The very air here reeks of death and despair.
A vast cavern stretches for hundreds of meters into the earth, echoing with chaos—howls, clashing steel, and the sickly whispers of the damned.
Jagged stalactites hang like the teeth of some slumbering beast, dripping rot-tainted water onto the stone below. The stench is unbearable: blood, filth, decaying flesh, and the foul essence of goblin life.
In the darkest recesses of the cave, imprisoned behind crude stone enclosures, sit women of many races. Their bodies are broken, their eyes emptied of all hope.
Humans and half-humans are the most common among them—being the most widespread among the civilized races, they suffer the most.
Elven women are there too, though rarely. Goblins consider them a "delicacy."
Even dwarven females—an unusual sight—have not been spared.
Many are pregnant, already carrying the hideous seed of their captors.
Some have given birth: on the cold rock floor lie deformed infants, grotesque parodies of their mothers, twisted unions of goblin filth and stolen wombs.
The horror is unending. Those who have lost the will to live no longer scream. Only the newly captured struggle, cry, beg for mercy… but no one listens.
At the very heart of the cavern, atop a raised platform made of massive bones, he sits.
The Goblin Lord.
This is no mere goblin.
He has evolved into something beyond—towering in size, larger than even the mightiest orcs. His skin is dark green, layered with bony growths that form a crude, natural armor. His eyes burn with a cruel, intelligent fire—he thinks, he commands.
And the goblins obey.
To them, he is a god.
Around him stand his generals—smarter, evolved goblins, each as tall as a man, each capable of primitive strategy.
Several goblin brutes loom in the background, their grotesquely muscular frames dwarfing even orcish warriors. They breathe heavily, gripping savage, brutal weapons.
Goblins scavenge whatever they can.
They tear apart the armor of fallen adventurers and reforge it for their own misshapen bodies. They mine ore and craft nightmarish, yet functional blades and axes. Their arrows are tipped with the toxic slime from their own bodies. Some have even begun experimenting with magical relics plundered from the dead.
The Goblin Lord rises from his throne of bone.
His voice booms through the cavern, raw and thunderous:
— The time has come... We will no longer hide in the shadows! Soon... they will know fear!
A roar erupts—thousands of goblin voices screaming in unison, a warcry that shakes the cavern walls.
Meanwhile, back at the guild, the air is thick with tension.
Warriors prepare for the coming battle—gearing up, forming squads, shouting over one another in a storm of readiness and chaos.
But at one table, Naira sits alone.
Her massive battle axe lies on the wood before her, untouched.
She stares at it with a mix of frustration and disbelief.
No one picked her.
Her.
One of the strongest fighters in the entire guild. Battle-hardened, fearless, tested in blood and fire.
And yet... they turned their backs.
She'd gone from group to group, asking directly:
— Why won't you take me?
And each time, the same response—silence, averted eyes, or dry excuses:
— We've already got our fighters.
— We're full.
— We don't need an "orcish tank."
Jealousy. Arrogance. Prejudice.
It gnawed at her.
She slumped into her chair, staring into the void, unsure what to do next.
Then—someone sat beside her.
Kano.
And he looked no better than she did.
He lazily rested his elbows on the table, muttering:
— Why won't anyone take me? What is wrong with these pompous, stuck-up bastards?
Naira glanced sideways at him, but said nothing.
Kano went on, eyes flicking toward the forming teams:
— The smart ones already built perfect groups. They don't need "extras."
Suddenly, Naira realized.
This was it.
Her chance.
She grabbed Kano by the shoulders and yanked him into her chest.
Kano froze—his entire face smothered in her cleavage.
For a heartbeat, his mind went completely blank.
Soft.
And yet… firm.
It was unfamiliar. Disorienting.
His brain stalled.
And then— panic.
He couldn't breathe.
Naira's grip was iron, crushing his nose and mouth into her flesh.
He started to thrash, hands trembling, vision blurring from lack of air.
— CAN'T… BREATHE! — his thoughts screamed.
Kano gasped, struggled, wheezed.
— L-let go… I-I… can't…!
Naira finally heard him and released her grip.
Kano reeled back, inhaling desperately, dragging in air like it was life itself.
An awkward silence followed.
Neither looked at the other.
Then Naira spoke, quickly, shifting the topic:
— Let's form our own team.
Kano looked at her.
This—this was exactly what he needed.
