Hans sat in his war tent, his fingers tracing the handle of his chair as the weight of his newfound territory pressed down upon him. The scattered warbands had knelt before him, but submission alone was not enough. He needed more than numbers—he needed leaders. He needed warriors who could stand at the forefront of his growing empire.
And he needed power.
The words of the cloaked figure still echoed in his mind.
"You are not ready."
That alone told him one thing: greater forces were watching his rise. And they did not fear him—yet.
Across from him, Zharka leaned against the wooden frame, her golden eyes unblinking. The Irontail Chieftain sat nearby, his arms crossed, watching in silent judgment. The young goblin lord twirled a dagger between his fingers, grinning like he knew something the others didn't. The old goblin shaman, eyes sunken with age but filled with untold wisdom, sat cross-legged on the floor, murmuring prayers to something Hans could not see.
"These lands are dangerous," the shaman said at last. His voice was like brittle bones shifting in the wind. "You are powerful, my lord. But not enough to stand against what comes."
Hans frowned. "And you have a solution?"
The old goblin nodded. "A gift… left by the one before you."
Hans' blood chilled. "Marlic."
Zharka stiffened at the name. Even the Irontail Chieftain's tail flicked in irritation.
The shaman did not flinch. "His power lingers in you, even if you deny it. His will chose you. And if you wish to rule, you must embrace it."
Hans' grip tightened. He had no desire to be a tyrant like Marlic. But power was power. And without it, he would fall.
The shaman reached into his robes, pulling out a small obsidian dagger. Its edge gleamed with an unnatural red sheen, as if it had already tasted his blood.
"This," the shaman rasped, "is the key. Your blood carries Marlic's legacy. A drop given to those worthy will awaken the slumbering might within them. They will change. They will evolve."
Hans eyed the dagger. The air around it felt heavy, charged with something ancient.
Zharka stepped forward. "And you trust this magic?" she asked, voice laced with skepticism.
The shaman chuckled. "I do not need to trust it. I have seen it."
Hans sighed, knowing there was only one way forward. He reached out, took the dagger, and without hesitation, sliced his palm. A single drop of his blood shimmered in the dim torchlight, swirling with something far older than himself.
"Step forward," he commanded.
A heavy silence filled the air. Then, without hesitation, Zharka stepped forward, her gaze locked onto Hans with fierce determination.
Hans extended his hand, a fresh cut on his palm. "If you swear loyalty, take a drop of my blood. Let it bind us as one."
Zharka stepped forward without hesitation, pressing a finger to his wound and smearing his blood across her palm. The chieftain followed, his expression grim as he did the same. The young goblin lord hesitated but, with a deep breath, took his share. The old goblin shaman was last, his gaze lingering on the crimson drop before he finally accepted it, sealing their fates together.
Hans watched as the power of his blood surged through his chosen generals, their forms twisting, reshaping—not into monsters, but into something far more refined, far more powerful.
A hush fell over the war tent as the transformations completed, and one by one, they emerged—changed.
Zharka stood first, her breath coming in slow, measured inhales as she gazed at her new reflection in the polished steel of a fallen warrior's sword. Gone was the brutish, towering frame of her ogre heritage. Instead, she had transformed into a breathtaking vision of strength and beauty.
Her figure had become more feminine, her muscles now lean and sculpted rather than bulky. Her skin, once the dull shade of an ogre, had turned into a deep, alluring reddish hue, accented with the same black markings that once ran across her body, now more refined, almost tribal in nature.
The most striking feature, however, was the single, elegant horn that now adorned her forehead. Unlike the crude tusks her father once bore, hers was smooth and slightly curved, adding an almost regal presence to her already commanding aura. Her golden eyes, once filled with raw aggression, now gleamed with something else—an intense, almost hypnotic fire.
She turned to Hans, her expression unreadable. "Well, well…" Her voice was smoother, richer. She ran a hand along her new form. "You didn't mention your blood had this kind of effect."
Hans smirked. "Would you have refused if I did?"
Zharka let out a low chuckle. "Not a chance."
All eyes turned toward the Irontail Chieftain as he let out a low, startled growl, gripping his arms as the transformation took hold. The hulking lizard-like frame began to shrink and shift, muscles stretching and realigning.
Then, suddenly, the growl turned into a sharp, feminine gasp.
