Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

Then they burst instantly, rupturing into violent plumes of thick, gray-green smoke that swallowed the battlefield. The fumes rolled outward, enveloping the remaining goblins in a choking cloud.

Inside the haze, the enemy broke into coughing fits, their snarls cut short by gagging gasps.

They stumbled, clawing at their throats, their eyes streaming as they swung blindly, unable to tell friend from foe. The battlefield’s din shifted from coordinated cries to chaos.

Dribb coughed once, grimacing, but the retreat had carried him far enough that only the edge of the odor reached him. His voice rasped, hoarse and heavy.

”What... is that?”

Flogga, still clutching her satchel of reserves, smirked despite the tension.

”Stink gas,” she answered curtly. ”Smells so bad you wish you couldn’t breathe. Burns the eyes, scorches the lungs. Makes even the strong fight like children.”

But then her gaze dropped, catching sight of the dark patch spreading across Dribb’s side where the dagger had pierced him earlier. The blood soaking through his armor made her smirk vanish in an instant.

”You’re injured. Sit,” Flogga ordered, her tone firm, leaving no room for argument.

Dribb grunted but obeyed, lowering himself to the ground with a pained groan.

Flogga dug into her satchel and pulled out a small pouch filled with a thick, pungent ointment. She tore it open and pressed the balm directly onto the wound.

The mixture sizzled faintly as it met torn flesh, and Dribb winced, his fists clenching, but the bleeding slowed almost immediately.

Without pause, she produced a vial filled with a dark, murky liquid— [Brawn Juice] and pressed it into his hand. ”Drink.”

Dribb swallowed it down in one long gulp, his throat working as the bitter concoction burned its way through him.

A moment later, his muscles tightened, his veins pulsing faintly with renewed vigor. Strength surged back into his limbs, not overwhelming but noticeable enough to steady his breathing and sharpen his posture.

Flogga stood, already pulling out more vials, and passed them quickly to Gobbo, Thok, and Zonk, who were equally exhausted. Each downed theirs with grimaces, and within moments, the fatigue dragging at their bodies eased. Their limbs felt lighter, their grip on their weapons steadier. The potion wouldn’t last long, but it gave them the edge they needed.

Meanwhile, from within the dissipating cloud, shapes began to stagger free.

The enemy goblins stumbled forward, coughing violently, their eyes red and streaming, their chests heaving as they wheezed for breath. Their weapons shook in their hands, their swings erratic and weak.

Zonk, spotting the opportunity, bent down and snatched a bow from the corpse of a fallen archer. Without hesitation, he nocked an arrow and drew the string back.

His class skill, [Weapon Mastery], didn’t make him an expert whenever he used a new weapon, but it gave him enough instinct to turn any weapon into something dangerous.

The first shot loosed with a sharp twang, striking a goblin square in the chest and sending it sprawling. Another arrow followed, and another, each one fired with rough but effective precision. The staggering enemies, already weakened by the fumes, collapsed one by one under the barrage.

Zonk’s strikes were not elegant, but they were lethal enough.

Meanwhile, Gobbo and Thok finished off the last of the stragglers, their blades rising and falling until the battlefield fell silent save for the groans of the wounded. The stink of gas still lingered, acrid in the air, but its job was done. The enemy could no longer put up a fight.

Flogga knelt beside Dribb, carefully binding his wound while keeping a watchful eye on the field, ensuring her work was quick and precise.

With the last of Amon’s soldiers cut down, all that remained was the shaman himself.

And he was floundering.

His pendant had been all but spent.

Only two talismans remained—the vine talisman, which had already begun to crack with overuse, and the unknown one he had been reluctant to call upon.

He was squeezing every drop of power out of the vines, forcing them to lash wildly at Zarah and Narg, but desperation made his control sloppy.

The tendrils ripped through the dirt and snapped toward their targets, but Zarah rolled clear, her bowstring thrumming as she loosed arrow after arrow.

The projectiles sliced the air with sharp whooshes, one grazing across Amon’s shoulder. He hissed, staggering, blood streaking down his arm.

Narg pressed the advantage.

He conjured a fireball in his free hand, compact and blazing hot, before hurling it forward with precise force.

Amon reacted in panic, thrusting his staff into the ground and forcing the last of his vine talisman’s strength to surge upward. The tendrils wove together in a frantic wall, curling thick enough to absorb the brunt of the impact.

The fireball exploded against the barrier, scorching the vines and filling the air with the smell of burning wood and ash. The wall held, but barely—its edges blackened, curling inward, the cracks along the talisman glowing ever brighter as if warning of its imminent failure.

Amon grimaced. His options were dwindling fast.

Shit! he cursed inwardly, his teeth grinding as panic gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

His eyes darted wildly, searching the battlefield for an opening, any chance to escape.

He had been trying to find one ever since it became clear he couldn’t win, but the two goblins barring his path—Narg and Zarah—had read his intentions too well.

Every move he made, they cut off, every attempt at retreat forced him back into the fight he no longer wanted.

Desperation clawed at him as his gaze swept over the field.

The sight that met him drained what remained of his confidence.

The goblins he had brought—nearly two dozen strong—were gone.

Bodies littered the ground where his soldiers had fallen, their weapons snapped, their blood darkening the soil.

All of them were slaughtered.

And by what? Fewer than ten goblins?

Not only that—his enemies hadn’t lost a single one.

”What the hell...?”

Amon rasped, the disbelief slipping from his lips before he could choke it down.

His mind reeled.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Then his blood ran colder still as...