The war camp stirred with the energy of something greater than mere survival—something that Leonhart had planted deep in their monstrous hearts. The orcs, goblins, and lizardmen, once separate and unorganized, now moved with direction. But unity was fragile, and Leonhart knew his work was far from over.
Leonhart stood atop a newly erected wooden platform overlooking the heart of the encampment. His golden eyes flickered under the morning sun as he surveyed the evolving war camp. Walls were being reinforced with scavenged wood and stone, trenches were dug along the perimeter, and warriors trained relentlessly in the open ground, their roars shaking the air.
But his focus wasn't on their progress—it was on their future.
"Varokh," Leonhart called, his voice even. The Warchief Orc stepped forward, his massive frame casting a long shadow. His scarred arms were crossed, his expression unreadable.
"Yes, Warlord?"
"Have the warbands been fully merged?" Leonhart turned his gaze to him. "Are there still factions within our ranks?"
Varokh exhaled through his nose. "Some of the younger warriors still bear grudges, but none dare act against your rule. The strong understand what has happened here, but the weak… they whisper."
Leonhart nodded, expecting as much. "Then we silence the whispers before they become a problem. It's time to test our unity."
He turned to Gurruk, Drog, Sshorak, and Bruk, each standing at his side. "We will hold another ranking battle—one that includes all races under my command. Not just orcs, but goblins and lizardmen alike. Those who wish to rise in the ranks will prove themselves today."
Gurruk grinned, showing his fangs. "A proper way to forge loyalty. The strong will earn their place, and the rest will fall in line."
Sshorak hissed in approval. "Good. Our kind respects strength above all. Let them fight for the right to lead."
Leonhart's eyes gleamed. "Then let's begin."
⸻
The 2nd Blood Trial Begins
A massive crowd formed around the open field designated for battle. The strongest warriors—orc, goblin, and lizardman—stepped into the ring, their eyes alight with challenge. The ranking battle was simple: defeat your opponent, prove your worth, and rise in status.
The first match was between a massive orc and a cunning lizardman. The orc, expecting a straightforward brawl, charged like a bull, but the lizardman weaved past him, slashing deep into his thigh before twisting around to land a second strike across his back. The crowd roared as the orc collapsed, defeated by speed and precision.
The next battle saw Drog facing off against a challenger—a brutal goblin warrior, lean and vicious. The fight was over in moments. Drog caught his opponent's wrist mid-strike, twisted with bone-cracking force, and drove his fist into the goblin's gut, sending him crumpling to the ground.
Each battle carried the same lesson: raw strength alone was not enough. Cunning, discipline, and adaptability won battles.
By the time the dust settled, new names had risen among the ranks:
• Varokh, Warchief Orc – First Battle Lord
• Sshorak, Lizardman Chieftain – Second Battle Lord
• Gurruk, Goblin Berserker – Third Battle Lord
• Drog, Orc Enforcer – Fourth Battle Lord
• Var'Zul, High Orc – Fifth Battle Lord
Leonhart watched the final moments unfold with satisfaction. This was more than entertainment—it was the shaping of his kingdom's hierarchy.
"This is your strength," he called out to the warriors. "Your place is earned, not given. And those who lead will always be tested." His gaze swept over them, his presence pressing down like a heavy weight. "Do not grow complacent. Weakness will not be tolerated."
A chant rose from the ranks.
"Warlord! Warlord! Warlord!"
Leonhart turned to Gurruk. "How many warriors are fully trained?"
Bruk stroked his chin, considering. "We have three hundred fighters ready for battle, another two hundred still in training. The goblins have begun mastering formation tactics, and the lizardmen are working on ambush strategies."
Leonhart exhaled slowly. "Good. But it's not enough. We need more."
⸻
Preparing for War
As night fell, Leonhart gathered his war council once more. Around the crude map in the war tent, they discussed their next move.
"Our scouts report increased human activity near the river," Sshorak informed them, pointing to the map. "They are fortifying their borders. They know something is coming."
Leonhart expected as much. His rise would not go unnoticed.
"We're not ready for open war," Bruk warned. "Not yet."
"We won't strike them head-on," Leonhart assured him. "Not until we've bled them first. We'll raid their outposts, cut off their supplies, and make them fear the shadows before they even see our full strength."
Varokh grinned, eager. "A slow hunt before the slaughter."
Leonhart's expression was unreadable, his mind already seeing the battles ahead. "Exactly."
After their discussions, Leonhart stood atop on the newly constructed fortress wall, his golden eyes scanning the horizon. His kingdom was no longer just a fledgling settlement. It had become a city of monsters, united under his banner. Goblins, orcs, ogres, lizardfolk, beastmen—all had gathered under his rule, strengthening their defenses, preparing for the inevitable.
⸻
Meanwhile, in the human kingdom, the call for war had been sounded.
In the heart of the capital, inside the grand war hall, armored figures filled the chamber. Lords, knights, and commanders stood in rows before the king and the high priest, the scent of incense and metal thick in the air. The kingdom was not merely preparing a battle—it was mustering a force the likes of which had not been seen in years.
Warriors in polished armor sharpened their swords. Squadrons of knights drilled relentlessly, their strikes ringing in unison. Holy priests blessed their soldiers, imbuing them with divine protection. Among them, seven towering figures clad in ornate armor stood silently—The Aries, the kingdom's greatest champions, each capable of decimating armies on their own.
And then there were the Holy Knights, the elite force directly blessed by the Church. These warriors carried weapons infused with light mana, designed specifically to destroy monsters and those tainted by dark energy.
The king stood, his voice unwavering. "The monster city is growing. If left unchecked, it will become a menace that even the mightiest cannot contain. We must strike first and wipe them from existence."
A roar of approval surged through the war hall, the echoes carrying with them the promise of bloodshed.
⸻
An Ominous Encounter
Back in the monster city, Leonhart was deep in thought, contemplating their next move. The tension in the air was suffocating. He could feel something shifting in the world—something bigger than mere war.
Then, without warning, the air grew unnaturally still.
A figure appeared before him, stepping out of the shadows like a ghost. Draped in a tattered cloak, his form flickered like a wisp of smoke. His presence was eerie, unsettling.
Leonhart's instincts roared to life. His blackish mana surged around him, crackling with power as he prepared to strike. But the figure did not move. He did not attack.
The Silent Specter.
"You are… the Silent Specter," Leonhart said, his voice low, measured.
The figure did not confirm nor deny it. "The humans are moving. A force unlike any before. If you do not prepare, annihilation awaits you and your kind."
Leonhart studied him, eyes sharp. "Why warn me?"
A pause. Then, the specter spoke again. "Because balance must be kept."
Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone—vanishing like a wisp of smoke into the night.
Leonhart remained rooted in place, his mind churning.
"The Silent Specter… a myth from my past life. A shadow in the records of war. His presence marked the fall of kingdoms, the rise of new rulers. He never took a side, only appeared before the bloodshed began. Historians called him an omen. Kings feared him. And yet… his warnings were never false."
He clenched his fist.
"But who is he? A god's envoy? A cursed remnant of the past? Or something else entirely?"
Leonhart exhaled slowly.
"I don't trust him. But I can't ignore him either. If his words are true… war is already upon us."
He clenched his fists. Realizing there was no more time.
The war had begun.