The morning sun rose over the village, gilding the forest in a warm glow. Yet within the walls, there was no rest. The air thrummed with the sound of hammering, marching, and voices barking commands.
The battle with the Church had changed everything. No longer could they afford to live as scattered bands. From this day onward, the village would stand as one body, one voice, one purpose.
---
At dawn, Gorath, the scarred leader of the Kijin, stood in the village square, his presence looming like a mountain. Around him, goblins shuffled nervously with wooden shields and dull spears. Wolves sat in disciplined rows, their ears twitching.
"From today," Gorath's deep voice rumbled, "you are not scavengers. You are warriors. Your lives are not only your own—they belong to the one beside you, to the pack, to the village. Fight alone, and you die. Fight as one, and you endure."
He slammed his fist into his chest, a thunderous sound. The goblins followed suit, clumsy but eager. The wolves raised their heads and howled, the sound echoing through the morning.
It was the first drill of the new order.
---
Day after day, the goblins trained. At first, they stumbled and broke formation. Shields fell, spears clattered, and some even tripped over each other. The wolves, impatient, darted ahead when told to hold.
But Gorath was unrelenting. "Again," he barked. "Again."
Rugo, his mane bristling, devised a system of howls—short, sharp notes to signal flanking, retreat, or charge. At night, his wolves practiced weaving through trees in coordinated packs, learning to strike as one.
Zerath drilled the goblins in shield walls, forcing them to stand shoulder to shoulder as he hurled rocks at them. "Your shield is not yours alone," he roared. "It guards the one beside you. Hold, or you doom them all!"
Bruised, battered, and aching, the goblins learned. Slowly, their lines steadied. Their shields overlapped. Their spears braced as one.
The wolves, once wild hunters, learned to wait for the signal, to strike in sync with goblin charges.
What was once chaos began to take shape.
---
While the warriors trained, the village's forge roared to life.
Mira stood among sparks, her eyes blazing as she bent flames around crude iron. Beside her, apprentices hammered tirelessly, shaping blades and spearheads. "We will not fight with rust and scrap," she declared. "Every warrior will carry steel."
Elira worked with her, inscribing runes onto shields and weapons. Simple enchantments at first—hardening wood, strengthening iron—but even the smallest magic gave the goblins confidence.
The forge became a heartbeat of the village. Smoke curled skyward, carrying with it the scent of change.
---
Luminus walked among them—not as a distant ruler, but as a guide. He healed when bodies failed, steadied nerves when fear rose, and demonstrated when words failed.
He showed goblins how to brace their spears to stop a charging foe, how to read the rhythm of battle. To wolves, he taught patience—waiting for the perfect moment to strike. To the Kijin, he spoke of leadership, of guiding with more than strength.
And to all, he gave a single truth:
"You are more than what the world says you are. Not beasts. Not fodder. You are builders of tomorrow."
His words lit fires where exhaustion threatened to smother hope.
---
Beyond training, the village itself transformed.
Under Gorath's orders, goblins and ogres dragged logs from the forest. Wolves hauled stone from nearby quarries. Mira's flames scorched wood into hardened stakes, while Elira etched runes of resistance along the walls.
Slowly, a palisade grew into something more. Tall, spiked barriers encircled the heart of the village, reinforced by trenches and watchtowers.
For the first time, they had more than a camp. They had a fortress.
---
But discipline came at a price.
Some goblins grumbled at the harsh drills. Wolves, proud and free, bristled under commands. Even among the Kijin, pride sparked conflict—one challenged Gorath openly, declaring he would not be ordered like a child.
The fight that followed shook the training ground. The challenger was strong, fierce, but Gorath fought with crushing patience. Blow by blow, he wore the warrior down until he knelt, panting, beaten.
Gorath did not kill him. Instead, he extended a hand.
"Strength without unity is wasted. Rise—not as rival, but as brother."
From that day, dissent quieted.
---
As the village grew, scouts ventured further. They returned with whispers: of lizardfolk tribes near the marshlands, of wandering beastmen to the north, of humans cast out by kingdoms for petty crimes.
"They may be enemies," Shira warned, her sharp eyes narrowed. "Or allies, if given reason."
Elira nodded. "We cannot face the Church alone. If we are to stand, we must gather others."
Luminus considered this long into the night, the firelight dancing across his shifting form. *A nation cannot rise in isolation. To survive, we must reach beyond ourselves.*
And thus, the first seeds of diplomacy were sown.
---
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the goblins marched in tight formation, shields locked and spears gleaming. Wolves flanked them, their howls rising in unison. The Kijin stood at their head, disciplined and proud.
From the walls, villagers cheered, their voices carrying across the forest.
For the first time, they did not look like scattered survivors.
They looked like an army.
And as Luminus watched, a quiet thought stirred in him:
This is only the beginning.