Leonhart crouched low, his new body tense as he peered out from behind the jagged rock. His goblin ears twitched at every sound, instincts screaming at him to run or fight. But he forced himself to stay still, to observe. More goblins. He wasn't alone.
I need to be careful.
His body still felt wrong. He tried to move, to stand with the grace of a warrior—but his limbs were short, awkward. His balance was off, his reflexes sluggish. When he reached for his sword—his hand twitched in confusion.
No sword. No armor. Just this pathetic body.
A sharp hunger gnawed at his insides. It was primal, urgent. His senses were sharper than before—the scent of blood, of damp earth, of unwashed bodies filled his nostrils. His stomach clenched, and before he could think, he found himself sniffing the air.
What am I doing?
The realization sent a shudder through him. The instincts of this body were fighting against his mind. He had been a warrior—a king—but this form was weak. Frail. The instincts screamed at him to scavenge, to submit, to survive.
"No." His voice was a rasp, barely more than a growl.
He clenched his fists. I will not be reduced to an animal. I am still Leonhart Vael. I will master this body.
⸻
A cluster of goblins milled about in the dim cavern beyond, their guttural chatter echoing off the damp stone walls. They were like him—small, wiry, green-skinned. Yet even among them, there was a clear pecking order.
Goblins were far from mindless beasts. Leonhart knew this from his past life. Their society operated on a brutal hierarchy. At the bottom were the weakest—scavengers and runts who did menial labor or served as fodder in battle. Above them were the standard goblin fighters, stronger and more aggressive. Then came the hobgoblins—larger, more intelligent, and often serving as enforcers or lieutenants. At the very top were goblin chiefs, sometimes even goblin kings, ruling through brute strength or cunning.
And right now, Leonhart was at the very bottom.
He clenched his jagged teeth. "Damn it… To think I've fallen this low."
The goblins ahead of him were engaged in crude activities—gnawing on bones, sharpening rusted blades, bickering over scraps. He watched their interactions, noting how the stronger ones took what they wanted, how the weak either submitted or got beaten down.
I need to learn their ways… adapt. If I act like some confused human in a monster's skin, I'll be killed before I can figure out my next move.
He took a slow breath, then stepped forward, merging into the chaos of the goblin tribe.
The goblins were gathered around a small fire pit deeper in the cave. They were a pitiful sight—scrawny, covered in dirt and scars. Some gnawed on bones, others sharpened crude weapons. None paid him any attention.
One, larger than the rest, stood near the fire, sneering at a smaller goblin who had spilled a handful of bones onto the ground.
"Stupid runt! Can't even hold food?" The larger goblin kicked the smaller one, sending it sprawling.
Leonhart watched, his jaw tightening. Hierarchy. The weak are prey. The strong rule.
A goblin near him scoffed. "New runt look stupid."
Leonhart turned. The goblin sneered, baring yellowed teeth. "You weak. You die soon."
Is that what they think of me? A weakling?
Something dark curled in his chest—rage, humiliation. But he said nothing. Not yet. Instead, he lowered his head, letting his new role settle in.
Fine. Let them think I'm weak.
⸻
For hours, Leonhart observed them. Their movements, their fights, their habits. The leader—the biggest one—was aggressive but predictable. The others followed strength, but they lacked discipline. They bickered over scraps, stole from each other. Their weapons were crude, their formations nonexistent.
This isn't an army. It's a pack of starving dogs.
He flexed his fingers. They didn't work like before, but he was learning. He needed to train his muscles, adjust to this body's limits. And then…
He glanced at the leader of the goblins, the one who ruled by strength alone.
I will show them what real strength is.