Ren's fragile peace lasted less than a day.
The next "morning"—if you could even call the shift in the eternal darkness that—the lair erupted into a cacophony of violence. Chief Grol rose from his throne, let out a roar that shook the stalactites, and slammed his massive stone club into the ground.
The call to war.
The tribe's response was immediate and chaotic. Warriors howled, smashing their crude weapons against makeshift wooden and leather shields. Goblits shrieked in a mix of frenzy and encouragement. There were no orders, no formation—just a wave of primal aggression.
A force of nature.
Stupid. Loud. About to crash into a stone wall.
Ren was yanked from his corner by a kick from Kick. His spear—the first weapon he had ever made—was taken from him and thrown into a communal pile. In its place, they handed him a rotting, sharpened stick that barely qualified as a stake.
His role was clear.
He wasn't a warrior.
He was the front line.
The thing that dies first.
Hugh stood at the center of it all, reveling in the attention. Zira and the other goblits surrounded him, touching his scavenged armor, offering him the best scraps of dried meat. He roared at the cavern ceiling, pounding his chest.
The champion, ready to lead his tribe to glory.
Ren watched with clinical detachment.
Like a doctor observing a patient who refuses to believe a terminal diagnosis.
The warband—around twenty goblins of fighting age—finally moved. A disorganized mob, pouring into the tunnels toward the newly discovered territory. The smell of sulfur grew stronger with every step.
Ren's mind ran at full speed. A single island of logic in an ocean of stupidity.
He ignored the war cries. Ignored Hugh's bravado.
He focused on the terrain.
This tunnel narrows ahead. Chokepoint. Perfect ambush.
He tried to slow down, fall back. A shove forced him forward.
Left wall is unstable. A loud impact could cause a collapse.
No tools. No time.
He was a prophet screaming into a storm.
Useless.
His only chance was to use the coming chaos. Find a fraction of a second to escape when everything fell apart.
They emerged into a larger cavern. A vast chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. Sulfur stung the air, rising from yellowed cracks in the ground.
And there was silence.
Heavy. Wrong.
Even the goblins felt it. Their howls died into uneasy growls. They gripped their weapons tighter, eyes darting into the shadows.
That's when the Kobolds appeared.
No war cry.
No charge.
They simply stepped into the light—from dark alcoves, from behind rock formations.
Eight of them.
Reptilian. Man-sized. Dark gray scales. Cold, yellow eyes.
They didn't wear rags or scrap.
They wore iron breastplates. Simple helmets.
And in their hands—
Not stone.
Not wood.
Iron short swords.
Metal shields.
They moved in silence, forming a perfect line.
A shield wall.
The sound of leather boots on stone set a rhythm. Disciplined. Measured.
Deadly.
The silence broke with laughter.
Hugh's laughter.
"Gaaah! Little lizards!" he roared, pointing with his axe. "Hugh smash!"
He didn't wait.
Believing the strength that made him king of goblins made him king of the world—
He charged.
Alone.
Brute force against iron.
Ren's mind screamed.
No! Formation! Bait! It's basic infantry tactics!
The Kobolds didn't move.
The shield wall held.
Hugh raised his stone axe overhead, aiming for the center, expecting to crush shield and skull alike.
At the last second, the Kobolds moved.
Not back.
Sideways.
Like a door opening.
The center Kobold stepped back. The two beside him pivoted, shields turning.
Hugh's axe came down with a crash—
Hitting nothing but air and stone.
The shock jolted up his arms. He stumbled forward, momentum carrying him into the gap they created.
The trap snapped shut.
The Kobold on the right struck with the edge of his shield, slamming into the back of Hugh's knee. Tendons snapped with a sickening crack.
His leg gave out.
The Kobold on the left drove a short sword into Hugh's exposed thigh, slipping past useless leather armor.
Hugh screamed.
Not rage.
Pain. Shock.
He collapsed to his knees.
The champion. The alpha.
Dropped in less than three seconds.
He stared at the blood pouring from his leg, like he couldn't understand what had just happened.
The goblin tribe froze.
The sound of their champion breaking shattered their courage. Confidence, built entirely on Hugh's strength, evaporated.
Panic crept in.
The Kobolds didn't give them time.
The shield wall reformed.
Eight swords rose.
Dull iron promising fast, efficient death.
Then—together—they advanced.
One step.
Then another.
Slow. Deliberate.
Terrifying.
The sound of iron and leather marching toward extermination.
The goblins broke.
Without a leader. Without a plan.
Retreat turned into a rout.
Ren, caught in the back of the panicked mass, saw everything.
Hugh's fall.
The Kobolds' advance.
And something else.
His mind—clear, razor-sharp in the chaos—caught it.
A mistake.
A small flaw in the Kobolds' formation.
And in his hand—
He still held the rotting wooden stake.