The night roared with the voices of warriors. Firelight flickered across the encampment, illuminating the gathered warbands—ogres, goblins, lizardfolk, and now, others who had once stood apart. The minotaurs watched from the outskirts, their massive forms still as statues. The werewolf packs lingered at the edges, their golden eyes gleaming with predatory curiosity.
And at the center of it all, Hans stood before his transformed generals, the weight of his growing domain pressing upon him.
Zharka, a queen reborn in strength and beauty, stood tall beside him. The Irontail Chieftain—no, she was no longer just a chieftain—had shed her past form, her new draconic presence demanding recognition. The young goblin lord, now refined and regal, no longer bore the arrogance of a mere opportunist. And the shaman, transformed into something far greater than a mere elder, stood with the presence of an ancient sage.
Hans looked at them, knowing that their names—names tied to old titles and forgotten warbands—could no longer define them.
They needed new names. Names that would carry the weight of this rising nation.
Hans turned to the former Iron Tail Clan's Chieftain. Her black-scaled arms were crossed, her emerald eyes waiting, assessing.
"You are no longer just an Iron Tail Clan's Chieftain," Hans said, his voice firm. "You have evolved beyond that title. Your strength and wisdom will shape our warriors." He met her gaze. "From this moment on, you will be known as Vaelith—the Warden of the Scaled."
A flicker of something crossed her eyes—pride, perhaps. She rolled the name over in her mind before nodding. "Vaelith," she murmured. "It suits me." She grinned, sharp fangs glinting. "You give good names, Hans."
Next, he turned to the young goblin lord. The once-mischievous smirk had been replaced with a composed expression, his refined features hinting at a deeper intelligence.
"You are no longer just a goblin tribe lord," Hans said. "Your transformation has made you something more—a commander, a strategist. One who will lead not through tricks, but through wisdom." He raised a hand. "From this day forward, you will be known as Varrek, the Shadow of the Vanguard."
Varrek bowed his head slightly, his green eyes thoughtful. "A name that carries weight," he admitted. "I will make it known across the land."
Finally, Hans faced the shaman. The old goblin, now standing tall and powerful, watched him with glowing eyes filled with unreadable knowledge.
"You have become more than a shaman," Hans said. "You hold the secrets of power, of transformation, of the past and the future. You will be our Oracle. And so, you shall be called Zhoran, Keeper of the Blood."
The newly named Zhoran tilted his head, his expression unreadable. Then, he let out a slow chuckle. "A fitting title," he said. "And one I accept."
With the names spoken, the gathered warriors murmured their approval.
Each name carried weight, a meaning beyond their past selves. A sign that they had shed their old lives and embraced something greater.
And yet, as Zharka stood beside him, fierce and regal in her new form, he had not given her a new name.
It was not that she had not changed. She had. The brutish ogre woman was gone, replaced by a warrior-queen with an undeniable presence. But the name Zharka still held power.
She watched him, her golden eyes sharp. "You didn't rename me," she noted, her tone unreadable.
Hans met her gaze. "Because you didn't need a new name."
Her brow raised, but he continued.
"Vaelith was once just a chieftain. Varrek was a lord with no true purpose. Zhoran was an old goblin waiting to fade into history." He gestured toward the three of them. "They had to become something more. But you?" He smirked. "You were already more."
Zharka blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
"Your name already commands respect," Hans said. "Your presence already shakes the battlefield. There is no weakness in your past self, no need to leave it behind." He crossed his arms. "I don't change what isn't broken."
For the first time since her transformation, Zharka seemed… surprised.
Then she let out a low chuckle. "So that's how it is?"
Hans nodded. "That's how it is."
She hummed, rolling the thought over in her mind. Then, with a satisfied smirk, she crossed her arms. "Good answer."
And that was that. Zharka was Zharka. And she always would be.
From the outskirts of the camp, the leaders of the other factions stepped forward, their gazes locked onto the transformation before them.
The minotaur warlord, a living mountain of battle-worn muscle, watched as Hans's blood ignited something beyond mere strength in those who received it. His chosen generals stood taller, their bodies reshaped into something more—something greater. The very air around them pulsed with newfound power, and their tribesmen, too, were swept up in the change, shedding their former limitations. The minotaur's fingers tightened into fists. Decades of war, of victories carved into his flesh, and yet never had he seen power like this. His people fought to survive—Hans's people were evolving to rule.
