In the brief moment that Zarku stood at the doorway, gazing at his chef, time seemed to stretch into an agonizing eternity. The chef continued to stir the grotesque contents in the pot, oblivious to Zarku's presence, until an eerie sensation made him abruptly turn his head towards the king.
"Oh, King Zarku, you're here," the chef uttered with a sheepish smile, slowly pivoting his entire body to face Zarku. The sight that greeted the king was horrifying, almost causing him to retch in disgust. The goblin chef, apart from his head, bore a massive cavity in his chest, exposing a pulsating heart while the intestines were conspicuously absent. The area where its liver, spleen and kidney were also conspicuously missing. It didn't take much imagination to deduce the fate of the missing organs.
A sense of dread enveloped Zarku as he grappled with the horrifying revelation: The chef had not only included his own body parts in the repugnant concoction simmering in the pot but was somehow still alive, his voice echoing through the room. Zarku's mind raced with confusion and terror, unable to fathom why the chef remained conscious and seemingly devoid of pain. The logical conclusion would be his death, but the chef defied all expectations, lurking in the shadows of the kitchen like a sinister ghost.
"Your Majesty, you have arrived just in time. Behold, I am concocting the most extraordinary dish of my entire existence," the chef declared, a glimmer of madness gleaming in his eyes. The sheepishness that once adorned his countenance had vanished, replaced by a twisted pride. With trembling hands, he lifted a ladleful from the pot, the aroma permeating the air, and extended it towards his sovereign, his face consumed by a ravenous anticipation.
King Zarku recoiled in horror, his voice trembling with disbelief as he bellowed at the chef, "What madness possesses you? Have you lost your wits?" In a fit of anger and fear, the king swiped at the chef, violently knocking the ladle out of his trembling hands.
The goblin chef let out a piercing scream as the contents of the ladle splattered onto the floor, a masterpiece destroyed in an instant. "How could you? This was my most astonishing creation!" The chef's voice quivered with a mix of heartbreak and betrayal. "I shall never forgive you, even though you wear the crown."
Filled with rage, the goblin chef started to pace back and forth, swinging the ladle wildly in the air. Each swing seemed to carry an eerie sense of impending doom, as if the ladle itself held a malevolent power. The clanging sound of metal against metal echoed through the chamber, intensifying the atmosphere of suspense and horror. King Zarku brandished his dagger, poised to strike the deranged goblin the moment it entered his striking range. The goblin drew nearer, its wild swings with a metal ladle growing more frantic.
The moment the chef enters king Zarku striking zone, the goblin king summons every ounce of strength, he propelled himself forward, narrowly evading the ladle aimed at his face. With a swift and decisive motion, he drove the dagger into the goblin's crazed eye, penetrating deep into its brain. As he withdrew the blade, a gruesome sight unfolded—the contents of the chef's skull spilled out from the eye socket, flowing like a morbid stream. The chef fell without a scream, if it has not been dead from the missing organs and intestines, now it is surely dead with its brain all over the floor.
The goblin king spat out in disgust and wiped down his treasured dagger, his heart pounding with a mix of horror and apprehension. He couldn't fathom what had driven the chef to descend into madness, carving out his own organs to create a twisted dish. A chilling sense of unease hung heavy in the air as the goblin king surveyed the kitchen, his eyes darting anxiously in search of any clues that might explain the gruesome spectacle. With a growing sense of dread, he peered into the cauldron once more, but found nothing but grotesque remains of his fellow goblins. Frustration gnawed at him, but he knew he had to press on, desperately seeking answers or any sign of his missing subjects.
King Zarku had scoured almost every inch of the desolate place, yet not a single living or dead goblin remained. His frustration festered, mingling with a growing sense of unease. This forsaken realm had been home to fifty thousand goblins, including a formidable force of four thousand elite warriors. But now, as if swallowed by the abyss, fifty thousand of his own men had vanished without a trace. The eerie silence weighed heavily upon him, suffocating his hopes of discovery. Save for the deranged chef he had encountered, not a single goblin lingered in the shadows, amplifying the haunting emptiness that permeated the air.
