CHAPTER 117: SEVERED

I pressed Gravefang harder against his throat, the steel biting deeper into torn flesh until fresh blood welled beneath the edge. His body jerked with pain, his teeth clenching as a groan tore free.

"Answer me!" I roared, my voice shaking with fury.

"Aaaargh!" he cried out, his hands twitching helplessly at his sides. His chest heaved, his breath rattling, but at last the words came out, broken and desperate.

"I do not know! But if there is anyone who would...It’s the chief."

"The chief..." I pressed, narrowing my eyes. "Is he human as well?"

The berserker’s lips curled back in a half-snarl, his voice dripping with irritation.

"What do you think?"

I exhaled slowly through my nose, the sound sharp.

This dude was stubborn. Not just stubborn—shrewd.

The fact that he was able to find out that I was young was quite unnerving. And there was also the slight defiance in his tone.

I tightened my grip on Gravefang just enough to draw another thin line of blood across his throat and said.

"Then tell me this: Why do you serve him? Why are so many of Drugar’s Blessed willing to work under him?"

His eyes flicked to mine, and for a brief moment, I caught something there—resentment, fear, maybe both.

"Because he’s too powerful," he admitted finally, his voice ragged.

"He overwhelmed each of us in an instant. We couldn’t resist. But instead of killing us, he gave us a choice. An offer to join his clan."

"Why?" I pressed again, not letting him breathe without another question.

The berserker swallowed hard, his voice dropping lower. "To build a force. To become something greater. Something about... competing for the right to be Goblin King."

"Goblin King?" I repeated, my tone flat, though the words were more a prod for him to continue than genuine surprise.

He shifted uncomfortably, wincing at the pressure of my blade. "Listen... I don’t know much about that. The chief and his closest keep it quiet, even from us. If you want the complicated answers, you’ll have to get them from him."

I didn’t push him further. The strain in his voice and the flicker of truth in his eyes told me he had given all he knew, and pressing harder would only be wasted effort.

Still, the revelation left my thoughts tangled. Things had just become far more complicated than I anticipated.

Not long ago, my only concern was survival—making it through each encounter, growing stronger, keeping my clan alive. But now, a new piece had entered the board: a chief, a supposedly powerful goblin who not only commanded the Blessed but also carried ambitions of becoming a king.

If I thought I could stand aside, ignore it, and carve my own path untouched, I was lying to myself. The reality was clear. By crossing paths with the Blessed, by defeating them and forcing answers from their mouths, I was already entangled in this struggle. Whether I liked it or not, I was part of it now. And things would only get worse from here.

I tightened my grip on Gravefang, my voice low. "One last question. Did you come here with any other Blessed?"

He coughed, blood flecking his lips as he shook his head weakly. "None aside from Ingrid."

He stopped there, hesitating, and the pause clawed at my nerves.

"But..."

My body stiffened, instincts flaring as the word hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall.

"But what?" I demanded, my tone sharp enough to cut.

"There is Amon, though," the berserker rasped, his voice breaking.

The name hit like a stone dropped in my chest.

The shaman.

"He came here with a couple of mob goblins," Ezekiel continued, wheezing between words. "Said something about... attacking where it hurts."

"What?" I hissed, the word tearing out sharper than I intended.

But even as he spoke, the pieces began to lock together in my mind, answering the question that had been gnawing at me since the moment I realized Amon no longer appeared on [Finder].

When a Chosen dies and their innate abilities are stolen, does that sever their link to Drugar? Do they stop being Chosen’s when the graveyard pulls them back?

The answer was right here, plain as day.

They didn’t stay Blessed. The title was stripped away, erased alongside the stolen skill.

That was how Amon had slipped through the cracks of [Finder]’s map. He wasn’t Drugar’s Chosen anymore. The system no longer recognized him.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a threat. If anything, the opposite was true. He was free of the system’s gaze, free to move in the shadows. And if he had gathered an army of mob goblins...

My grip on Gravefang tightened, the edge of the blade pressing deeper against Ezekiel’s throat.

Blessed or not, Amon was still dangerous.

And the goblins he had with him made him even more so.

I had leveled up Narg, Thok, Gobbo, and Zhonk, and Zarah had proven herself more than capable, her strength impressive for her level.

But even with all of that progress, a cold question lingered at the back of my mind. Would they be enough to fend off the shaman?

The berserker shifted weakly, lifting one trembling hand and pressing it flat against his chest. The motion wasn’t random—it was deliberate, purposeful.

"You really are still a kid," he rasped, his lips curling in a faint sneer. "Worrying about a dumb goblin. I cut down my own clan the moment I appeared here."

"Shut up!" I snapped, my voice sharp, Gravefang pressing harder into his throat. I could see it in his eyes, the way his words were chosen—not to enlighten me, but to provoke me.

A distraction.

"I’d hurry back if I were you," he added, a twisted smile tugging at the corners of his bloodstained mouth. "Amon’s still furious about losing his innate skill. He won’t treat your precious clan lightly."

My jaw tightened, my mind racing as I pieced together what he was trying to do.

And then, I understood.

"You..."

Ezekiel froze.

"You don’t seem to realize how bad you are at hiding your intentions, do you?" I said coldly, my eyes narrowing on the hand he kept pressed against his chest.

His lips twitched, and for the first time I saw his composure slip. "What do you mean?" he rasped, though his trembling betrayed him. He was rushing now, desperate to complete whatever trick he had planned.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

Gravefang sang as I swung, its edge slicing cleanly through flesh and bone. His arm severed at the elbow, tumbling to the ground with a dull thud. Blood sprayed in an arc, splattering across the dirt.

He screamed—raw and guttural—clutching the stump just like his companion had done only minutes before.

I understood then what he had been trying to do. He had been moments away from activating some kind of suicide skill, a last resort that would stop his own heart and rob me of his innate ability, stripping away his title just as the archer had managed. But he couldn’t outsmart me.

"You stupid brat... you’ll pa—"

I didn’t let him finish.

Gravefang cleaved through his throat in a single, merciless strike. His head separated cleanly from his shoulders, the body collapsing against the roots of the tree while the head rolled lifelessly into the dirt.

Ding!

[You have slain one of Drugar’s Chosen]

[You have inherited all of his skills]

[You have inherited his kill...

I shut the notification away before it could finish, my mind already elsewhere.

Without hesitation, I triggered [Leap].