.
I gripped his dislocated wrist and twisted slightly.
He nodded frantically.
I exhaled and sat back on my haunches.
"Did your chief send you here?"
"Yes... he sends us to raid smaller clans. Absorb them into ours."
"Yes... the other Chosen. We lead separate squads."
I rubbed my chin. "So he’s trying to build a super-clan. That’s ambitious."
I paused, something clicking in my memory.
"Wait... didn’t you say earlier that you attacked us because you sensed I was a Blessed?"
He nodded slowly. "We can sense each other... like a resonance."
That was... troubling. It meant I couldn’t stay hidden. Not from other Chosen.
So he wasn’t a lone threat. He was part of an organized, expanding faction. With multiple elite goblins. Taming direwolves. Conquering clans.
This was much bigger than I thought.
"Alright," I said, standing. "How many goblins total in your clan?"
"Over two hundred," he murmured.
I nodded thoughtfully.
"That’s all I needed to know," I said at last, slipping the final healing potion back into my inventory.
The shaman blinked in confusion.
Then asked, hesitantly, "So... are you going to give me the potion?"
I turned, smiled, and made the vial vanish with a thought.
"Potion? What potion?"
He froze. His eyes widened in terror.
"You said... You said you’d give it to me!"
I chuckled. "Spare you? When did I say that?"
"You said you’d give me the potion if I answered!"
"I did," I admitted. "But then I asked myself... why bother? You’ll die anyway."
The shaman’s expression twisted with rage and disbelief.
I stepped forward slowly, raising Gravefang. Its blade shimmered with violet light.
"You really thought you’d walk away from this?" I said quietly. "You’re just as naïve as the others."
His mouth opened to protest—but he never got the chance as I drove the blade through his heart.
A sudden stillness filled the air.
[You have killed: Elite Boss — Goblin Shaman (Level 20)]
[You have leveled up!]
[You have leveled up!]
[You have leveled up!]
[You have received +9 Stat Points]
[You have slain one of Drugar’s Chosen]
[You have inherited all of his skills]
[You have inherited his kill count]