Night had gracefully descended over the territory, blanketing the land in a soft glow as stars twinkled like distant promises in the sky. Lanterns flickered along the cobbled paths, their golden light dancing across cheerful faces. Despite the late hour, Arthur's subjects remained lively—laughing, chatting, and diligently collecting stones scattered throughout the land. Their joy painted the night with warmth and purpose.
Arthur strolled through the heart of it all, having risen from his resting place beneath the old tree. His steps were slow, unhurried, yet purposeful. A quiet hum of satisfaction lingered in the air as he gazed at the floating projection of the Event Market shimmering before him. The marketplace was alive with options—each one a path toward greater strength, greater legacy.
His gaze swept across the remaining points tally.
15,000,000 Event Points.
It was a substantial sum, freshly gathered after his previous spree—when he had spent lavishly on recruitment buildings and hero cards for his growing army of specialized soldiers. Yet now, instead of spending them recklessly, he chose patience. These points were a step toward something far greater.
He scrolled through the top-tier offerings again.
1. Flameblade Knights(Diamond Rank)– 50,000,000 EP
Quantity: 10
2. Shadow Rangers (Platinum Rank) – 10,000,000 EP
Quantity: 93
3. Arcane Sentinels (Platinum Rank) – 10,000,000 EP
Quantity: 97
4. Sky Piercers (Platinum Rank) – 10,000,000 EP
Quantity: 90
5. Blood Witches (Platinum Rank) – 10,000,000 EP
Quantity: 99
6. Moon Reavers (Platinum Rank)– 10,000,000 EP
Quantity: 96
Arthur studied each entry with narrowed eyes. Powerful, yes—but they required a hefty price. And so, for now, he held his points in reserve, aiming for the pinnacle.
Beyond these elites, the market brimmed with potential—bronze and black rank recruitment buildings. Despite their modest ranks, many bore extraordinary traits: Elementals Mages, Elementals Sword Soldiers, and other rare types that could evolve far beyond their initial tier. It wasn't just about the present; it was about preparing for a future of unstoppable might.
He had already selected heroes for many of them—carefully matched talents, each chosen with precision and foresight. The stage was being set, piece by piece.
"There are so many black and bronze rank special soldier recruitment buildings with incredible potential," Arthur murmured, his voice barely louder than the wind rustling through the leaves. "All they need… is the right opportunity."
As Arthur scrolled through the Event Market, a soft *thud* of boots on grass caught his attention. One of the soldiers from his command unit approached briskly, stopping just a few paces away.
"My lord," the soldier said with urgency, saluting, "Commander George has returned."
Arthur's brow furrowed slightly. Already?
It had taken George nearly the entire day to secure what should have been a hollow shell of a town—a place where no resistance should have remained after the earlier battle. Yet his delay and now this urgency spoke volumes.
Without a word, Arthur closed the market interface and turned toward the northern wall of the territory, his pace measured and quiet. A simmering unease churned beneath the calm expression he wore.
As he reached the walls, the sight that greeted him made him slow to a halt.
There stood George, still clad in his bloodstained armor, his greatsword sheathed but his fists clenched at his sides. Beside him were the men of the Bronze Steel Unit, their faces grim and battle-worn. But it wasn't them that captured Arthur's gaze.
Behind them stood a multitude of people.
Men. Women. Children.
Dirty. Bloodied. Hollow-eyed and shivering in the cold night air. They were not his soldiers. They were not his subjects.
As Arthur's boots echoed against the stone path, George looked up and immediately saluted, but his body was stiff with fury.
"My lord," he said through gritted teeth. "I've returned. But—"
His voice cracked slightly. Rage, not fatigue, weighed on him now.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Continue. What happened?"
George drew a breath as if to steady himself, then began.
"My lord… when we arrived at Kaldor's town, we expected an easy takeover. It should've been abandoned—nothing left but burned-out huts and discarded weapons."
He paused, his gaze drifting back to the people behind him.
