Drekk's knife hovered, trembling, inches from the orc's spine when the figure turned.

The torchlight caught her first: seven and a half feet of scarred, grey-green muscle wrapped in blackened iron pauldrons reared from her shoulders like folded dragon wings, each spike tipped with ancient blood-lacquer that drank the red light. A single obsidian breastplate, narrow as a dagger's blade and shaped like an inverted heart, guarded only the sternum; its scalloped edges flared outward in cruel bat-wing curves, edged in wet crimson runes that throbbed like living veins.

At her throat, a wide collar of midnight leather clasped with a solitary ruby, dark and heavy as a drop of frozen gore. Around her hips, a thick war-belt of blackened steel and bone cinched tight, hung with the polished skulls of dead kings; from its center dangled a short, tattered loin-plate of the same void-metal, shifting with each breath to bare more than it hid.

Her thighs were sheathed in segmented greaves of the same ebon alloy, their inner faces deliberately cut away so that corded green muscle gleamed uncovered, while razor flanges and crimson filigree traced the outer plates like fresh wounds. Every plate, every spike, every rune looked forged not to keep death out, but to welcome it with a lover's smile.

The Stonehide's Chieftess had joined the battle, a calamity capable of turning the tide of any battle. Nameless. Voiceless.

Drekk's mind blanked as her white hair felt like anything but kindness, he couldn't believe there was another orc even stronger than Kraghul present here but she wasn't among the orcs that came here with the initial party.

But he could also tell he wasn't her target as she barely paid him any attention apart from that initial first look.

For the first time in a very long time did she descend from the mountains, she walked the ground.

And she had come.

Not to save the goblins. But to preserve her duel with Byung, the fight Maui had promised her.

She had also come to collect a blood-debt older than him—payment for the sins of Kraghul's father, the warlord who had failed to take her life which resulted in her exile before she took over the Stonehide clan.

The Chieftess had sworn an oath on that skull, and oaths to her were carved in stone that she never broke.

An orc appeared in front of her, looking left and right but he had no idea who she was as she appeared out of thin air.

"Who the fuck are yo—!" The orc's throat was slit before he could complete that sentence.

No one saw her move, Drekk felt blood and wondered who had killed him, only registering she was responsible with blood dripping down her sword.

Drekk, cannibal and schemer, felt every hair on his body stand on end. The Chieftess's eyes—red, predator-cold—met his for a single heartbeat. No anger. No curiosity. Just recognition of prey.

His arm dropped. The knife clattered to the stone. His legs locked, rooted by instinct. Prey does not speak to the hunter. Prey does not move. Drekk was reminded of his place on the food-chain.

She walked past him without slowing, boots making no sound on the blood-slick floor. Four more shapes peeled from the darkness—her honor guard, faces hidden beneath bone masks, axes dripping. They fell in behind her in perfect silence, a moving wall of death.

-

Byung's eyes closed, he lost consciousness. One moment, he was being pummelled by Kraghul. The next, his brain began to bleed, the weight of exhaustion and the blows from Kraghul's fist was too much for his body to handle.

His vision blurred, the distant shouts fading into nothingness. He tried to stand when he heard the voices of the two goblins that came to this mine with him but his body had reached its limit.

When awareness flickered back, Byung found himself in an unfamiliar place. A vast, cavernous hall carved from obsidian and veins of glittering ore. The air hummed with an ancient power, thick and metallic, like the aftermath of a forge's fire. Torches sputtered along the walls, their flames casting elongated shadows that danced like living entities. He was on his knees, palms pressed against cold stone etched with runes that pulsed faintly, as if breathing. Panic surged— was this death? A hallucination?

No. It felt too real. The chill seeped into his bones, the runes' glow warmed his skin, and when he looked up, his breath caught in his throat.

Before him stood the Goblin King.

For the first time, Byung could see his face clearly—not the vague silhouette from prior dreams, but a visage etched with the weight of centuries. The king was no monstrous caricature; he was a goblin elevated, his green skin taut over sharp, regal features, marred by scars that told stories of battles long forgotten. His eyes were piercing emeralds, flecked with gold.

A crown of twisted iron and goblin fangs rested on his brow, and his frame, though compact like any goblin's, exuded an aura of unyielding command. He wore armour forged from dark metals, etched with the same runes as the floor, and at his side hung the sword—the legendary blade that had haunted Byung's visions.

The King regarded him, not with surprise, but with recognition. He tilted his head slightly, as if appraising a long-lost kin.

"You are finally here, Byung," The king said, his voice a resonant growl that echoed through the chamber, carrying the timbre of thunder wrapped in velvet.

Byung staggered to his feet, heart pounding. This wasn't a dream; the king had addressed him by name, registered his presence as if they shared the same plane.

"Who... what are you?" Byung stammered, his voice echoing unnaturally loud.

"Why am I here?" Byung questioned with clear confusion in his voice. The king's lips curved into a wry smile, revealing fangs polished to a lethal sheen.

"I am the First King, the one who forged our kind from chaos into something more. And you, Byung—you will finish what I could not," The Goblin King said.

Byung instantly assumed this must have been the person who brought him here, this king must have been the reason he was reincarnated into this world.

Byung's mind reeled, fragments of his hybrid system flashing before him—rebates, upgrades, the inexplicable pull toward leadership. "But I'm... I'm just a goblin. Reborn, maybe, but why me?" Byung questioned.

The king stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, like standing before a storm.

"Fate chooses the vessel. But listen well—this is not mere destiny. It is necessity. The goblins will wither out of existence; divided, they perish. United under a true king, they rise. And you must wield what I once did," The goblin king said.

He drew the sword with a fluid motion, the blade humming as it sliced the air. It was no ordinary weapon—forged not of simple iron, but a shimmering alloy that caught the torchlight in prismatic shards. Runes along its edge glowed with inner fire.

"This sword," the king intoned, holding it aloft.

"...was not born of goblin hands. In the dawn of our wars, when orcs first enslaved us as fodder, I sought allies in the dark continent. The dwarves—masters of earth and flame—crafted it in secret. They delved into the world's heart, mining star-fallen ore from craters where heavens clashed with stone. It was no gift; I traded goblin lives for it—scouts who mapped forgotten veins of gold for their greed. This blade cleaves not just flesh, but the soul. It amplifies the wielder's will, turns weakness to dominion. But it demands a king worthy of it—one who unites, not destroys," The goblin king said.

Byung reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the hilt. A jolt surged through him—visions of goblin hordes marching, empires rising from mines.

"How do I claim it?" Byung questioned. The king's eyes darkened in disappointment as he retracted the sword.

"You cannot... You are a destroyer and I cannot allow you to wake up,"

The longer Byung remained here, the weaker his heartbeat got, at this moment in time.

He only had 4 minutes until his heart stopped beating but why would his "system" want him dead?

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