As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Leonhart stood at the edge of the forest, his golden eyes locked onto the village ahead. It was small—no more than thirty wooden houses, a few larger buildings at its center, and a single watchtower near the entrance. Smoke rose from chimneys, carrying the scent of freshly baked bread and burning wood. The villagers were beginning to stir, unaware of the nightmare creeping toward them.
Behind him, nearly thirty goblins crouched in silence, their bodies tense with anticipation. Three hobgoblins, their massive frames shadowed in the dim light, stood closest to him, awaiting orders. Each goblin carried crude weapons—rusty swords, daggers, and spears stolen from the fallen mercenaries. Some had simple wooden clubs, their grips tight with excitement.
Leonhart exhaled.
Thirty villagers, maybe more. If they have guards, they'll be stronger than the merchants, but not by much. The real danger is if they have anyone trained.
He turned to Drog, the largest of the hobgoblins. "You and five goblins take the left flank. Cut off anyone trying to escape toward the forest."
Drog grunted in approval.
Leonhart looked at Gurruk. "You take another five and circle the right. When the attack begins, hit them from the side."
Gurruk smirked and gave a low growl.
He faced the rest. "The rest of you are with me. We strike from the front."
The goblins tensed, their breaths shallow. Leonhart raised his hand and let his mana flow. A heavy, unseen force rippled through the air, pressing down on the goblins' bodies. Their eyes widened, their instincts screaming in the presence of something greater than them.
"This is no mindless slaughter," Leonhart said, his voice low but firm. "Kill only the ones who resist. If they surrender, they live. If they try to run, they die. We take what we need. We do not destroy everything."
The goblins absorbed his words, some nodding, others still overwhelmed by his presence.
Leonhart turned back toward the village. The time had come.
"Move."
—
The Attack Begins
The village guard was lazy. A single man stood atop the watchtower, his armor mismatched, likely taken from fallen enemies. He yawned, rubbing his eyes as he leaned against the wooden railing, completely oblivious.
The first arrow struck his throat. A gurgled cry escaped his lips as he tumbled over the side, hitting the dirt below with a dull thud. The silence was shattered by the roar of goblins rushing forward.
Leonhart led the charge, his blade gleaming as he crashed through the village's wooden gate. The first villager he saw—a young man holding a pitchfork—barely had time to scream before Leonhart's sword tore through his chest. Blood sprayed onto the dirt as the man crumpled.
Screams erupted from the village as people rushed from their homes, some clutching weapons, others simply trying to flee. Drog and his group intercepted them, their crude blades slashing through panicked bodies. One man tried to run toward the woods, but a spear impaled his back before he could take more than a few steps.
A group of five villagers, armed with swords and shields, formed a desperate defense near the center of the village.
Leonhart's eyes narrowed. Guards.
He advanced toward them, his mana surging. One of the guards lunged, his sword flashing toward Leonhart's neck. With practiced ease, Leonhart stepped aside, twisting his body just enough to avoid the strike. In a single, fluid motion, he grabbed the man's wrist and drove his blade through his gut.
The guard gasped, eyes wide with pain, before Leonhart yanked his sword free and let the corpse drop.
The remaining guards hesitated.
"Monster!" one of them cried before charging.
Leonhart blocked his attack with a flick of his blade, countering with a quick slash that severed the guard's leg at the knee. He screamed, collapsing, and was silenced by a goblin's spear plunging into his throat.
The remaining three guards fought desperately, managing to kill two goblins, but they were outnumbered. A hobgoblin swung his club, caving in a man's skull, while another was overwhelmed by a flurry of goblin blades.
The last guard turned to run—Leonhart threw a dagger, lodging it deep into the back of his neck. He fell face-first into the dirt, twitching before going still.
The battle was over in minutes.
—
Aftermath
The village was theirs.
Corpses littered the ground. Twenty villagers were dead. Seven goblins had fallen in battle, their bodies already being dragged to the side by their kin. The rest of the villagers—mostly women and children—huddled together, trembling in terror.
Leonhart scanned the scene. The goblins were looting the houses, dragging out food, weapons, and anything useful. A few eyed the surviving humans hungrily.
He raised a hand, and the goblins froze. "Enough."
He turned to the terrified villagers. "You live because I allow it. Obey, and you will not be harmed."
A man in his forties, perhaps the village head, stepped forward hesitantly. "W-what… do you want?"
Leonhart sheathed his sword. "This village is mine now."
The man paled but nodded shakily.
Leonhart's gaze swept over his goblins, his new army. They had won, but this was only the beginning.
With this village under his control, his next steps were already forming.
The kingdom would hear of this.
And they would come.
Leonhart smirked.
Let them.