A grin spread across his face, and something fierce lit up in his eyes.
— I'm in!
"We could use one more," Naira muttered, scanning the crowd with a calculating gaze.
A gravelly voice spoke up behind her.
"If you'll have me, I'd like to join too."
They turned.
Standing there was a dwarf—the very one Kano had saved the day before.
"I want to fight beside you. If you'll let me. Thanks to the healers, the wound barely hurts anymore," he said firmly.
Naira couldn't suppress a smile. She liked this one.
"Then we'll need a mage," the dwarf added. "Someone to patch us up, keep us going."
They moved through the hall, eyes sweeping the crowd—until they spotted a girl standing awkwardly in a corner.
She looked lost, unsure of her place, eyes darting nervously as if everything around her made no sense.
Naira didn't waste time.
"Are you a mage?" she asked sharply.
The girl flinched. Her voice came out soft and shaky.
"Yes… but I can only heal. I—I don't know any combat magic…"
Kano narrowed his eyes.
"And I… I'm not registered with the guild yet," she added, eyes dropping to the floor.
Naira raised a brow. "You a rookie or something?"
The girl shrank further into herself.
"Y-yes…"
Naira grinned wide and declared without hesitation,
"Perfect. You're in!"
"But " the girl began.
"No buts! I'll deal with the paperwork later!"
Their party was complete.
A warrior.
A clever dwarf.
A nervous rookie mage.
And Kano.
They exchanged glances.
They didn't need to say it aloud—they all felt it.
This was just the beginning.
Dawn broke over the city of Drachenfest, chasing away the heavy mist with pale light.
The main square buzzed with life—warriors, mages, archers, and fresh-faced adventurers filling every corner.
More than a hundred had gathered—mercenaries, soldiers, dreamers all answering the call.
Battle-mages tested spells, sending sparks crackling through the air.
New recruits fumbled nervously with weapons, trying to hide their trembling hands.
Veteran warriors stood silent, eyes locked on the distant treeline, preparing their minds for what was to come.
A tension hung over the city like a drawn blade.
The crowd hushed as two figures stepped into the center.
The first—Ragnar Claymore.
Half-man, half-lion.
A beast carved into the shape of a hero. His body was humanoid, but the mane, the golden eyes, the sharp fangs—all lion.
His muscles rippled beneath a heavy battle cloak bearing the guild's golden emblem, and he wore his armor like it weighed nothing.
At his side walked Lenor Vilerian—graceful, poised, eyes like a hawk's. The mind behind the sword.
They halted before the crowd.
Ragnar stepped forward, and confidence rolled off him in waves.
"Friends," his deep voice boomed, echoing across the square,
"You know why we're here."
A hush fell. All eyes turned to him.
"I'm offering a reward—one hundred gold coins to any who slay goblins. Maybe more, if you earn my personal gratitude."
The crowd rippled with murmurs.
Ragnar raised his hand—silence returned like a snapped command.
"Goblins are a threat. Every last one of them."
His golden eyes blazed.
"I'll say just one thing more."
The entire square seemed to hold its breath.
"Our city has always stood for those who seek peace. A place for the free. The safe. The tired."
He paused.
"And we will protect that peace. Even if it costs us our lives."
He bowed low, a warrior's salute of respect.
"Good luck to you all."
Then came Lenor.
His voice was quieter—but it cut like a blade.
"Everyone has what they need?"
A thunderous reply from the crowd:
"Yes!"
Lenor nodded, his eyes scanning the formation. Searching for something… or someone.
Then he saw her.
She stood at the rear of the crowd.
No heavy armor weighed her down.
She wore short leather battle-shorts reinforced with metal plates that allowed full freedom of movement.
Across her chest, a breastplate covered her enormous breasts but left her toned stomach and powerful arms bare.
Her boots clung tightly to her legs, made for speed and precision.
And on her shoulder rested her massive battle axe—like it was nothing more than a feather, not a weapon forged to cleave monsters in two.
She was alive. Burning with anticipation.
Lenor smiled, instantly understanding—she'd built her own team.
He turned back to the crowd and delivered the final words:
"Then go. Return before nightfall—with victory."
The crowd erupted.
War cries rang through the air.
Adventurers, warriors, mages, and archers surged toward the gates, their path clear.
They were headed to war.
To cleanse the forest.
To hunt the goblins.
Drachenfest was behind them.
Battle awaited.