Leonhart crouched in the thick underbrush, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim moonlight. The human camp lay ahead—a small clearing with a modest fire at its center. Six figures sat around it: three armored mercenaries and three merchants.
Mercenaries… He narrowed his eyes. Hired swords. Some are competent, but most? Just thugs with weapons. The true measure of their strength is their equipment.
His gaze swept over them, analyzing. The first mercenary wore patched leather armor, his sword dull with age. Weak. The second had chainmail and a well-maintained longsword. Likely experienced. The last one had a steel breastplate and a battle-worn axe resting against his leg. Dangerous.
Leonhart smirked. Three warriors against my force. But they are humans, soft and complacent. We strike fast. We strike first.
He turned to the goblins around him—twelve in total, including two hobgoblins. They were tense, eager, gripping their crude weapons with shaking hands.
"This is our moment," he whispered. "The strong will feast. The weak will fall."
Gurruk, one of the hobgoblins, bared his teeth. "We kill?"
Leonhart's smirk widened. "We kill."
⸻
The Attack Begins
Leonhart moved first, gliding through the shadows with inhuman precision. He signaled with his hand—three goblins to the left, four to the right, while he and the two hobgoblins took the center. They encircled the camp like wolves stalking prey.
The fire crackled, masking their approach. The merchants were laughing, unaware. The mercenaries, however, remained quiet, their hands close to their weapons. Instincts, but dull ones.
Leonhart tensed, then pounced.
His dagger found the throat of the weakest mercenary before the man could react. Blood sprayed, and the camp erupted into chaos.
Gurruk and Drog charged, their crude blades hacking at the second mercenary. The man barely had time to rise before a goblin spear punctured his thigh. He screamed, swinging wildly, but Drog slammed a club into his face, shattering his jaw. He crumpled.
The last mercenary roared, yanking his axe up. He moved fast—faster than Leonhart anticipated. A goblin lunged, but the axe cleaved through its skull in a sickening crunch.
He's strong.
Leonhart darted in, slashing at the man's side. The breastplate absorbed the strike, but it staggered him. Gurruk took the opening, driving his blade into the mercenary's exposed armpit. The man howled in pain but refused to fall.
Another goblin tried to flank him. The mercenary swung his axe, catching the creature in the ribs, sending it sprawling. He turned, raising his weapon for a killing blow—
Leonhart struck. His dagger found the gap between the helmet and neck. He twisted. The mercenary shuddered, then went still.
⸻
Aftermath
The merchants had tried to flee. They didn't make it far. Drog's group had caught them, their bodies now sprawled in the dirt, throats slit.
Leonhart surveyed the scene. Three goblins lay dead—one killed instantly, another bleeding out, and the last twitching, an axe buried in its side.
Our first raid, and we've already lost three. A waste, but a necessary one.
He turned to the spoils. The mercenaries' weapons were valuable. The breastplate too—too large for a goblin, but useful nonetheless. Then his eyes fell on a leather satchel near the merchants' belongings. He picked it up and unrolled its contents.
A map.
Marked on it were various locations—trade routes, a village to the northeast, and several unnamed settlements. His eyes gleamed.
This… this is valuable.
He turned to his tribe, holding the map up. "This is our future."
The goblins murmured, uncertain.
He smirked. "Food, weapons, land. We know where the humans are. We will take what we need."
He glanced at the corpses. The dead would not go to waste. He gestured toward them. "Bring them. We feed our strength."
The goblins eagerly obeyed, dragging the bodies back to the cave.
Leonhart walked behind them, gripping the map tightly.
This was just the beginning.