Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

Finally, he spoke. And the words settled, cutting through the uncertainty with a finality that left no room for doubt.

”We’ll fight.”

Murmurs died instantly, replaced by the sound of blades being gripped tighter, of throats being swallowed dry. The tension in the air sharpened like a drawn bowstring ready to snap.

Narg’s gaze shifted to Flogga, who had been standing just behind the others, her satchel clinking faintly with the sound of glass.

”Flogga,” he said evenly, his tone calm but heavy with expectation, ”you brewed potions before, didn’t you? Anything useful now?”

Flogga straightened under his eyes, her earlier frustration giving way to grim resolve.

Then she nodded.

Narg then ordered, his voice hardening with command.

”Snibb, Krosh, Zox—go with her. Bring every potion she has prepared, whatever it is that can help. The rest of us will meet them head-on.”

Flogga wasted no time. She spun on her heel, darting back into the cave with Snibb, Krosh, and Zox in tow. Her satchel was already half-open, vials rattling against one another as she rifled through them even while running, muttering under her breath about dosage, potency, and what could be mixed on the fly.

Outside, the moment she disappeared from sight, Narg’s sharp eyes caught movement at the edge of the treeline. A goblin scout, smaller than the rest but quick as a shadow, slipped forward with a jagged spear in hand.

Narg didn’t hesitate.

His staff jerked upward almost instinctively, and with a guttural word of power, a streak of flame tore from its tip.

The firebolt hissed through the air, scorching a path through the undergrowth before slamming into the unlucky goblin’s chest.

The impact exploded with a dull crack, blasting him off his feet and throwing his charred body backward into the trees. The acrid smell of burnt flesh drifted on the wind, curling into the nostrils of every goblin in earshot.

The sight of it snapped the others to attention. Steel, bone, and crude iron rasped as weapons were gripped tighter. Their breaths came heavier, sharper, as the weight of the coming fight pressed down on them.

For all their bravado, none of them could ignore the way their hearts thudded against their ribs, each beat echoing the rhythm of an unseen drum summoning them to war.

And then the rest came.

Figures pushed free from the trees in growing numbers, shadows stretching into the clearing until there was no doubt about it—this was no lone scout. This was the vanguard of a force meant to crush them, an organized push that promised bloodshed.

Narg’s stance shifted, his feet grounding firmly into the soil.

His expression was grim but steady, the fire in his eyes matched by the quiet certainty in his movements.

The others mirrored him, weapons drawn, lines of tension carving into their faces but underpinned by resolve.

”The chief has trained us for this,” Narg said, his voice cutting across the growing noise of the advancing horde.

He swung his staff in a small arc, the motion commanding rather than ornamental.

”Remember what you learned. Fight with everything you have. But above all...” His gaze swept across them, hard but not unkind. ”...Survive. That is what the chief would want.”

The words steadied them. Doubt didn’t vanish, but it hardened into something more useful: determination. Every goblin straightened, some swallowing hard, others flexing their grip, but all finding a piece of themselves ready to stand.

Then Narg thrust his staff forward again, the air around him crackling with power as multiple bolts of flame erupted in rapid succession. Each one shrieked across the clearing before crashing into the enemy line, erupting in fiery explosions that ripped through bark and flesh alike. The first wave of goblins crumpled where they stood, bodies tossed aside by the concussive force, their screams cut short in the smoke and flame.

The battle had begun.

Meanwhile, Dribb surged forward, his heavy shield raised like a battering ram.

The sound of his armored boots pounding against the earth carried him straight into the teeth of the charge. Dust and loose stones scattered under the force of his momentum, and his sheer size made him seem less like a goblin and more like a juggernaut.

Gobbo, Zonk, and Thok kept close behind him, weapons drawn, eyes locked on the enemy with a focus sharpened by desperation. Their breaths synced with his, shallow and quick, each one bracing them for the clash ahead.

As he closed the distance, Dribb planted his foot hard into the ground and unleashed his skill [Roar of Intimidation].

The sound that tore from his throat was no ordinary shout; it carried the resonance of his class, a guttural bellow that reverberated through the clearing like the crack of thunder.

The wave of killing intent rolled outward in a visible shiver, slamming into the charging goblins with the force of a storm wind. They faltered mid-step, their eyes widening, frenzy crumbling into hesitation as primal fear tangled with their urge to fight.

Dribb did not waste that heartbeat of hesitation. With his shield angled to cover his flank, he swung his axe in a brutal arc, the weight of it carrying through with enough force to cleave.

The first goblin he struck barely had time to scream before the blade carved him apart, his body flung aside like dry kindling.

Gobbo and the others poured in right behind him, striking at those who had faltered under the effect of the roar.

Gobbo’s shield slammed into a chest, bones cracking with a sharp crunch, while Zonk’s crude blade hacked down at a throat, spraying blood across the ground.

Though the enemy was no weaker in level—some even a step above—none of it mattered. Evolution had elevated Dribb beyond the reach of these ordinary fighters.

His body carried the raw strength and durability of the Bulwark Knight, a foundation that turned every swing into something overwhelming.

Against him, their numbers meant little.

One goblin, braver or more foolish than the rest, tried to meet his axe head-on.

He raised a rusted blade in defiance, screaming as he committed fully to the block.

For an instant steel met steel, but the clash was pitifully short-lived.

The corroded weapon splintered on contact, snapping like brittle bone beneath the sheer force of Dribb’s swing. The axe continued through without pause, splitting the goblin cleanly in half, the two halves of his body collapsing to either side of the path.

The stench of blood filled the air, sharp and metallic.

Dribb did not slow.

He pressed forward, every strike another reminder that evolution had set him apart—that he was no longer the same kind of creature as those rushing at him.