The goblin tribe returned to their cave, dragging the carcasses of the boar and the wolf behind them. The air buzzed with crude chatter—grunts, growls, and hisses as they recounted the hunt. The tribe was fifty strong, a mix of goblins and a handful of hobgoblins. Of the 18 that had set out to hunt, only 10 returned.
Sharp yellow eyes flicked toward Leonhart—some filled with curiosity, others with wariness.
"Runt killed big beast," one muttered, jabbing a clawed finger at him.
"Killed wolf too. Maybe runt not so weak," another sneered, though there was a hint of respect in his tone.
Leonhart kept his posture low and unassuming. They're noticing me. That's dangerous.
Goblins lived by a brutal hierarchy. The weak obeyed. The strong dominated. By slaying both the boar and the wolf, he had drawn attention—the kind that could get him killed.
A heavy presence loomed nearby, and the chatter died.
The chief stepped forward.
A hulking brute of a goblin, standing a full head taller than even the hobgoblins, his dark green skin was lined with deep scars—marks of dominance earned through battle. His beady black eyes studied Leonhart, calculating.
"Runt strong?" the chief rumbled.
Leonhart lowered his gaze slightly—enough to avoid provocation, but not enough to seem weak. "Lucky," he rasped. "Beast was already weak."
The chief scoffed but said nothing. The tension in the cave eased slightly, though Leonhart knew he was being measured. He's testing me. Judging if I'm a threat.
The goblins tore into the fresh kill, ripping flesh apart with sharp teeth. Leonhart forced himself to eat, ignoring the taste of raw, bloody meat. He needed strength.
A shadow loomed over him.
A goblin warrior—taller than most, with a jagged scar down his cheek—stood over him, sneering. One of the strongest fighters in the tribe.
"Runt think he strong?" the warrior spat. "Kill beast? That not make you warrior."
Leonhart didn't react. Here it is. A challenge…sigh.
The goblins around them stirred, eyes gleaming with excitement. Fights for dominance were common. The weak submitted. The strong rose. And this goblin was making sure Leonhart knew his place.
The warrior cracked his knuckles. "I show tribe runt still weak."
Leonhart exhaled slowly. If I refuse, I'm prey. If I fight recklessly, I die.
He pushed himself up, feigning reluctance. "I don't want trouble," he muttered.
"Too late." The goblin lunged.
Leonhart moved.
He ducked low, the warrior's fist whistling past his ear. He countered with a swift punch to the gut—not for damage, but to throw his opponent off balance.
The warrior grunted, swinging again. Leonhart sidestepped, hooked his foot behind the goblin's ankle, and shoved. His opponent stumbled.
A perfect opening.
Leonhart struck fast—an elbow to the ribs, a sharp jab to the throat. The warrior gasped, eyes wide.
The goblins watching grunted in surprise.
The warrior snarled and lashed out, claws aiming for Leonhart's face. He ducked and lunged, wrapping an arm around the goblin's neck. He squeezed.
The warrior thrashed, but Leonhart held firm. Seconds passed. The struggles weakened… then stopped.
Silence.
Leonhart released the goblin and stepped back, breathing heavily.
A hobgoblin smirked. "Hah. Runt not so weak after all."
Leonhart met the chief's gaze briefly. The leader studied him with narrowed eyes, then grunted and turned away.
The challenge was over. Leonhart had won.
But he wasn't foolish enough to celebrate.
Instead, he did what any goblin would do. He spat on the ground, grunted, and shuffled away as if it was nothing.
The tribe lost interest, returning to their feast. But Leonhart felt their lingering glances.
He had taken his first step up the hierarchy.
Now he just had to survive it.