Leonhart sat in the dimly lit cavern, the warmth of the fresh kill still clinging to his skin. The scent of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of unwashed goblins. The tribe was restless, their guttural chatter filling the cave.
"Runt strong," a goblin muttered between bites of meat. "Killed boar. Killed wolf. Even beat strong warrior."
"Maybe too strong," another hissed, eyes glinting with suspicion.
Leonhart remained silent, fingers idly tracing the rough surface of the cave floor. He had expected this. In a society ruled by strength, standing out meant becoming a target.
At the far end of the cave, the chief sat atop a mound of bones, watching.
He's wary of me now.
The chief had let the hunt's success overshadow his concerns for the night, but Leonhart knew it wouldn't last. Another challenge would come soon. And he needed to be ready.
⸻
The moment came sooner than expected.
A sharp pain lanced through Leonhart's body. He doubled over, vision blurring. Heat spread through his veins, a searing fire that forced a strangled gasp from his throat. The goblins stirred—some backing away, others creeping closer, intrigued by his suffering.
What… is happening to me?
His muscles burned. His bones ached, stretching, reshaping. His skin prickled with heat.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the pain faded. He collapsed, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow.
Silence.
Then, whispers.
"Not runt anymore…"
Leonhart pushed himself up, his movements unnaturally smooth. His limbs no longer felt weak. His frame no longer frail. His claws were sharper, his muscles denser.
A reflection in a puddle of water confirmed what he already knew.
He had evolved.
A hobgoblin.
⸻
Morning came, and with it, a test of his new form.
The goblin chief did not challenge him—not yet. But Leonhart knew he needed to cement his place. And what better way than another hunt?
"Hunt!" the chief barked, sending goblins scrambling.
Leonhart led this time.
The hunting party was eight strong—five goblins, two hobgoblins, and himself.
They moved through the misty forest, their footsteps light against damp earth. Their prey was a large stag, its antlers sharp, muscles taut with strength. A challenge. Perfect.
Leonhart signaled the goblins to spread out. They obeyed.
A goblin rushed too soon. The stag lashed out, kicking him in the ribs. The sickening crack echoed through the trees. One down.
"Wait for the opening!" Leonhart barked.
The goblins hesitated—then listened.
They funneled the beast toward a trap. Leonhart lunged, claws sinking into its throat.
Blood sprayed. The stag staggered. The goblins descended.
Cheers erupted.
Leonhart wasn't just strong—he was a leader.
⸻
The return journey was different. The goblins no longer whispered about him in hushed tones. They followed, waiting for his command.
Then, the air shifted.
A scent—metal, sweat, something sharp and electric.
Through the trees, a figure slumped against a rock.
A human woman. A mage.
Blood seeped from her side. She lifted her head—and froze.
Her gaze locked onto Leonhart, her face twisting in horror.
"M-monster…" she whispered.
Leonhart stared back.
This just got complicated.