Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

His teeth ground together as he raised his staff, the crude wood trembling under the strain of the power he summoned.

Mana surged violently, drawn into the jade talisman against his chest until the gem pulsed like a second heart, the air humming with unstable pressure.

At the staff’s tip, a sphere of darkness began to coalesce, swirling with sluggish weight as though the world itself resisted its birth. Black lightning forked across its surface, snapping hungrily with a promise of devastation.

The ground at his feet shivered beneath the weight of the energy gathering there, stones rattling loose as dirt cracked in tiny rivulets.

Narg felt it first.

The hairs along his arms rose as instinct screamed at him. A ripple of dread slid through the air, heavy enough that even the least experienced could feel it.

Every goblin in Eli’s clan had [Danger Sense], and the skill hammered warnings into their minds like a drumbeat of doom.

One by one their gazes snapped upward, and all eyes fixed on Amon standing ahead, his staff raised, the black orb swelling with lethal promise.

Even his own goblins faltered, their snarls breaking into uneasy silence, eyes darting nervously toward him, sensing that what he was about to unleash would not spare friend from foe. The malice in that orb was too heavy, too uncontrolled—it belonged to no side but death.

”Behind me!” Dribb roared, his voice booming above the clash, carrying command like a warhorn. The command cut through hesitation like a blade.

Instinct drove the goblins into motion, their bodies converging toward him in a tight cluster just as the dark bolt of energy tore free from Amon’s staff.

Dribb slammed his shield into the ground with both hands, the edge biting deep as his skill flared to life. [Shield Anchor].

A translucent wall of force erupted outward, curving into a dome wide enough to cover the entire group pressed in behind him. The barrier pulsed once, anchoring itself into the ground as though fused with the very bones of the earth.

Then the world shook.

BOOM!

The dark sphere smashed into his shield, detonating in a violent eruption that split the air with thunder and light. The blast ripped through soil and stone, a shockwave flattening grass and shattering roots, throwing nearby goblins sprawling like ragdolls.

The ground convulsed under the impact, and for a heartbeat the world was swallowed by smoke and black lightning, the acrid stench of scorched ozone burning their throats.

When the haze cleared, the clan still stood. The barrier had held.

But Dribb bore the cost. His shield arm trembled as he lowered it, smoke curling faintly from the scorched metal. Burn marks scored his skin where the heat had slipped through, and his breathing came ragged. Sweat poured down his temple, his entire frame quaking with the aftershock of forcing his skill to its absolute limit. Worse still, his mana had been gutted by the use of [Shield Anchor]; it was a skill that demanded more than endurance. It demanded sacrifice.

The enemy did not wait. Seeing cracks in the defense, they surged forward, shrieking as they rushed in for the kill. Their frenzy, dampened for only a heartbeat, reignited with bloodlust.

Gobbo stepped into the breach without hesitation, shield raised high as he braced himself. His stance locked, legs spread wide, the raw defiance in his eyes daring the attackers to try. He became the new anchor, holding steady while Dribb staggered back to recover, chest heaving with exhaustion.

Narg, standing just behind, reacted at once.

He planted his staff into the earth, arcane light blooming from its tip as he murmured words of power. Healing surged outward, warm and steady, flowing over Dribb like a tide. Flesh knitted where burns had torn it, breath steadied, and pain dulled. Not stopping there, Narg layered a buff atop it, a shimmering aura settling over Dribb’s frame as strength returned.

The guardian’s spine straightened, his shield arm steadied, and the dull fatigue in his eyes sharpened back into focus.

Then Narg swept his staff across the rest of the clan.

Threads of energy leapt from him like glowing cords, sinking into their bodies, quickening their movements and hardening their muscles. Strength and speed surged through them, their weariness burned away by fire.

The air shimmered faintly with his magic, a visible reminder that they were not fighting alone—they were bound together, reinforced by his will.

Eli’s goblins squared their shoulders, renewed and ready.

The line that should have shattered beneath Amon’s assault instead flared brighter, tempered like steel in the forge.

Dribb, bolstered by Narg’s spells, lifted his shield once more and pushed back to the front. The defiance in his step was a statement: they were not broken.

But Narg himself did not follow. His attention had shifted to the far side of the battlefield, where the true source of the chaos revealed himself.

Amon.

The shaman moved with deliberate purpose, circling through the fight, his gaze locked not on the vanguard but on Narg. One of the talismans on his pendant had broken. A result of his devastating attack.

The air seemed too thin between them, battle noise dimming under the pressure of their mutual focus.

This was no clash of fodder.

This was a contest of wielders.

”That staff... that robe...” Amon’s voice dripped venom, his tusks bared as he leveled his weapon. ”They are mine, you pathetic wretch. Hand them over.”

Narg’s grip tightened on the staff, but he did not flinch. His dark eyes held steady, unwavering as stone. ”I refuse,” he said, his voice carrying clear above the din.

”The chief entrusted them to me. That makes them mine.”

He spun the staff once in his hand with deliberate ease, the motion both a statement of ownership and a taunt—a reminder that what Amon had lost was now wielded better in another’s hands.

Amon’s glare deepened, rage twisting into something sharp and violent.

To be mocked in such a way, by one of Eli’s underlings no less, burned hotter than the fire gathering in his palm.

”Fine,” he snarled, his voice low and final.

”Then die.”

A sphere of flame bloomed at his staff’s tip, searing the air with blistering heat before surging forward, roaring across the battlefield like a miniature sun.

Narg did not retreat.

His staff flared in turn as he gathered mana, answering with a firebolt of his own.

The two spells screamed toward each other, colliding mid-field with a thunderclap that shook the ground. Flame burst outward in a storm of heat and light, consuming the space between them.

Neither shaman looked away.