Beside him, the werewolf pack leader bared her fangs, not in aggression but in stunned realization. She had thought Hans merely strong, a leader worth watching. But this—this was something else entirely. He was not just leading a force; he was reshaping it, forging something beyond mortal limits. Strength was everything to her kind, yet in a single moment, she saw how weak they truly were in comparison. Her instincts screamed at her to challenge, to resist—but her mind, sharp and ruthless, understood the truth. Pride meant nothing if it led to stagnation. Hans had the key to something greater, and she would not let her pack be left behind.
The minotaur exhaled, a deep rumble in his chest, before he stepped forward and knelt. "I have spent my life carving my place through blood and battle," he said, his voice steady. "But I see now that my strength alone is nothing before yours. You do not just lead—you elevate. If my people are to thrive, then I will not stand against you. My warband is yours, and so is my loyalty, now and forever."
The werewolf pack leader hesitated only a moment longer before she, too, knelt, her pride crushed beneath the weight of realization. "I sought your weakness," she admitted, her golden eyes meeting Hans's. "But all I have found is the path to true power. If you will have us, then my pack will be yours. We fight for no one but the strongest—and today, you have proven there is none greater."
Hans met their gazes. He had expected this. He had wanted this.
Hans stood at the heart of the encampment, his gaze sweeping over the gathered warbands. The minotaurs, towering pillars of muscle and raw power. The werewolves, their eyes gleaming like embers in the night. The air was thick with tension, hunger—desire for something greater.
"You seek power," Hans said, his voice cutting through the night like steel. "And power must be earned."
He let the words settle, watching the flickers of pride and ambition in their eyes. Then, he turned to Zharka. "We need an arena. A proving ground."
She bared her fangs in a knowing grin. "By dawn, you'll have one."
Hans nodded, his focus shifting back to the gathered leaders. "Bring me your finest warriors. Let them fight. Let them prove their strength, their discipline, their honor." He raised his hand, and the firelight caught the crimson gleam of the dagger given to him by Zhoran.
"Impress me," Hans said, his tone like a command from the gods. "And you will earn the right to share my blood."
A hush fell over the warbands. Then, the minotaur warlord stepped forward, his deep voice a low rumble. "If strength is what you seek, then we will show you a battle worthy of legend." His gaze burned with purpose—not just for power, but for something more. A place in something greater than scattered warbands and fleeting victories.
The werewolf pack leader tilted her head, golden eyes narrowing. "I thought you were just another warlord," she admitted. "But you are building something far beyond that. If battle is your test, then we will not disappoint."
She turned to her pack. "Tomorrow, we hunt."
The night erupted into motion. Warriors sharpened their blades, tested their armor, and marked their flesh with war paint. Training grounds were cleared, battle pits dug, and the howls of the werewolves mixed with the bellowing war cries of the minotaurs.
Yet, as the fires burned, the two leaders did not wait for dawn.
The minotaur warlord took it upon himself to oversee the construction of the proving ground, ensuring that not only his warriors, but all those who fought, would battle with honor. He stood side by side with his kin, his hands lifting stone and steel, forging an arena worthy of Hans's trial. His actions spoke of more than just ambition—they spoke of a leader willing to build, not just conquer.
The werewolf pack leader, ever the predator, moved through the encampment with quiet purpose. She scouted weaknesses in the defenses, tested the discipline of the warriors, and ensured that those who stood before Hans tomorrow would be the strongest their factions had to offer. If Hans was to trust her, she would prove not just her own worth, but that of her entire pack.
By dawn, the proving ground stood ready.
Hans watched from atop a rocky outcrop as the shattered clans, once divided, now moved with purpose. This was no longer a gathering of scattered warbands. It was the foundation of a new kingdom.
The trials had yet to begin, but the first test had already been passed. The minotaur and the werewolf had done more than prepare for battle—they had begun shaping the future alongside him.
For the first time, Hans saw them not as rivals, not as warriors seeking power for themselves, but as something more.
As potential generals.
And the trials of his future kingdom were only beginning.