I stood there for a moment longer, blood drying on my face and stiffening where it clung to the edges of my katars. The rain washed most of it away, but not all. Some stains refused to fade, dark and tacky against my skin, a reminder of how close the fight had been. My breathing slowly steadied as the forest returned to its uneasy calm, broken only by dripping leaves and distant, unfamiliar calls.
Slug stepped up beside me. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes remained sharp, scanning the treeline as if expecting the corpse behind us to rise again. His expression was unreadable—neither pride nor concern showing clearly on his face.
Without a word, we turned away from the fallen beast and continued on.
The walk to the goblin camp was quiet. Too quiet. The forest seemed to hold its breath, as though it were watching us pass, judging whether we were prey or something far worse. Mud squelched beneath our boots, and wet leaves brushed against my legs as we pushed forward. Somewhere high above, wings fluttered, but whatever creature made the sound never showed itself.
After a while, Slug broke the silence.
"You did well back there," he said. His voice was calm, certain. "I knew I chose correctly when I decided to follow you."
I glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity behind the words. Compliments were rare in this world, rarer still when they were genuine. A small smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.
"Thanks," I said. It felt strange to accept praise when my arms still trembled faintly from exertion and blood loss.
The trees ahead began to thin, their trunks giving way to open ground. Soon, a crude wooden wall came into view, encircling a small goblin camp. The logs were uneven and roughly sharpened, driven into the earth without much care for symmetry. They weren't particularly sturdy, but they were intimidating enough—territory marked clearly and aggressively.
We slowed our pace.
Slug moved ahead of me, his posture straightening as we approached the gate. Torches flickered along the wall, their flames hissing softly in the rain. From inside came faint sounds—voices muttering in a harsh tongue, metal scraping against wood, footsteps pacing back and forth.
"This is it," Slug said quietly.
I tightened my grip on my katars. The weight of them felt heavier now, no longer just weapons but symbols of intent. Whatever happened next would decide more than just our survival.
The real test was about to begin.
Slug stepped forward and knocked firmly against the wooden gate.
Once. Twice.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until I wondered if they were debating whether to attack without warning.
Then the gate creaked open.
At least fifteen goblins stood on the other side, weapons already raised. Rusted iron armor clung to their bodies, dented and worn with age, patched together from scavenged plates and mismatched pieces. Each of them was slightly smaller than Slug, but still thick with muscle—fighters, not scavengers. These were goblins who had survived.
Their yellowed eyes locked onto us with suspicion and barely restrained fear.
The goblin at the front wore the least rusted armor of them all. His sword was nicked but well-kept, the edge sharpened with care. His stance was confident, feet planted firmly in the mud. He stepped forward, gaze flicking between Slug and me.
"What do you want?" he demanded. "We are just trying to live our lives."
His grip tightened on his weapon, knuckles whitening beneath grime.
"So I'll ask again," he said, voice hard. "What do you want?"
I glanced at Slug and gave a small nod, signaling for him to take the lead.
He stepped forward without hesitation, shoulders squared. There was something about the way he carried himself—calm, deliberate—that made the goblins hesitate despite their numbers.
"My name is Slug," he said. His voice carried clearly past the gate. "And we are here because we seek an army."
A murmur rippled through the goblins, low and uneasy.
"But not just any army," Slug continued, his eyes burning with purpose. "We seek a strong one. A loyal one. An army that will stand against these pointless wars that have bled our people dry."
He gestured subtly toward me.
"To serve under the banner of the great Amos," he said. "The one who will rise as the next High King."
The goblins shifted uneasily, grips tightening on rusted blades. The leader's expression hardened—but beneath it, something flickered.
Interest.
Hope.
Fear.
Slug's voice lowered, steady and resolute.
"Join us," he said, "and you will no longer be hunted, forgotten, or sacrificed for the pride of cruel gods. You will be part of something greater."
Silence followed.
Rain pattered softly against wood and steel as all eyes turned, waiting for an answer that would decide blood or allegiance.
The goblin leader looked between the two of us, his gaze lingering on Slug before finally settling on me. Something unreadable passed across his face.
Then he lowered his sword.
Slowly—deliberately—he dropped to one knee.
The sound of metal striking wet earth echoed through the clearing.
One by one, the goblins behind him followed—thirty in total—kneeling in the mud, heads bowed, weapons laid aside.
Before I could speak, a rustling sound came from beyond the walls.
Movement.
Figures emerged from the shadows of the camp—more goblins stepping into view from hidden shelters and watch posts. They carried crude weapons, some with shields, others with spears, but none were raised.
Seventy more.
They joined the others, lowering themselves in unison.
A hundred goblins knelt before us.
The leader bowed his head deeply."We surrender," he said. "If you truly mean to end these wars… then we will follow."
Rain fell steadily as I stood there, surrounded by bowed heads and silent expectation. My chest felt tight—not with fear, but with the sudden weight of responsibility.
This was it.
Then another rustle cut through the air.
This time—from the treeline behind the camp.
My head snapped toward the sound just as a smaller shape pushed through the underbrush.
A baby Spitfire.
My blood ran cold.
Everyone there knew the truth—a baby Spitfire never traveled alone.
The forest erupted with movement.
Branches snapped. Leaves exploded outward as something massive forced its way through the trees. Then another.
Two full-grown Spitfires emerged behind the hatchling, their bloated bodies towering, venom already bubbling at the glands beneath their mouths. Their croaks shook the air, deep and furious, vibrating in my bones.
The goblins tensed. Some stepped back instinctively. Others raised their weapons with shaking hands.
This was it.
If I hesitated now, everything we'd built would collapse before it truly began.
I stepped forward.
My voice cut through the rain, sharp and unwavering.
"Slug and I will take the left one," I commanded. "You—take the one on the right."
Every goblin froze for half a second.
Then something changed.
Weapons lifted. Spines straightened. Fear hardened into resolve.
A hundred voices answered—not with words, but with motion.
We charged.
Slug surged ahead beside me, his horn already forming as he absorbed another insect mid-run. The goblin warriors split cleanly, moving exactly where I had ordered them, their formation rough—but real.
The Spitfires roared.
Poison sprayed.
Steel met flesh.
And as my katars bit into rain-slicked air and blood began to stain the ground once more, I felt it—clearer than ever before.
This wasn't just a fight.
This was command.
And the world had begun to listen.