Leonhart stood atop the fortress walls, golden eyes scanning the darkened landscape. The moon bathed the camp below in pale silver, casting long shadows over the restless figures moving through the torch-lit streets. His warriors—his people—trained relentlessly, but no amount of preparation could erase the tension in the air.
The Silent Specter's words echoed in his mind.
The humans are moving. A force unlike any before. If you do not prepare, annihilation awaits you and your kind.
He exhaled slowly, crossing his arms. "The past repeats itself," he murmured to himself. "When I was human, war was all I knew. Now, as a monster… it still follows me."
A scoff left his lips. How poetic. Different body, same fate.
He could see it in their eyes—the goblins sharpening their blades, the orcs testing their axes against thick wooden posts, the lizardmen hissing low as they sparred under torchlight. Strength did not erase fear; it only masked it.
Are we ready?
His grip tightened around the railing. Ready or not, the war was coming.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The War Council – A Battle of Wits
Leonhart stepped into the war tent, where his commanders had already gathered. The air inside was thick with anticipation. A large, hand-drawn map of the surrounding territory lay spread across a crude wooden table, marked with potential enemy movements and planned ambush sites.
Varokh, ever the blunt tactician, spoke first. "We should strike now. Hit them before they even have a chance to rally."
"We don't even know the size of their forces yet," Bruk countered, arms crossed. "Charging in blind is suicide."
Gurruk grinned, his sharp goblin teeth flashing in the dim light. "Who cares about numbers? We're stronger. Let's spill blood."
Leonhart sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Idiots.
"Attacking them head-on plays into their hands," he said, his voice cutting through the rising tension. "They expect us to fight like monsters—brutish, reckless. We won't."
Varokh frowned. "Then what do you suggest?"
Leonhart tapped a finger against the map, where several human supply routes had been marked. "We will not fight their war. We will make them fight ours."
The tent fell silent.
"Explain," Bruk said slowly, intrigued.
Leonhart leaned forward. "The humans rely on steady supplies. Food, weapons, reinforcements. We cut those off, they weaken. We raid their caravans, strike at night, vanish before they can retaliate. By the time they realize what's happening, their soldiers will be starving, demoralized, desperate."
Sshorak, the lizardman strategist, let out a low hiss of approval. "Guerrilla warfare… Yes. This will bleed them."
Varokh grunted but nodded. "A slow hunt before the slaughter."
Leonhart's gaze swept over his commanders. "We strike when we decide. Not when they want us to."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Ambush Plan
The commanders gathered around the map as Leonhart laid out the details.
"We'll send mixed squads—goblins for stealth, lizardmen for speed, orcs for brute force. Each squad will have a specific task: one to sabotage, another to assassinate key figures, and one to act as the distraction."
Drog cracked his knuckles. "Who leads the first strike?"
Leonhart met his gaze. "You."
A grin split Drog's face, eager for battle. "Consider it done."
Leonhart's expression hardened. "But listen well—if you get caught, no heroics. Survive. If you die, I will drag your corpse back just to kill you again."
Drog laughed. "Understood, Warlord."
Leonhart sighed. They better not get themselves killed.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A War on the Horizon
As the meeting dispersed, Leonhart remained behind, staring at the flickering candlelight. War had always been a game of patience and control. He had seen kingdoms fall because their rulers rushed into battle blinded by arrogance.
He would not make the same mistake.
The Silent Specter's warning gnawed at him. Who was he? Why did he interfere? And most importantly—was he telling the truth?
Leonhart exhaled sharply, gripping the hilt of his sword.
It doesn't matter. War is here. And I intend to win.