Dylan felt a sharp pain slice through his back, like a burning, brutal arrow.
A high-pitched cackle split the air right after, as sharp as the claw mark itself.
Without thinking, almost by reflex, he brought his machete down on the creature in front of him. It was like a strangled cry. A kind of limp fall.
Then he twisted, looking over his shoulder.
A goblin zipped above him, hanging from a vine like a deranged bat, its claws dripping with his still-warm blood.
Dylan growled, teeth clenched. The burn spread along his back, an open line from which his blood already flowed in dark, hot, sticky streams.
But around him, the laughter continued.
Those cracked, broken, inhuman laughs.
A raw, perverse jubilation—as if they were feeding off his pain, his weaknesses.
And Dylan felt something rise in his throat, a fire he didn't try to contain.
"I'm going to kill these bastards."
His voice was low, raspy, but the intent was anything but subtle.