"But it wasn't. Goblins still lingered in the shadows. Cowards, all of them—but they weren't fighting us directly."
Arthur's expression remained neutral, but his eyes darkened like a brewing storm.
"They were using humans," George spat. "Thousands of them. Chained. Beaten. Starved. They used them as shields—to block our charge, to stop our blades. As if they were nothing but meat."
His voice trembled now, but it was not weakness—it was fury held at bay by sheer discipline.
"They'd turned the town into a pit of torment. The men were forced into labor, broken by endless days of work and nightly beatings. They were bones wrapped in skin. No strength left to fight, barely enough left to breathe."
He paused again.
"And the women…" George looked away for a moment, swallowing down bile.
Arthur said nothing. The silence pressed down like a weight.
"The women were… they were used," George finally continued, voice low. "Raped. Forced to breed. To carry goblin children. The goblins treated them like livestock. Their pain wasn't an accident. It was *deliberate*. Entertainment."
A single vein throbbed in Arthur's temple.
"I couldn't leave them there," George said. "Not even for a second. We slaughtered every goblin, every last one of those animals, and brought the survivors here."
For a moment, Arthur remained still. Then he looked at the women and children huddled behind George, their eyes haunted, barely clinging to hope.
His blood boiled.
A cold fury took root in his chest, deeper than rage, darker than hatred. He had spent the day thinking, perhaps foolishly, that this world—brutal though it was—could be tamed. That the threats could be predicted, measured.
But this…
This was evil.
Evil that bled and breathed. That laughed while breaking bones. That *thrived* in the agony of the weak.
Arthur's voice, when it came, was low and sharp as a blade. "Go to Joseph," he said to a nearby soldier. "Tell him to arrange housing for every single one of them. Medical attention. Food. Blankets. Safety. I don't care how late it is—wake up the entire logistics unit if you must. These people deserve to feel human again."
The soldier saluted and ran off immediately.
Arthur turned back to George. His eyes no longer burned—they froze.
"And after this event is over," Arthur said, each word dripping with cold promise, "we march on *Dark City*."
George's eyes widened slightly. Arthur's tone left no room for doubt.
"We will tear down Khali's walls. We will drag the high-ranking goblins from their dens. And we won't give them the mercy of death. No."
He stepped closer to George, his voice dropping into a whisper sharp as broken glass.
"We'll torture them. Slowly. Let them feel what they've made these people feel. Let them scream, not for power, not in defiance—but in despair. I'll carve the pain of every child into their bones."
A silence settled between them. Heavy. Deadly.
Then Arthur took a slow breath, collecting himself as his anger settled into something far colder—resolve.
He looked back to George. "Any injuries in your unit?"
George nodded. "Minor ones. Nothing life-threatening. We fought carefully. We prioritized protecting the humans."
"And how many survivors?"
"Fifty thousand, seven hundred, my lord."
Arthur nodded once. "They're ours now. We protect them. They live under our banner."
He looked toward the stars—faint, barely visible behind the veil of the night sky.
"This world hides its horrors in shadows," he murmured. "So we'll become a light so bright it burns the monsters to ash."
George also brought back the corpses of goblins, he knew the corpses are valuable in the hand of Arthur, there were a total of 5,000 corpses.
----
Survivor's pov-
They had stopped screaming weeks ago.
Screaming served no purpose. It didn't stop the lash. It didn't stay the knives. It didn't silence the laughter of the goblins as they tormented and tore through human flesh like it was a game. No—screaming only fed them.
So the survivors stopped screaming.
They simply endured.
Bodies like husks, eyes hollowed by suffering, minds fractured by what they had been forced to witness—and endure.
The men broke first. The strongest, the proudest—they were the first to fall. Beaten, used, starved. Their backs bent with labor from dawn to dusk, only to be denied rest, water, or dignity. The goblins didn't just enslave them. They reduced them. Tore away everything that made them men until all that remained were trembling bodies shoveling filth and ash, breathing in rot and cruelty with every cursed inhale.
