Darkness.
Then, a flicker of light.
Leonhart's vision wavered, shadows blurring into soft hues. His eyes fluttered open, the world around him shifting in and out of focus. The dim glow of torches flickered overhead, casting dancing patterns on the rough cavern walls. His breath was ragged, and a dull ache pulsed through his entire body. His fingers twitched, responding sluggishly to his command.
He lifted his hand.
A grayish hue.
His brows furrowed. His skin—no longer the deep green of a goblin—was a pale, almost ashen gray. His fingertips trembled slightly as he turned his hand over, trying to comprehend the change. The memories came flooding back—the battle, the pain, the surge of mana that had torn through him like a wildfire.
A sharp gasp broke the silence.
Bruk stood at the entrance of the chamber, his large form frozen in shock. His amber eyes widened, unblinking, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Then, suddenly, his expression contorted, a sound escaping him—a mixture of relief, disbelief, and something deeper.
"LORD LEONHART!"
His voice echoed through the cavern, filled with something raw and unrestrained. He turned, his massive frame stumbling back as he rushed outside. Leonhart barely had time to sit up before hurried footsteps filled the space.
Then they came.
Drog, eyes wild and filled with emotion he had never shown before. Gurruk, despite his injuries, limping forward with his one good arm, staring at him as if he were looking at something divine. The others followed, their expressions a whirlwind of disbelief, relief, and something far more profound.
They knelt.
One by one, his warriors, his people—those who had survived—fell to their knees before him.
For the first time, they cried.
Tears streamed down their dirtied faces, mixing with blood and grime. Their hands trembled as they clutched at their chests, at the ground, at the memories of the slaughter they had endured. Leonhart's heart clenched at the sight. He had seen goblins rage, fight, kill, and die. But he had never seen them weep.
"Lord Leonhart," Drog's voice was hoarse, heavy. "We thought… we thought we lost you."
Gurruk's face twisted in pain, his large frame shaking. "I… I couldn't protect them. They… all…"
Leonhart's breath hitched. Images flashed in his mind—his people, slaughtered, their homes burned, their cries echoing through the night. His hands clenched into fists, his sharp nails biting into his own skin.
Then, a voice—weak, trembling, yet firm.
"We don't want it to happen again."
A young goblin, no older than a child, knelt at the front. His small hands were balled into fists, his eyes red and puffy from crying. "Please, my lord. We don't want to lose more."
Tears continued to fall. The broken sobs of warriors filled the space, a sound foreign yet deeply human. Leonhart exhaled, his body still weak, but his resolve—his will—stronger than ever.
He placed a hand on the child's head, his fingers gently ruffling the thin strands of hair.
"You won't."
⸻
The grief had passed, but the fire remained. It burned in their eyes, in their hearts, in their very beings. The desire to rise again, to never fall like that again—it was an unspoken oath that bound them together.
Leonhart sat at the center of the cavern, his lieutenants surrounding him. A rough map of the area was sketched into the dirt, marked with symbols that denoted threats and opportunities.
"How many survived?" Leonhart's voice was low but firm.
Bruk, his expression still unreadable, answered. "Thirty-seven, including you." His jaw tightened. "Over a hundred perished."
Leonhart closed his eyes. A deep breath in. A slow exhale. The weight of those lives settled on his shoulders.
Drog, his usual fiery demeanor subdued, spoke next. "We retrieved what we could from the ruins, but most of our supplies are lost. We have weapons, some armor, but food… it won't last us more than a few days."
Leonhart's fingers tapped against his knee. "Where are we now?"
Bruk pointed to a spot on the map. "A cave system in the eastern mountains. It's hidden, far from human settlements. But it won't be enough. If the humans track us here…"
"They won't," Leonhart said. His gaze sharpened. "Not if we move smartly."
The group nodded, the atmosphere shifting. The despair had been acknowledged. The losses had been mourned. Now, only purpose remained.
"We cannot stay here," Leonhart said, his voice firm, though still laced with the exhaustion of his forced evolution. "This cave is a temporary haven, but nothing more. We need a stronghold—one that cannot be burned down in a single night."
Bruk nodded. "The humans won't stop, my lord. Not after what they've done. If anything, they will hunt us with greater force now."
Leonhart exhaled. He knew the truth of Bruk's words. The empire would not tolerate their survival, especially after what had transpired. If they wished to survive, they needed numbers, they needed strategy, and most of all, they needed power.
"The orcs," Gurruk rasped, his voice still weak from his injuries. "They have long resisted the humans. If we gain their favor—"
"They'll be difficult to approach," Drog interrupted, his gaze hard. "Orcs respect strength above all else. And right now, we are few."
Leonhart considered this. The orcs would be useful, but earning their alliance would require proving themselves. A direct approach might lead to their deaths if the orcs deemed them weak.
"The lizardmen," Bruk suggested. "Sshorak was open to discussion before… after seeing what happened to us, perhaps he will see the threat that humans pose. He may be more willing now."
Leonhart's fingers tightened against his knee. He thought of Sshorak, of the lizardmen's warrior culture. They were pragmatic—if they saw value in an alliance, they would accept. If they didn't, they would not hesitate to turn them away.
"Our first move," Leonhart said, his voice final, "is to seek out Sshorak and secure an alliance. If the lizardmen join us, we will have a foothold, and from there, we will prepare for the orcs."
A murmur of agreement spread through the gathered warriors. They had lost everything, but not their will to fight. They had suffered, but they had not been broken. And they would make sure that those who had wronged them would suffer in turn.
Leonhart stood, his newly gray skin illuminated by the flickering torchlight. "We will rise again," he declared. "Stronger. Smarter. Deadlier."
His warriors straightened, their eyes burning with the same fire that now raged in his own heart.
And so, they moved. Toward the future. Toward war. Toward vengeance.
The humans had struck first.
But they would be the last to fall.