The punishment area lay deep in the mine's bowels, a forgotten chamber Byung had carved out days ago in one of his ambitious fits to "civilize" the goblins. The tunnels leading to it were narrow and isolated, deliberately designed to be inaccessible to the average goblin without permission from Byung. Walls reinforced with iron bars Byung had forged himself, floors sloped to drain away blood or water, and the air heavy with the chill of isolation. At the center stood the cage—a sturdy contraption of thick bars and a locking mechanism Byung had tinkered with for as long as he created, meant for holding troublemakers until judgment could be passed. Now it held Vrognut.

Borkle stood outside the bars, a torch in hand, casting a warm glow that did little to soften the scene. Vrognut lay slumped against the cage's back wall, his body a roadmap of ruin. The dagger Kraghul had driven into his sternum had missed his heart by a whisper, but the wound was a ragged hole, crusted with dried blood and oozing pus. His ribs were a crushed mess, poking through torn skin like broken branches, and his left arm hung useless, bone splintered from the fall. He should have been dead—anyone else would have bled out in minutes. But Vrognut was stubborn, his cannibal vitality clinging to life like a weed in cracked stone. Three days had passed since the attack, and he still drew breath, shallow and ragged, eyes flickering with pain and defiance.

Borkle had moved him here that night, dragging the cannibal's limp body through the chaos while orcs stormed the mines slaughtering the goblins however this was during the aftermath after the white-haired Chieftess joined the fray.

It had been risky—Vrognut's weight pulling at Borkle's small frame, blood slicking the floors—but Borkle had seen an opportunity. Two options had flashed in his mind: kill the monster while he was vulnerable, end the threat that had terrorized the mine for so long as Vrognut was the one who brought this orc called Kraghul, or keep him alive through whatever means possible. Killing would be easy, a knife to the throat, but Borkle chose life. Why? Because he had witnessed Byung's magic—the way the Goblin King had healed Gribnox from near-death, converted even Drekk to his side with words and actions. If Byung could work that miracle on a monster like Vrognut, the possibilities were endless. Plus, there was a bounty on Vrognut's head from the humans—alive meant gold, dead meant nothing.

The fate of this renegade goblin was up to Byung but Borkle barely fed him because he didn't know what regaining his strength would do.

Kraghul's disappearance had fueled rumors he took Vrognut—logic pointed that way, the orc warlord snatching a prize before fleeing. But Borkle knew the truth: Vrognut never left. He was still here, caged like the beast he was.

He couldn't let such evil back into the world and was already showing undying loyalty towards Byung.

Vrognut's eyes cracked open as Borkle approached, his grin a bloody slash across his face.

"You... again," he rasped, voice like gravel scraping bone.

"Water?" Borkle ignored his rambling as Vrofgnut was reduced to such a pathetic state.

Borkle tossed a waterskin through the bars. Vrognut caught it with his good hand, drinking greedily, water spilling over his chin and mixing with the dried blood.

"Impressive," Borkle said, leaning against the wall.

"Three days, no healer, and you're still kicking. Stubborn as rust on iron. You cannot want to live that badly," Borkle muttered under his breath.

Vrognut chuckled, a wet, bubbling sound that turned into a cough. Blood flecked his lips.

"Gotta... live to eat. Let me out, Borkle. I will give you a place by my side. You'll feast like a king," Vrognut gave him this proposition because on paper, he was a goblin with more status than any goblin in this region so it would obviously be a step-up.

The offer hung in the air, tempting as poisoned meat. Power, food, fear from others—Vrognut's way. It might have swayed Borkle once, but not now. He had seen Byung in action: the Goblin King's quiet strength, his ability to turn enemies into allies, to build rather than destroy. Byung was the ultimate. Vrognut? Just a hungry goblin.

Borkle laughed, sharp and mocking.

"No thanks. Get ready. You'll be the first to face Byung's judgment," Borkle instantly downplayed his offer because Vrognut wasn't who he thought he was.

Vrognut's eyes widened at the name, his grin widening despite the pain. Byung—the goblin who had caught his attention from the start, the one who defied, invented, survived. A worthy meal, or perhaps something more. He slumped back, conserving strength, mind racing with possibilities even as darkness tugged at him.

Borkle turned away, the flames of his torch dancing in the wind. Vrognut was alive—for now. What Byung did with him would decide everything.

-

Byung sat alone in his private chambers, the door barred shut against the world. The room was dim, lit only by a single torch flickering on the table.

The air was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of earth. He shivered uncontrollably, his newly transformed body—taller, stronger, more human-like—betraying him with violent tremors that rattled his teeth and made his bones ache. Sweat beaded on his green skin despite the chill, soaking through the loose tunic he wore.

The migraine struck like a thunderbolt from within. It started as a dull throb behind his eyes, then escalated into a searing, white-hot agony that pulsed with every heartbeat. Byung clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp as if he could pry the pain out. It felt like his brain was trying to rip itself apart—tendrils spreading through his skull, tearing at the seams of his mind. He gasped, vision blurring, the room tilting as waves of nausea rolled through him. What was causing this? The system? The evolution? Or something else?

It almost felt like a personality split. Byung gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening, barely hanging on. His thoughts fractured—fragments of himself warring inside: the kind-hearted goblin who built to help, clashing against a colder, harder presence that whispered of power, conquest, blood. He fought to keep his mind in one piece, breathing shallow and ragged, but the cracks widened. Byung was losing himself.

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