Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

Meanwhile, Gobbo barreled into the fray with all the momentum his class afforded him.

Activating [Guarding Rush], he became a living bulwark, impossible to halt once his charge began. His shield smashed into the first rank of enemies with bone-cracking force, sending bodies sprawling through the air as if struck by a charging beast rather than another goblin.

Without slowing, he swung his axe in wide, heavy arcs, each strike carving through disoriented foes scrambling in his path.

The enemy did not simply yield—they fought back with snarls and desperate slashes of crude weapons, their rusted blades cutting at him from every angle. Yet Gobbo absorbed the blows with a grunt, his shield and armor taking the worst of it.

And when one blade slipped past his guard, nicking his side, his counter came almost instantly. Another class skill sharpened his response, letting him turn damage into crushing reprisal. His axe came down like a hammer, caving in the skull of the goblin who had dared strike him.

Zonk and Thok were not idle in the chaos either.

They moved to intercept those enemies that Dribb and Gobbo’s initial assault had missed—the ones darting toward the flanks, hoping to circle and overwhelm the two guardians.

Thok, in particular, moved with unnerving quickness, his figure flickering in and out of sight as he cut through the fray. His movements were sharp, fluid, and unpredictable, as though Eli himself had been reborn at a far weaker level. Every one of his class skills stacked toward speed, and the effect was unmistakable—the more he fought, the faster his body seemed to become.

One goblin barely had time to raise its crude blade before Thok’s dagger sliced through its wrist, the weapon clattering uselessly to the dirt. Another swung wide, only for Thok to slip beneath the strike and open its belly in a single motion. Limbs fell, torsos split, and bodies crumpled before they had the chance to mount a defense.

Zonk was no less deadly, though his style could not have been more different. He lacked Thok’s blistering speed, but he compensated with unpredictable ferocity and the unnerving ability to wield almost anything as a weapon. His class allowed him to transition seamlessly between arms, and he fought like a storm, constantly shifting tools as though the battlefield itself were his armory.

He wrenched a spear from an enemy’s grip and, without hesitation, planted it into the earth at an angle. The next goblin lunging toward him impaled itself before it realized what had happened, skewered clean through the chest. Without missing a beat, Zonk plucked the sword from the dying goblin’s hand, spun, and hurled it across the melee. The blade struck true with a meaty thud, dropping one enemy, then ricocheting just enough to clip a second, leaving both sprawled in the dirt.

By the time he drew his own blade once more, he was already moving again, hacking down another pair of goblins with brutal, efficient strikes that made every blow count.

Behind the chaos at the front, the line was being held firm by Zarah and Narg, each playing their role with practiced precision. Zarah’s bow sang without pause, every arrow loosed with the cold efficiency of someone who had long since learned to separate fear from focus. She targeted the enemy archers first, cutting them down before their shots could harry the clan’s vanguard. Once the immediate threats were neutralized, her attention shifted to the larger goblins pressing forward from the second rank. Her arrows never flew without purpose; they sank into eyes, tendons, or joints, crippling foes and forcing gaps into their advance that the frontline could exploit.

Beside her, Narg was an unrelenting storm. His staff pulsed with fiery light, each gesture conjuring bolts of flame that screamed through the air before detonating amidst clustered enemy ranks. Goblins shrieked as they were charred black, limbs blasted apart, bodies left in smoking heaps. Even those who survived staggered forward crippled and scorched, easy prey for Dribb, Gobbo, Thok, and Zonk to finish with swift brutality.

Together, the clan moved like a single organism. Their coordination, sharpened by Eli’s harsh training, allowed them to dismantle enemies who attacked like mindless beasts, charging without rhythm or strategy. For every frenzied swing the enemy threw, the clan answered with precision and purpose, cutting them down piece by piece.

It was in that brief lull, as the tide seemed momentarily under control, that Narg’s sharp voice cut through the clash of weapons. ”Zarah,” he called, his eyes narrowing as another firebolt left his staff. ”Did you not say the shaman was here? I have yet to see him.”

Zarah loosed another arrow, watched it pierce through a goblin’s throat, and hissed in frustration. ”I swear on Drugar’s name, he was here. I saw him with my own eyes. Something must have drawn him off.”

And she was not wrong.

After Amon had loosed his horde upon the cave, he did not linger to watch the clash. His focus shifted almost immediately to the Ember Fox writhing in the dirt, its body convulsing under the invisible weight of the oath. To him, it was no longer just a beast—it was an opportunity. A unique creature like this, if slain, promised more than mere experience. It promised the kind of skill that could tip the scales back in his favor.

Once, he had walked with pride as Drugar’s Chosen, carrying a title that set him above every other goblin. But that glory had been stripped from him, torn away alongside the precious skills Eli had stolen. What remained was desperation—the gnawing hunger of one who had fallen and could not accept his diminished state.

Now more than ever, he needed power, and he would seize it by any means.

He raised his staff high, the crude wood pulsing faintly with dark energy, and stepped toward the fox. Its sides still heaved from the aftershock of the oath’s punishment, its tails thrashing weakly against the dirt. For an instant, he thought the strike would be easy—that the creature was too broken to resist.

But as he brought his weapon down, the fox’s...