The sun dipped below the jagged horizon, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and gold that bled into deepening purple, as if the day itself was wounded and bleeding out. The mine's entrance, a yawning maw in the mountainside, cast long shadows across the open field where goblins bustled in the fading light. The air grew cooler, carrying the crisp bite of evening chill and the earthy scent of cooling stone. Wooden torches were lit one by one with soft pops and the hiss of flames catching wick, their warm glow pushing back the encroaching dark.

The day's labors wound down: hammers fell silent on anvils, the clang of metal fading to quiet; carts of ore rumbled to a stop, wheels creaking their last complaints; younger orcs were called inside with sharp whistles and scolding voices, their laughter echoing faintly as they scampered into the tunnels.

The mine settled into a uneasy peace, the weight of recent battles hanging like a shroud, but hope flickered in the torches' light—Byung had awakened, changed, a miracle among miracles.

But Byung was nowhere to be seen. This was becoming worrying because he shouldn't be gone for this long, they still had to get him prepared for the fight in less than 12 hours.

This wasn't the time to vanish off the face of the earth and the search was kept on a hush as they couldn't let the others panic.

They moved with methodical precision, their eyes scanning every where including the mines, every shadow, but found no trace.

Borkle joined the search but not because he was invited, his small goblin frame darting between the larger orcs, lantern swinging wildly in his hand. He had been the one to watch over Byung, and the king's disappearance put him on edge, heart pounding like a war drum. The goblins whispered among themselves, fear edging their voices:

"Where's the king?" Borkle muttered under his breath. Fearing for the worse.

"Did Kraghul come back?" The uncertainty gnawed at them, the day's end bringing no closure, only the creeping dark that hid unknown threats.

Borkle, growing frantic, slipped away from trailing the main group and headed to the restricted lower levels. The air grew colder and damper as he descended, the lantern's light bouncing off wet walls that glistened like sweat on a fevered brow. The punishment chamber was silent, the iron cage's bars casting long, barred shadows on the floor. He held the torch high, heart sinking as he saw the door ajar. The cage was empty. No Vrognut slumped in the corner, no ragged breathing or mocking grin. Just bloodstains on the floor, fresh and sticky, smeared in streaks as if something had been dragged.

Then he saw them: teeth scattered on the ground like discarded pebbles, yellowed and jagged, some still trailing bits of bloody gum. Borkle knelt, picking one up with trembling fingers. Vrognut's teeth—ripped out forcefully, not cleanly. The blood around them was congealed but recent, the air heavy with the coppery scent of violence.

Borkle shivered, imagining the scene: Vrognut pinned, mouth forced open, teeth yanked one by one with bare hands, this showed brutality and a side he wouldn't expect Byung to have.

The pain must have been excruciating, the goblin's screams echoing in this isolated space. It was brutal, deserved for the cannibal's crimes, but the sheer force of it unnerved Borkle. There was no way Byung would do something this inhumane to anyone.

This wasn't who he was but the proof staring right back at him was something he couldn't deny, he could smell Byung faintly or so he thought. Byung's scent was fading at an astonishing rate, this shouldn't be possible.

It was like it had evolved to become harder to be perceived by the noses of goblins but it wasn't his scent that brought him here to begin with.

Footsteps echoed from the tunnel. Borkle spun, torch swinging, heart leaping into his throat. Maui stepped into the light, her seven-foot frame filling the doorway, green eyes narrowing at the bloodied cage.

"Borkle? What are you doing down here?" Her voice was a low rumble, putting him on edge. She stepped closer, tusks glinting, and her eyes locked on the bloodstains.

"This place... it's been used. Recently," Maui made an uncanny observation.

Borkle's stomach knotted, the torch trembling in his grip because he was aware Maui could punish him and it would be justified.

The air felt colder, the shadows longer. He knew there was no hiding it from Maui—she was too sharp, too trusted by Byung.

"I... I caged Vrognut here," he confessed, voice shaking.

"That night, during the attack. He was half-dead from Kraghul's dagger. I dragged him down. Thought if the orcs won and Byung was gone, I could trade him for peace. Or... or bounty from the humans. Alive means we could get gold or more women," Borkle revealed.