And the women...
The women suffered in silence.
That was the only sound more terrifying than screams in that wretched place—the silence of the women. Of mothers holding stillborn goblin-spawn in their arms because the beasts had used them like breeding stock. Of sisters comforting younger girls as they were dragged away, promising they'd be back, knowing they were lying. Of wives pretending to sleep while blood pooled beneath them, hoping the next night would be kinder.
It never was.
Days bled into nights. Nights bled into madness.
But then, one day—**the silence broke**.
The first sound was strange.
Steel clashing against steel. Screams—*not* from humans, but from goblins. Explosions. The roar of magic and men. The shouts of commands, foreign and unfamiliar, but human.
And then—they appeared.
Tall. Armored. Radiant.
Like demons of war come to wage vengeance on the beasts who ruled this pit. Their weapons gleamed in the dusk light. Their eyes held no pity—only *fury*. Controlled. Focused. Wrath guided by purpose.
George led them.
He was the first to strike down a goblin captain right in front of the slave pens. The sight of green blood splashing across the dirt drew no cheers from the captives—only silence. Stunned silence. Was this another illusion? Another cruel trick?
But the soldiers didn't stop.
They kept fighting.
*For them.*
The battle was brief, a massacre. The goblins, unprepared, were torn apart. Burned. Crushed. Cleaved. Not a single one was shown mercy. Not a single one was allowed to crawl away.
When the last goblin's head rolled across the soil, the soldiers sheathed their blades and approached the cages. Slowly. Carefully.
George himself stepped forward.
He looked like a god of war—scarred, tall, wrapped in bloodstained armor. But his eyes… they weren't cruel.
They were *human*.
He didn't speak at first. He simply looked at them—really looked at them. And something in his expression cracked. Not pity. Not horror.
But *rage*.
"We've come to take you home," he said, voice low. Steady. "You're safe now."
No one moved.
One of the women flinched when a soldier stepped too close. A child sobbed when touched. An old man collapsed from sheer exhaustion. The soldiers carried them all without complaint.
No judgment. No scorn.
Only care.
And when they crossed the ruined borders of that cursed town, it was like leaving a nightmare that had no ending… only to find themselves blinking in a strange new dawn.
*Arthur's territory.*
They didn't know the man. Only his name, spoken reverently by George and his men. But as they passed into the walls of the territory, something changed.
There was no stench here. No rot. No screams.
Only light.
Torches lit the streets. Soldiers stood at attention, not as conquerors—but as protectors. People—real people—were laughing in the distance, children playing, families gathering under the stars. It didn't feel real.
The survivors trudged in slowly, barefoot and broken, the warmth of the earth foreign to their torn soles. They were still waiting for the trick. Still braced for the cruelty.
But it didn't come.
Instead, men and women in white robes appeared—healers. Soft hands. Gentle words. Blankets wrapped around shoulders. Warm bread pressed into trembling hands.
One of the women, no more than sixteen, wept when someone handed her a cup of water.
She'd forgotten what kindness tasted like.
Then, they saw him—Arthur.
The man who ruled this place.
He stood like a shadow carved from iron, eyes blazing beneath the moonlight as he approached George. They couldn't hear what he said at first—but the *tone* in his voice chilled them.
It was rage.
The cold, seething fury of a king who had looked upon the horrors done to his people—and would answer it with blood.
And then came his words. Clear. Sharp. Final.
"They should feel safe in my territory."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a decree.
He looked at the survivors—not with pity, but with a vow in his eyes. A silent promise.
This would never happen again.
Later that night, as the survivors were led to temporary shelters and offered beds—*real* beds—many of them still refused to sleep. Still expecting chains. Still fearing the return of the goblins in the night.
But deep down, for the first time in what felt like an eternity… a small flicker of something stirred.
*Hope.*
Not the naïve, fragile hope that had died in the cages.
But a dangerous, defiant hope.
The kind that could bloom under the protection of a wrathful king.