Chapter 8

In the thick forest, far away from the river of Vert and halfway up the mountain, a plain-looking man in his early thirties wearing light armor is swiftly ascending the treacherous terrain. Behind him were four squads of soldiers. The man in the lead is Alfred, the first knight commander under General Lance. Despite the dense and unwieldy forest, the hundred-and-one men showed no signs of fatigue. Their mission, given by the general, was to halt the descent of the white ogres from the mountain. Initially, a few monsters attempted to attack them, but they were swiftly and mercilessly dispatched, leaving the creatures bewildered and powerless.

Alfred cast a glance behind at his troops, his voice filled with determination, "Let us double our speed. We must complete our mission and join back to the main forces by dinner." The four squad leaders gave their acknowledgment to the knight commander, their hearts pounding with anticipation. With renewed vigor, they increased their pace, moving even faster through the foreboding forest.

Soon, they caught sight of the white ogres—monstrous figures descending upon them. There were about twenty of them, moving with an unsettling grace, resembling a relentless avalanche of snow when viewed from afar. These white ogres were notorious for their ferocity, possessing immense size and strength. Their pale, ghostly complexion added an eerie aura to their already fearsome nature, sending shivers down the spines of those who encountered them.

Alfred halted his soldiers, his senses tingling with apprehension. Squinting his eyes, he invoked a short spell to discern the strength of the ogres. Without visual cues, it was impossible to determine if an ogre leader lurked amidst the pack. The spell he cast granted his human eyes the ability to perceive the creatures' auras, revealing varying shades of green—an indication that no leaders were among the ogres. A blue aura would have indicated a leader, after giving a subtle nod to the squad leaders standing behind him, Alfred shared his plan with the squad leaders, "I shall strike the ogres in the center, dividing their ranks. Each squad will then engage five white ogres and kill them."

"The first squad to vanquish all their foes shall claim victory," Alfred declared, "As for the losing squad, they shall endure an additional two months of grueling training." Groans of dismay escaped the lips of all four squad leaders upon hearing the consequences for the team that fell short.

"Men, you have heard the boss's words. If you wish to escape the grueling training, you must not falter," each squad leader bellowed, their voices dripping with intensity and foreboding.

Alfred then surged forward like a relentless specter, propelled like an arrow unleashed from a taut bowstring. His right hand sliced through the air, an embodiment of lethal power. The pale white ogres witnessed a lone figure hurtling towards them, their senses tingling with alarm. Suddenly, a deafening explosion engulfed the earth beneath their feet. And then, as if unleashed from the depths of darkness, four separate squads of soldiers descended upon them from their surroundings. Amidst the chaos, the ogres found themselves rapidly diminishing in numbers. Three fell victim immediately to the soldiers' cunning surprise attacks, while another four writhed in agony, their bodies bearing the weight of grievous wounds.

"It didn't take long for the rest of the white ogres to be slain, and the last four ogres met their demise simultaneously. Alfred surveyed his men, he knew what the four squad leaders were trying to do. A playful smile played upon his lips.

"Since no single victor emerged," the first knight commander declared, "then all of you have lost."

Grimacing and gnashing their teeth, regret gnawed at the hearts of those who had shown mercy to their comrades. Silent curses were whispered, blaming their team leader for their misfortune. Alfred's laughter erupted, a haunting sound that echoed through the desolate battlefield.

"But fear not," he continued, his voice laced with wicked amusement. "I have another mission, and this time the victorious team can bestow their hard-earned training upon the rest."

A noticeable sense of competition settled over the soldiers as Alfred unveiled the next task, their eyes widening with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

"The first team to delicately skin the hides of five ogres, without causing the slightest tear or damage, shall emerge triumphant." "And as an additional bonus, I will throw in a day off as well".

The soldiers erupted in cheers, their excitement reverberating through the air. They eagerly unsheathed their skinning knives, their eyes fixed on the gruesome task ahead. The twenty ogres lay before them, already divided into four piles, and the men positioned themselves at different stations, ready to begin the macabre process of skinning. Alfred scanned the faces of his comrades, his heart pounding with anticipation. Standing amid the men, he raised his voice, "Ready, men! Get set... go!"