Maui's expression shifted from suspicion to surprise, her tusks parting slightly. She had no problem with his initial plan because it made sense to her.

"You kept that monster? And he survived this long without treatment? Impressive... for a rat like him." She knelt, inspecting the cage, her fingers tracing the blood smears.

"Smart, keeping it from Drekk. We don't know his motives yet. He's been... off," Maui didn't condemn him which surprised him but it showed she was a logical creation at the end of the day. Borkle nodded, relief mixing with worry.

"I didn't want anyone to know. Thought Byung could decide—convert him like Drekk, or use him. But now... the cage is empty. Teeth on the ground. Someone took him. Forcefully. And I fear it might be Byung," Borkle confessed.

Maui stood, her massive frame casting a shadow over Borkle. The chamber felt smaller due to her size. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, her touch warm and steady.

"You did good, kid. Kept a card up our sleeve. We'll find out what happened. Byung will know what to do," Maui made sure to know he did right by Byung. Byung needed more goblins like these, putting him first before those around him.

-

The forge chamber in the mine was a hellish sanctuary, the air thick with the acrid tang of heated metal and coal smoke that stung the eyes and clung to the skin like a second layer. Massive bellows wheezed with each pump, fanning the flames in the central pit to a roaring orange inferno on the soot-blackened walls. Hammers, tongs, and anvils littered the space, their surfaces scarred from years of use, and the constant ring of metal on metal echoed like a heartbeat in the confined stone room.

Byung stood at the anvil, shirtless and gleaming with sweat under the forge's hellish glow. His transformed body—taller, broader, muscles corded like twisted rope—moved with rhythmic precision, hammer rising and falling in powerful arcs. The clang reverberated through his bones, each blow shaping the blade before him. He had slipped away hours ago, leaving the others to search in vain. They thought he was missing, but the truth was simpler: he had returned to the forges, the one place where he could think clearly amid the heat and noise.

He needed to know, once and for all—was being in a near-death state the only way to evolve his half-blood mutation skill? A threshold of pain and survival that triggered the change. If so, the duel with the Chieftess tomorrow would meet those conditions perfectly. He didn't plan to run. Not with what Vrognut had provided.

The sword taking shape was a beauty, born from iron ore smelted in the mine's depths. He hammered the blade's edges to razor sharpness, the metal singing under the blows, sparks cascading like fireworks.

Both sides gleamed wickedly in the firelight, capable of slicing through armor or bone with ease. The weapon had a longer reach than any goblin sword—five feet from hilt to tip—crafted for his new height, heavy enough that no ordinary goblin could lift it, let alone swing it. But Byung wielded it like an extension of his arm, the balance perfect, the weight a comforting solidity. The tip, however, was blunt—flattened deliberately into a squared end, sacrificing thrust attacks for added crushing force in swings. It was a weird addition, but intentional: this sword was for sweeping arcs and brutal hacks, not piercing stabs.

Vrognut's "contribution" made it deadly. Byung had severed both of the cannibal's arms, the goblin's screams muffled by a gag, blood spurting in hot arcs as the knife sawed through bone and tendon. He had cauterized the stumps with a red-hot iron from the forge, the sizzle of flesh and the acrid smell of burning meat filling the air as Vrognut thrashed in agony. The bones, cleaned and shaped, formed the cores of two smaller daggers—ivory-white hilts wrapped in leather for grip, blades forged around the sharpened teeth extracted from Vrognut's mouth. Those teeth, laced with natural paralysis venom, had been yanked out one by one with his bare hands, roots tearing with wet pops, Vrognut's jaw dislocated in the process. The daggers hummed with latent power: a nick from them would numb limbs, slow enemies, turn fights in Byung's favor. Byung attached them to form jagged edges.

He quenched the sword in a trough of water, steam exploding upward in a hissing cloud that filled the forge with a hot, misty fog. The metal cooled with a series of sharp cracks, emerging tempered and ready. He tested the edge on a scrap of leather— it parted like butter. The daggers fit perfectly in sheaths at his belt, their bone hilts cool against his skin. He was done. Ready for the Chieftess. If near-death triggered evolution, this fight would push him there—and with these weapons, he might survive long enough to see what came next.

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