Finally, he reaches the last place inside the goblin nest—a vast cave with towering ceilings. This eerie cavern served as the training ground for his goblin warriors, where they honed their deadly skills. King Zarku cautiously steps inside, the air is heavy with an unsettling silence, heightening his sense of dread.
With nervousness, he surveys the area, his gaze darting across the shadows, desperately searching for any trace of his men. The flickering torchlight casts haunting shadows on the walls, playing tricks on his mind. The eerie stillness seems to whisper of an impending doom.
The once bustling training ground now lies deserted, as if consumed by an unknown force. It's as if the goblins have vanished into an unholy realm, leaving behind an atmosphere of sinister mystery. King Zarku's heart pounds in his chest, his mind filled with unnerving thoughts.
As he carefully examines the floor and walls, searching for any clue or sign, his fingers brush against the cold, damp stone. His grip tightens on his weapon, his knuckles turning white. The echoes of his own footsteps reverberate through the cavern, amplifying the sense of isolation. The oppressive darkness seems to close in on him, obscuring any hope of finding his missing men. King Zarku battles against his rising fear, determined to unravel the enigma that surrounds him.
Unable to find anything useful, the frustration of the goblin king grew even further, casting a dark cloud over his thoughts. Determined to abandon this wretched place, he made up his mind to journey to the treacherous front line where Commander Zeeke awaited. As he turned around to exit the eerie cave, a sudden chill crawled up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. From the corner of his eyes, a shadowy figure materialized, lurking ominously in the farthest corner of the training ground. The goblin king's heart pounded in his chest, for he was certain that the figure had not been there when he first entered.
A surge of caution surged through him, compelling Zarku to cast a series of defence spells upon himself, fortifying his body and enhancing his speed, in anticipation of any attack that may come from the hooded figure.
The figure began to move ominously toward the centre of the training ground, each step sending a shiver down Zarku's spine. He could sense an unsettling power emanating from it, as if the very air around it twisted in response to its presence. The figure wore a flowing black robe with intricate golden lining that seemed to writhe and slither like serpents, as if possessed by a sinister will of its own. Dangling from its waist was a black sword adorned with cryptic inscriptions of gold and silver.
As the figure reached the centre of the training ground, it abruptly halted. With a slow, deliberate motion, it raised its left hand, its fingers adorned with eerie rings with different colour gemstone, and beckoned Zarku to approach.
Zarku's gaze fixated on the pale hand, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and curiosity. The figure's face remained hidden, concealed by the darkness of its hood, intensifying the mystery and dread that enveloped it. Deep within his being, Zarku could sense that this enigmatic entity was the very source of the inexplicable phenomena plaguing his domain.
"Come to me, goblin," the figure calls out to Zarku, his voice resonating with an intimidating authority. Yet, an eerie sweetness laces his words, enchanting Zarku against his will. His feet betray him, moving forward involuntarily. Panic washes over him, but it's too late—he has already taken several steps closer.
Zarku screamed, desperately trying to clear his clouded mind. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice quivering with fear and apprehension. "I will not listen to you, I am the king of goblins. You will kneel before me!" With another shout, King Zarku raised his aura in a defensive stance against the menacing mental attack.
The hooded figure released a bone-chilling laugh, relishing in the pitiful sight before him. "Such feeble aura," he taunted, his voice dripping with malice. "And you dare to ask me to kneel?" With a swift and ominous motion, the figure snapped his fingers together, and in that instant, Zarku's aura was violently torn apart by an unseen force emanating from his adversary. The series of body enhancing spells shattered into pieces. Zarku stood frozen, disbelief etched upon his face as his very essence was shredded like fragile paper. In the presence of this terrifying entity, he could sense an overwhelming power, shrouded in mystery, leaving him with no inkling of its origin or its sinister intentions towards him.
"I will not ask again, goblin. Come to me now," the figure commanded, its voice dripping with authority and malice. Zarku's heart pounded in his chest as he hesitated, torn between his survival instinct and the overwhelming sense of dread that emanated from the figure. The weight of its power was suffocating.