Leonhart stood at the mouth of the cave, watching his goblins feast on the corpses of the fallen humans. The stench of blood and burnt flesh filled the air, mingling with the low growls and eager chewing of his underlings. The weak would grow stronger. The strong would become even deadlier.
Their numbers had changed. Before the raid, they were twelve—two hobgoblins and ten goblins. But battle always came with losses. Three goblins had perished, their frail bodies no match for human steel. Now, they were down to two hobgoblins and seven goblins.
Seven goblins… Not nearly enough.
He glanced at Drog and Gurruk, the two hobgoblins. Their bodies were slightly larger than before, their muscles thickening as they devoured human flesh. Evolution was happening, slowly but surely.
Leonhart turned his gaze to the rest of the goblins. Some showed signs of growth—sharper claws, stronger limbs. But others remained weak, barely more than vermin.
He exhaled. "Not enough. We need more."
Gurruk wiped blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with hunger. "More?"
Leonhart nodded. "More goblins. More strength. More power."
Drog grunted, cracking a bone between his teeth. "Then we raid again."
Leonhart smirked. "Not yet. We need a plan."
⸻
The Next Move
After the feast, Leonhart gathered the goblins. The flickering fire cast shadows on the cave walls as they waited for his command.
He unfolded the map taken from the merchants. His golden eyes traced the markings, the names scribbled in human language. One in particular caught his attention.
A village. Not too far from their location.
Perfect.
He tapped the map with a clawed finger. "Here. A human settlement."
The goblins murmured among themselves, their interest piqued. More humans meant more food, more weapons, more resources.
Gurruk grinned, baring sharp teeth. "When do we attack?"
Leonhart shook his head. "We don't. Not yet."
Drog frowned. "Why?"
Leonhart's voice was cold. "Because we are too weak."
Silence settled over the group.
He continued. "Humans in villages are different from those in a small camp. They have guards, walls, weapons. If we attack blindly, we will all die."
The goblins shifted uncomfortably. They understood. Even in their simple minds, survival was everything.
Leonhart rolled up the map. "We will scout first. Learn their defenses, their numbers. Then, we plan the real attack."
⸻
A New Threat
Later that night, as the goblins rested, Leonhart sat at the entrance of the cave, sharpening a stolen dagger. The stars above were bright, cold and indifferent.
A rustling in the trees made him pause.
His eyes narrowed. He sniffed the air. Not human. Not animal.
Something else.
A growl rumbled in his throat. He stood, gripping the dagger tightly. "Gurruk. Drog."
The two hobgoblins were awake instantly, weapons in hand.
Leonhart gestured toward the trees. "Something's watching us."
Drog sniffed the air and spat. "Goblins. Not ours."
A rival tribe.
Leonhart grinned. "Good. Let them come."
If they wanted a fight, he would give them one. And when the battle was over, the strongest would rise.
Just as it should be.