Rain fled before the goblins as though fear had claimed him—though in truth, the cowardice was nothing more than a mask he chose to wear for his benefit.

  The town square dissolved behind him, six goblins shrieking in pursuit, their footfalls clattering through the cramped streets. He vaulted a fallen chair, his boot skidding on a stone. For a humiliating half-second he windmilled for balance before recovering, sprinting on with all the dignity of a hero who absolutely did not look like one.

  If anyone were watching, they would see a coward fleeing.

  That was the intention.

  As he tore through the crooked lanes, his mind betrayed him with treacherous fantasy. In another world—his proper world—he would have been summoned beneath cathedral vaults carved of white marble. A radiant circle would blaze beneath his feet. A high beautiful priestess would tremble at his arrival. A translucent interface of arcane glyphs would shimmer before his eyes. A king would declare him Champion of a realm in need.

  He imagined the scene even as he darted into a narrow side street.

  In that imagined world, he would halt mid-chase. He would sigh. Golden light would erupt around him, wind lifting his cloak in dramatic defiance of physics. The goblins would freeze in terror. He would murmur something cutting and elegant before drawing his blade in a flawless arc.

  There would be applause. Perhaps three beautiful admirers.

  Reality offered none of it.

  A goblin tripped over a bucket behind him and smashed face-first into a wall, shrieking in fury rather than fear.

  Rain snapped his fingers. Do I even have magic? he muttered, breath ragged. He chanted the first spell-name that surfaced in his mind, something grand and completely untested.

  Nothing answered.

  In his imagination, he strode calmly toward his enemies while unseen music swelled. He raised one hand. The heavens would tear open.

  Dragonflare Cataclysm.

  Again, nothing happened.

  Instead, a dagger whistled past his ear close enough to steal a lock of hair.

  I would settle for a spark, he hissed.

  He ducked—too quickly. His speed betrayed him again. Momentum flung him forward like a loosed arrow. He crashed shoulder-first into stacked crates, shattered them, ricocheted off damp brick, and barely regained his footing before outrunning his own balance.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  His body moved as swiftly as though he had been gifted wings, yet he had no proper control over them.

  He resumed running, muttering incantations between breaths.

  Zephyr Step.

  Nothing.

  He tried again, sharper, more commanding.

  Zephyr Step.

  A faint breeze stirred his hair. For an instant happiness flickered—then the wind died as though embarrassed.

  Rain exhaled through clenched teeth. Ridiculous!

  He did not slow.

  The streets narrowed. The buildings leaned closer together. The ground became uneven. He felt the shift in terrain beneath his shoes and adjusted his stride deliberately, forcing his body into restraint rather than raw velocity.

  He was not fleeing.

  He was drawing them in.

  At last, he reached the place he had chosen—a narrow alley scarcely wide enough for two men to stand abreast. Broken barrels, crumbling bricks, and uneven stones littered the ground. The space would suffocate their numbers.

  Rain skidded to a halt, turning as the goblins funneled in behind him, forced into a single-file advance by the constriction of walls.

  His chest rose and fell steadily now.

  Enough, he murmured.

  The first goblin lunged, dagger thrusting for his ribs. Rain sidestepped with calculation rather than frantic speed. The creature overextended. He drove his shoulder forward.

  Bones cracked beneath the impact. The goblin struck the wall and slid down, its breath leaving it in a final gasp.

  The second hesitated only a heartbeat—long enough.

  Rain seized a barrel from the wall and pivoted, hurling it with controlled force rather than reckless strength. It struck the goblin squarely, knocking it off its feet. Its skull met cobblestone with a dull, final sound.

  Three advanced at once, snarling.

  The third aimed low for his legs. Rain dropped his center of gravity and caught the creature mid-charge, lifting with disciplined power. He turned and drove it into the alley wall. The brickwork fractured before the goblin’s spine did. It crumpled, unmoving.

  The fourth and fifth pressed together, testing him, blades probing for weakness. They were learning.

  So was he.

  Rain stepped forward instead of back, collapsing the distance and denying them room to coordinate. He tackled one to the ground, his fist descending in a brutal, efficient strike that shattered jaw and resolve alike. He rose immediately, pivoted, and seized the other by the shoulders. A controlled twist redirected its momentum into the wall.

  The impact silenced it.

  Only one remained.

  It stood taller, broader, cleaver steady in its grip. Its eyes held calculation rather than frenzy. It did not rush blindly.

  It measured him.

  Then it charged.

  The cleaver descended in a brutal arc. Rain caught the wrist mid-swing. Pain lanced through his palm as steel grazed him, but he held firm. He twisted—not wildly, but precisely. Bone snapped.

  The goblin snarled and lunged with its free hand. Rain drove his knee into its chest, forcing air from its lungs. He followed with a short, violent uppercut.

  The final goblin's head snapped back. Its body collapsed heavily into the stone.

  Silence returned to the alley.

  Rain stood alone amid the narrow passage, breath steadying, hands trembling—not from fear, but from the effort of control. Goblin blood streaked his clothes.

  No golden aura. No celestial chorus.

  Only brute strength. Positioning. Timing.

  Beyond the alley, the distant clash of steel echoed faintly through the town.

  His thoughts turned at once to his companions.

  The battle was not yet over.

  And Rain—magic or not—would dominate in this newfound world.