With a sense of urgency, the soldiers set to work, their hands moving swiftly and skillfully. The atmosphere grew heavy with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. As the minutes ticked by, the leading squad emerged from the grim task, their hands holding the almost perfect hides of all five ogres. Alfred then looked at the hides and announce the winner.

Goblin King Zarku sat upon his sinister throne, his bony fingers caressing the wicked dagger in his hands. Unbeknownst to him, a foreboding presence loomed in the air, intensifying the unease that gnawed at his very core. A surge of dread and anxiety gripped his heart, whispering of impending peril. It was a sensation he hadn't experienced since that fateful day he reclined in the treacherous crevice of the mountain, the day the previous king met his untimely demise. Tonight, an eerie silence hung in the air, intensifying his growing unease. He abruptly realized that his servants were conspicuously absent. The general commander had departed over a week ago, leaving for the front lines to oversee the preparations for war. The commander took most of the soldiers with him when he left.

A shiver of dread coursed through Goblin King Zarku's spine as he furrowed his brow and rose from his throne, his fingers gripping the cold, gleaming dagger with an unnerving intensity. Casting a sweeping gaze across the eerie, dimly lit chamber, a suffocating sense of impending doom settled upon him like a thick fog. Every shadow seemed to writhe and whisper secrets of impending horror.

His eyes darted from corner to corner, searching for any sign of the unseen menace lurking in the shadows. But the room appeared deceptively ordinary, devoid of any apparent threat. With a heavy sigh, Zarku rubbed the side of his throbbing temple, exhaustion clawing at him mercilessly. The weight of war preparations had taken its toll, and with his trusted commander absent, he felt a chilling vulnerability creeping over him, like a predator circling its wounded prey.

The unsettling silence hung in the air, broken only by the distant echo of his footsteps as he paced anxiously. The flickering candlelight cast eerie, dancing shadows on the walls, playing tricks on his mind. Paranoia gnawed at his every thought, leaving him trapped in a web of fear and uncertainty. Something was amiss, something sinister that eluded his senses.

Unable to bear the oppressive sense of being watched any longer, the goblin king hastily departed the room, desperately seeking a goblin servant to inquire about the whereabouts of everyone else. As he stepped into the dimly lit, winding corridor, a shiver ran down his spine. The corridor stretched out before him, eerily empty. The usual posts where goblin warriors stood guard were hauntingly vacant.

A sense of dread gripped the goblin king, intensifying his fear to its pinnacle, while an unsettling anger began to simmer within him. He had meticulously prepared for this moment, taking refuge in unspeakable depths to ensure his survival. Yet now, an inexplicable force threatened to derail his carefully laid plans.

Zarku cursed vehemently under his breath, his voice dripping with malevolence, "Nothing will derail my plans." Stealthily maneuvering through the dimly lit corridor, a sense of foreboding gnawing at his insides, he finally arrived at the dining hall. Not a single goblin had crossed his path yet, their absence sending chills down his spine. The intricate network of tunnels within the goblin nest was supposed to be heavily guarded by fearsome warriors strategically positioned to thwart any intruders. It had flawlessly operated according to his sinister designs for countless years.

As Zarku pushed open the creaking door to the dining hall, his eyes scanned the dimly illuminated space. And then, at the far end of the hall, near the entrance to the kitchen, he spotted a lone goblin wearing chef attire. A sinister smile crept across his face, ready to command its attention. But before Zarku could utter a word, the goblin vanished through the doorway leading to the kitchen, leaving him seething with frustration.

An overwhelming surge of anger consumed Zarku, his heart pounding with fury. Ignoring the trepidation clawing at his senses, he strode purposefully across the room, his footsteps echoing ominously. Finally reaching the kitchen, he discovered the goblin standing before a large cauldron, its contents being stirred with feverish intensity.

The scene unfolded with a sinister air as if a macabre dance were taking place. The goblin's frenzied stirring intensified the feeling of suspense and horror that gripped the room. A putrid stench wafted from the bubbling concoction, adding to the mounting tension. From his concealed position, King Zarku observed the contents of the pot, his gut churning with dread. The goblin chef, his back turned to Zarku, remained unaware of the presence of the very king he served. At this moment, the chef's undivided attention was fixed on the mysterious contents simmering within his pot.