The chamber was lined with trophies—human trophies. Polished armor sets hung from carved wooden stands, their dents and cracks carefully preserved as if they were marks of honor. Weapons of every kind were mounted on the walls: swords, spears, crossbows, even banners torn from fallen legions. At the center of the room, beneath dim, flickering torchlight, twelve goblins sat in a loose circle. Each of them wore oversized human cloaks, the fabric dragging along the ground and swallowing their small frames. The garments were ill-fitting, almost comical, yet none of them seemed to care. To them, these were symbols of conquest.
These twelve were no ordinary goblins. They were the leaders of the twelve great tribes—beings who, before the Trial began, ruled over territories containing billions of their kind. Each great tribe numbered over a billion goblins, and nearly half of them were naturally evolved. That alone elevated their civilization far beyond what humans might have expected. On their homeworld, survival had always meant dominance. There were no idle pursuits, no peace—only endless conflict over land, resources, and, most importantly, the sacred trees that allowed their race to reproduce. Strength determined everything, and these twelve had stood at the pinnacle of that brutal hierarchy.
And yet, despite their immense power and pride, all twelve now bowed their heads.
Before them, seated on a finely crafted chair looted from a human camp, was a goblin who had not yet reached two years of age.
"So," the young goblin said, his voice calm but laced with irritation, "you are telling me that the humans have crossed the battlefield… and are now pressing against our defensive line?"
His name was Leank—the emperor of the goblin race within this Trial. Unlike the others, his form was small, almost unimpressive, but the aura he exuded made even the ancient leaders before him tremble. His intelligence and wisdom far surpassed theirs, allowing him to exert control over even the most stubborn among them. It was a control they resented, though none dared oppose him openly.
"Yes, Your Majesty," one of the elders replied, keeping his gaze low. "We are aware of the situation. However, we require your command. The humans must be driven back. Once they are routed, we can resume plundering their settlements. Their resources…" He paused, and a crooked smile spread across his face. "…are most desirable."
A ripple of grotesque grins passed through the circle.
Leank leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression one of mild annoyance. He had been interrupted during cultivation—a process he valued above all else. Since the Trial began, he had focused almost entirely on increasing his race level, pushing the limits of his already exceptional attributes. The battlefield, in his eyes, was secondary.
"I see," he said at last. "Good. At least you were capable of recognizing the obvious."
The elders stiffened slightly but said nothing.
"Very well," Leank continued, waving a dismissive hand. "Send them back. Crush their advance and ensure they do not return. That is all."
The meeting ended as abruptly as it had begun. The twelve elders bowed deeply once more before withdrawing, leaving the young emperor alone in the chamber.
Leank rose from his seat and made his way deeper into the structure, entering a secluded cultivation room. The air inside was thick with mana, the result of carefully arranged formations etched into the floor and walls. Strange plants—some glowing faintly—lined the corners, further enhancing the concentration of energy. All of it had been purchased with points gathered from the efforts of the entire goblin race.
Or rather, from points that had been offered up to him.
As emperor, everything belonged to him.
He settled into the center of the formation, closing his eyes as he recalled the message they had received three months prior. It had come directly from the system governing their world—a privilege granted only to the highest leaders of the race. The message detailed a powerful formation available in the shop, one capable of siphoning the luck of the human race and transferring it to the goblins.
A terrifying concept.
Luck was not something one could normally grasp, yet here it was, quantified and made into a resource. By controlling the main battlefield and manipulating the flow of conflict, they could steadily strip humanity of its fortune while elevating their own.
The strategy had been simple.
Allow the humans to reclaim parts of the battlefield. Make it seem like progress. Then, when the time was right, take it all back again.
The less resistance they offered initially, the more efficiently the formation could operate.
Leank smiled faintly.
Thus far, the humans had only faced the lowest tiers of goblins—the mindless masses and expendable tribes that even the great clans considered beneath them. To the emperor, their struggle against such forces was almost laughable. If they wished, the great tribes could end this conflict at any moment.
But why rush?
Time was on their side.
—
Far from the goblin stronghold, Arin and Bertho emerged from the forest once more, their bodies weary but their spirits steady. It had been five days since they began clearing the forest, and the progress they had made was nothing short of astonishing.
Twenty kilometers.
That was how far the line had advanced.
Three times faster than what the generals had predicted.
The fighting had been brutal at first. Dense foliage, limited visibility, and constant ambushes had made every step forward a struggle. But as the days passed, the soldiers adapted. They learned to use the terrain to their advantage, incorporating the trees into their formations rather than fighting against them. Movements became smoother, more coordinated. Where they once advanced three steps at a time, they could now push forward six before needing to halt.
"I think they've gotten more aggressive," Bertho said as they walked, glancing back toward the forest.
Arin shrugged lightly. "Maybe. Hard to tell when we keep killing the ones giving orders before they can show much personality."
Bertho chuckled at that, though his expression soon shifted. "I climbed to the top of the trees before we left. We're almost out of the forest."
Arin raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
"Yeah," Bertho nodded. "There's a plain ahead. Big one. Rivers too—not these tiny streams we've been relying on."
At that, Arin's interest piqued. "Water, huh? That's good news."
It was more than just good—it was critical. The current supply situation was borderline unsustainable. With nearly seven billion troops stationed in the area, the small streams in the plains couldn't meet the demand. Entire legions had been assigned solely to transporting water, running hundreds of kilometers daily just to keep the army hydrated.
"Half the army's basically water carriers at this point," Arin muttered. "Would be nice if that changed."
"It will," Bertho said confidently. "Once we break through."
They continued walking, eventually passing by an area where soldiers were hard at work clearing the remnants of the forest. Stumps were being dug out of the ground, roots exposed and torn free with brute force.
Arin frowned. "Why not just burn them? Wouldn't that be faster?"
"They tried," Bertho replied. "The trees wouldn't catch. Mana interference. Even dead ones are tricky. And if the roots start smoldering underground, it creates too much smoke. Messes with visibility."
Arin clicked his tongue. "Figures."
He watched as workers continued their tedious labor, the sheer scale of manpower almost absurd. And yet, despite the inefficiency, it made sense. With billions of soldiers present and only a fraction actively engaged in combat, the rest needed something to do. Idle troops led to unrest, and unrest led to problems.
Better to keep them busy—even with meaningless tasks.