The mine were a hive of muted activity, goblins scurrying like shadows in the dim lantern light. The air hung heavy with the scents of damp earth from the blood soaked into the ground from days back, sweat-soaked bandages, and the faint metallic tang of blood from wounds still healing. Murkfang sat on a low crate in a quiet alcove, his own bandages tight around his chest, each breath a sharp reminder of his brush with death. Gribnox paced nearby, organizing supply lists, but Murkfang's mind was elsewhere—fixed on Byung.

The goblin had always been kind-hearted, the goblin who mended tools with a patient smile, who shared inventions to ease the burden on the weak and weary. But now... something had shifted. It wasn't just the physical transformation, though that was jarring enough: Byung's body had elongated, his frame broader, features sharpened into something almost human-like, as if he had reforged.

No, the change ran deeper. Colder. The way Byung carried himself now—shoulders squared, gaze distant, like he was viewing the world through a lens of calculation rather than compassion.

The light in his eyes, that warm spark of ingenuity and empathy, had dimmed to a cold, unyielding gleam. Who could blame him? The adventures he had, the brutal fights, the blood on his hands—it had stripped away layers of softness, leaving something harder, sharper. Murkfang shifted uneasily, a knot of worry twisting in his gut. What was Byung becoming? A leader? A king? Or something darker, a being who would do anything to survive.

Byung had spent the day uplifting his people until the sun descended into the distance. The area overflowed with goblins, their faces upturned in rapt attention as he stood on the makeshift platform, his new height making him tower over them like a figure from ancient tales.

The crowd had already cheered his tales of escape and rescue, but now he held up a hand, silencing them with a single gesture.

"And now," Byung said, his voice resonant and commanding.

"The miracle you all whisper about—the first goblin birth without the mother's death. The cure to our genetic failure, the curse that has doomed our kind for generations," Byung addressed a topic that no one quite understood.

The gallery fell utterly silent. Every goblin leaned forward, breaths held in collective suspense. No mother had ever survived childbirth before; it was their eternal handicap, the flaw in their blood that claimed a life for every new one brought into the world. Women bore children once, then perished, leaving clans desperate for more mates, more raids, more loss. But Naz had lived. Her baby suckled healthy at her breast, a living testament that shattered every perception they once held.

Byung paused, letting the weight sink in, his colder eyes scanning the crowd with calculated precision. He knew he couldn't reveal the truth—that it was his own blood, altered by the system, that had healed Naz during the desperate rite as it could easily backfire.

Let them believe in something they could understand. It was safer, more inspiring.

"I found the cure," Byung declared, his tone measured but building like a gathering storm.

"A potion—a blend of rare herbs. It strengthens the mother from within, mends the flaws in our bloodline. No more deaths. No more weakness. Our women will bear children again and again, our numbers will swell like a tide," This felt like a dream to them.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Whispers erupted at the edges.

"He did?"

"King fix us?" Eyes widened in disbelief, then wonder. Byung twisted the truth masterfully—he couldn't risk revealing his blood's role, the system's gift that had turned him into something more. Let them think it was potions, rituals, ancient lore. It bound them to him without questions.

Naz stepped forward then, cradling her newborn in her arms as if presenting a sacred relic. The baby—a tiny miracle with soft green skin, and eyes that sparkled with innocent life—cooed quietly, oblivious to the moment's gravity. The crowd gasped as one as not everyone had seen Naz and her baby due to them being too busy fixing up the place.

There it was, visual proof, undeniable. A mother alive, strong, her child healthy and whole. Tears streamed down goblin faces—this was something they never thought they would see, young ones who had never known mothers. Hands reached out to touch the hem of Byung's cloak, as if he carried divine blessing. Murkfang felt a chill; this was history unfolding, a turning point for their kind.

Byung waited until the awe peaked, then his voice rose again, commanding the silence like a king's edict.

"I am not just a goblin," Byung proclaimed, his cold eyes sweeping the crowd with an intensity that pinned them in place.

"I am your king. I have seen the future—in visions granted by my divinity, I saw in my death but I also saw my resurrection. The goblins will rule the world. No more cowering in mines, no more scraping for scraps in this world ruled by orcs and humans. We will take the mountains, the valleys, the cities of stone and steel. We will be the tide that drowns our enemies, the storm that breaks their backs. Follow me, and we will claim what is ours," Byung declared but his tone changed from unifying with love and diplomacy to something more violent.

The silence shattered like glass under a hammer. Chants erupted.

"Byung! Byung! Byung!" Fists pounded the air in rhythm, clenched fists clashed against chest in a deafening clamor. The goblins surged forward, lifting Byung onto their shoulders, parading him like a conqueror returned from legend. Cheers rolled in waves, wild and ecstatic. They knew this wasn't a pipe dream—he had come back from the dead, changed, stronger, a living miracle. If he said they would rule, they believed.

But Murkfang, still seated on his crate, saw what the crowd missed: the light in Byung's eyes was gone. Replaced by something cold, empty, like a king who had sacrificed his soul for the crown. The cheers faded in his ears as worry gnawed deeper.

"Are you still Byung?"

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