When the transformation settled, what stood before them was not the massive, male lizard-warrior they had all assumed the chieftain to be. Instead, she had become an absolute vision of power and allure.
Her new form was that of a statuesque beauty—a mix between dragon and human, her long, silken black hair cascading down her back, framing her now sharply-defined face. Her deep emerald eyes shimmered with intelligence, no longer hidden behind the reptilian features of her past form. Her curves were striking, her form a perfect blend of a warrior's physique and a queen's presence.
Dark, draconic scales still traced parts of her body, running along her shoulders, arms, and thighs like elegant armor. Her tail remained, but now more slender, its tip adorned with a fin-like crest. Her once brutish claws had become refined talons, and when she smiled, the sharpness of her fangs only added to her exotic allure.
Silence filled the tent.
Zharka blinked. "You were a woman this whole time?"
The Irontail Chieftain, now fully aware of her own appearance, let out an amused chuckle. "I never said otherwise. You all just assumed." Her voice was deeper than most women's, but there was a sultry confidence in it now.
Hans, for the first time, was at a loss for words. "I… didn't expect this."
She smirked. "Neither did I. But I like it." She flexed her fingers, feeling the new power coursing through her. "This body… is stronger, sharper. I feel alive."
The young goblin lord stepped forward next, a look of deep contemplation on his face.
Where once there had been a scrawny, impish creature with mocking, mischievous eyes, now stood a tall, youthful figure—his goblin features refined into something far more dignified.
His skin was still green, but now it had a smoother, almost elven quality to it. His sharp, angular face held an aura of nobility, his once-unruly hair now falling neatly across his forehead. His once mischievous grin had faded into something more composed, more regal.
He looked no older than a seventeen year old teen, but there was a wisdom in his eyes that had not been there before. Gone was the mocking arrogance—what stood in its place was a quiet, focused strength.
He bowed slightly to Hans, a gesture of respect he had never shown before. "I… see now why you lead."
Hans studied him, noticing the way his once-playful nature had evolved into something greater. "You've changed."
The young goblin nodded. "For the better, I think." His voice, once sharp and sneering, now held a smooth, measured tone. "And I understand now. Power without wisdom is nothing. I will serve you—not as a goblin lord, but as a commander worthy of your cause."
Hans nodded approvingly.
Last was the old goblin shaman.
His transformation was perhaps the most dramatic. The hunched, frail creature had become something akin to an ancient wizard—a sage with a body that no longer betrayed the weight of his years.
His once-wrinkled, shriveled green skin had smoothed into that of a human elder, yet his complexion still held its goblin heritage. His face, once hidden under layers of sagging flesh, now bore the strong features of a wise old mage. His back was straighter, and his once-frail limbs now carried the strength of an aged but still formidable scholar.
The tattered rags he had once worn now seemed like robes befitting a grandmaster of the arcane, shifting with unseen energies. Strange symbols continued to flicker across his body, dancing in and out of existence like echoes of knowledge he had yet to uncover.
He opened his eyes, and when he did, they gleamed with understanding far beyond anything he had possessed before.
He gazed at his hands, whispering to himself. "So this… is the truth hidden within the bloodline of the Demon Lord Marlic." He looked up at Hans, his expression one of reverence. "You have awakened something ancient. And I… I understand it now."
Hans crossed his arms. "And what do you see?"
The old shaman smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. "A ruler not bound by fate, but one who will reshape it."
Hans surveyed his generals—no longer monstrous, no longer bound by the weaknesses of their former selves. They had become something more, something greater.
Zharka, now a striking warrior-queen with power that matched her beauty.
The Irontail Chieftain, a draconic goddess.
The young goblin lord, a noble commander with wisdom beyond his years.
And the old goblin shaman, a sage who now held the keys to forgotten power.
And with their generals' transformation, their warriors evolved as well, shedding their former monstrous forms. Their physiques became more human-like—refined, powerful, and far more disciplined than before.
Hans had not only gained an army.
He had gained the finest warriors and minds this land had ever seen.
And this was only the beginning.
He clenched his fist, his own power surging through his veins.
"Now," he said, his voice echoing across the room. "We build our kingdom."
And outside the tent, the warriors roared in unison, their voices shaking the very earth beneath them.