The night was quiet, save for the distant howls of creatures prowling the forest. Leonhart stood atop the village's highest watchtower, his golden eyes fixed on the dark horizon. The glow of human campfires flickered in the distance, a stark reminder of the inevitable war. Yet, despite all the external threats, his greatest battle was the one raging within.
He clenched his fists. His body was no longer that of a man. His mind, once clear and disciplined, now swam with instincts that weren't his own. He could feel the pull of his goblin blood—the primal desire for domination, destruction, and conquest. And yet, he could still hear the echoes of his past life. The man he used to be would have never led a horde of monsters, would have never considered parleying with creatures humans deemed abominations.
What am I becoming?
He exhaled sharply. The answer should have been simple—he was Leonhart, leader of the goblins, soon to be king of a new order. But the deeper he sank into this role, the more his past self felt like a fading dream. Would there come a day when he no longer remembered what it was like to be human?
A rustling below caught his attention. Drog, ever the brute, was barking orders at a group of younger goblins, their crude weapons clanking as they trained in the moonlight. Their once-wild movements had become precise under his guidance. Discipline was taking root where chaos once ruled.
Leonhart had done this. He had taken a rabble and forged them into something greater. But the question clawed at him: was he truly building a future for them, or was he simply succumbing to the very nature of the beast he had become?
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "Thinking too much again?"
Bruk stood nearby, arms crossed, his piercing red eyes observing Leonhart with quiet understanding.
Leonhart smirked. "And here I thought goblins didn't care for philosophy."
Bruk shrugged. "Most don't. But you're not most." He tilted his head slightly. "You change. Not just body. Mind too."
Leonhart frowned. "You've noticed?"
Bruk nodded. "More than Drog, more than Gurruk. You lead different. Not like goblin, not like human. Something else."
Something else. The words settled heavily on his chest. What did that mean? Was he losing himself, or was he becoming something entirely new? Could he forge a path beyond what humanity and monsterkind had dictated for him?
"Maybe that's for the best," Leonhart finally muttered. "The old me wouldn't survive in this world. And the goblin I was born as… he wouldn't have gotten this far."
Bruk studied him for a moment before giving a small nod. "Then, we keep moving forward."
Leonhart exhaled and turned his gaze back to the horizon. "Yes. We keep moving forward."
By morning, their plans were set. The internal war within Leonhart would have to wait. There were external battles to win first.
Leonhart gathered his lieutenants, this time with a new objective: the lizardmen.
"They remain neutral for now," Leonhart explained, pointing at their territory on the map. "But that won't last. The humans will try to use them. The orcs might force them into submission. We need to be the first to offer something valuable."
Gurruk frowned. "What we have that they want?"
"Stability," Leonhart replied. "They're warriors, but they're not fools. They'll side with whoever offers them the best chance of survival."
Drog cracked his knuckles. "So, we go talk?"
"We go offer them a future."
Leonhart and his chosen warriors set out toward the lizardmen's marshland territory. The air grew humid as the ground softened beneath their feet, shifting from solid soil to damp earth. Soon, mist began to creep around them, a natural defense against intruders.
Bruk raised a hand. "Scouts. Watching."
Leonhart nodded. "Let them."
They walked forward, making no attempt to hide. If the lizardmen wished to strike, they would have done so already. Instead, figures emerged from the fog—tall, scaled warriors, their bodies rippling with muscle. They carried long spears tipped with bone and metal, their slit-pupiled eyes watching with wary curiosity.
A lizardman stepped forward, his dark green scales glistening in the mist. His posture was neither hostile nor welcoming.
"Goblins," the lizardman hissed. "What brings you to the lands of Sshorak?"
Leonhart met his gaze without flinching. "Opportunity."
The lizardman flicked his tongue, considering him. "Speak, then. But choose words carefully."
Leonhart took a step forward. "The humans march. The orcs prepare. Both will seek to use your people as pawns in their war."
Sshorak's eyes narrowed. "And you? You seek to use us, too?"
Leonhart smirked. "I seek allies. Not slaves."
A tense silence stretched between them before Sshorak let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "Bold words for a goblin."
Leonhart's smirk widened. "Then let me prove we are more than that."
The lizardmen listened. And the game of alliances began.
Leonhart knew the road ahead would be treacherous. But if he was to carve a place in this world—not as a human, not as a goblin, but as something greater—then he would do whatever it took.
The storm was coming.
And he would be ready.