Kraghul stood over the broken bodies, his axe dripping with fresh goblin blood. The air echoed with the last gurgles of dying goblin, but he felt a deep satisfaction settle in his chest like a good meal after a long hunt. He had come for chaos, and the mine had delivered. Goblins lay scattered everywhere—limbs twisted, green skin torn open, eyes staring blank at the ceiling. The air stank of iron and fear, thick enough to taste.

His eyes fell on Vrognut's crumpled form. The cannibal goblin twitched once, chest rising in shallow, ragged breaths. Still alive. Barely. Kraghul threw his head back and laughed—a deep, hysterical roar that bounced off the stone walls like thunder.

"You stubborn rat," he rumbled, wiping tears from his eyes.

"I cut you open, and you still cling to life?" Kraghul was amazed by his endurance but the irony of this character shift was he shared a very similar personality to the goblin.

He turned to Byung. The one who gave him far more trouble, lay in a heap against the shattered boulder, face a ruined mess of blood and swelling. Skull cracked, breaths wet and bubbling. Kraghul knew the goblin wouldn't last much longer—maybe a few minutes, if he was tough. But he had no plans to end it quick. No mercy blow. Let him feel it all: the pain, the helplessness, the slow fade into nothing. Death should be a lesson, a full range of hurt and regret. Kraghul smirked, watching Byung's chest hitch.

"Enjoy your last thoughts, runt," Kraghul was glad he got rid of him because there was no telling how much stronger he would have grown if left unchecked.

Vrognut had always been the main target. Byung was just a bonus—a clever pest who had somehow advanced the goblin's civilisation with knowledge of tech he shouldn't know and stirred up trouble.

He shrugged it off. His gaze shifted to the footprints in the dust: Maui's heavy boots dragging Naz's weaker steps into the far distance. He planned to follow. Finish the abomination in her belly, make the traitor watch. But no rush. These goblins weren't going anywhere—the mine was surrounded, his warriors mopping up the last pockets.

As he turned, a sting pulled at his side. He looked down at the deep gash across his torso—six inches of open flesh, blood still oozing slow. Byung's knife had come so close. A tad sharper, a bit deeper, and his guts would have spilled out like wet snakes onto the stone. Kraghul pressed a hand to it, wincing at the burn. He laughed again, low and rough.

"You almost had me. Almost," Kraghul muttered.

But there was something strange about Byung. The goblin hit like an orc—fists with the power of a full-grown warrior trapped in that small body. Strength that bent stone, shattered bone. It didn't make sense. Like an orc soul stuffed into goblin skin. Kraghul shook his head, laughing harder. Maybe that's why Maui betrayed her kind—hopping on his cock, choosing an imitation over real strength.

He regretted going overboard a bit. He had wanted answers from Byung: where this power came from, how a goblin got so strong. But he could interrogate Maui. She knew something the others didn't.

With one last glance at the dying goblins, Kraghul strode along the path the footprint laid.

-

The nameless Chieftess moved through the mine like a silent storm, her white hair flowing behind her like a banner of frost. The air was thick with the smell of blood. Her four honor guards followed close, their gray cloaks blending with the shadows, axes held low and ready. They had come for Kraghul, not for mercy.

The first bodies they found were goblins—twisted heaps of green flesh, limbs broken, throats slashed open in ragged lines. Blood pooled in dark puddles that reflected the faint torchlight. The Chieftess paused for only a heartbeat, her red eyes sweeping over the dead without a flicker of emotion. No pity, no rage. Just cold observation. These were not her people. Her guards glanced at the mess but kept their focus ahead, faces hard as the rock around them. Under her lead, they were different—sharper, deadlier, like blades forged in mountain ice.

Deeper in, the slaughter grew worse. More goblins lay scattered, some still twitching in their last breaths. The Chieftess stepped over them without slowing, her heavy boots leaving prints in the blood. One guard kicked a body aside to clear the path, but she didn't even glance back. Her mind was fixed on the Kraghul ahead—the son who would pay for his father's sins.

Then they reached the last location of the orc.

Bodies of goblins everywhere. Vrognut lay slumped against a wall, chest heaving slow, blood bubbling from a deep stab wound. Gribnox and Murkfang were nearby but out of sight, broken but breathing faint. And Byung—the small goblin she was to duel—sprawled in a crater of cracked stone, face a ruined mask of blood and bruises, skull split open, barely clinging to life.

The guard beside her, tall, scarred, her most trusted blade, looked to her for orders. Her red eyes asked silent: Kill the survivors? Or move on?

Vrognut stirred. His eyes cracked open, focusing through the haze of pain. He knew her instantly—the white-haired demoness, the nameless Chieftess of the Stonehides. A grin spread across his blood-smeared face, twisted and weak.

"W-What is she doing here?" he thought, but the words stayed trapped in his throat. Too much blood lost. His vision blurred, darkness pulling him under. He slumped back, unconscious, grin fading like smoke.

The Chieftess ignored him. Her gaze locked on Byung. She stared, unblinking, red eyes shining with a light that seemed to come from within—like she saw something no one else did.

Would the orcs' arrival be enough to save them? Or was it too late? Would they even care enough to try? The Chieftess remained mute, not like she could speak even if she wanted to but what were the intentions behind those glowing eyes?

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