In the opulent grand hall, Lloyd, a formidable figure of unwavering loyalty, strode towards the ruling goblins. His imposing stature commanded attention as he extended Arthur's invitation. The air crackled with tension, and his voice, firm and unyielding, echoed through the halls where the rulers reveled in their excess.
"Surrender peacefully, and your people will be spared the horrors of war," Lloyd's words reverberated, a plea draped in the gravity of impending consequences. The rulers, however, cloaked in the shadows of their greed and arrogance, perceived this as an affront to their authority.
Consumed by an insatiable hunger for fame, a noble carelessly hurled himself at Lloyd, with a poisoned dagger gleaming in his grasp. "What vulgar words spill from your mouth, you wretched fool?" he spat, launching his attack. The opulent hall paused in suspended animation as the nefarious blade descended. However, with a breathtaking finesse that seemed almost otherworldly, Lloyd elegantly wove through the assault. His movements, swift as the dance of shadows, disarmed and incapacitated the assailant, leaving the noble sprawled upon the intricately patterned floor in a pitiful heap of defeat.
Standing unscathed amidst the gasps of the onlookers, Lloyd's piercing gaze swept across the assembly. His voice, now carrying the weight of impending judgment, rang out, "My master's desire is not bloodshed, but a fair battle. You have been given a chance for mercy."
The ruling goblins, their authority challenged, seethed with anger. The king, driven by rage and fear, commanded a group of skilled soldiers to silence Lloyd. The soldiers, clad in dark armor, approached with lethal intent. Lloyd, undeterred, awaited their advance.
As the soldiers lunged forward, Lloyd seamlessly flowed into action. "Swift Gale Strike!" he called, a whirlwind of precision that disoriented the assailants. In the chaos, Lloyd executed a series of masterful maneuvers— "Cascade of Shadows," a fluid evasion, and "Iron Serpent's Embrace," a counter that left the soldiers incapacitated.
The hall, now a tableau of astonishment, witnessed Lloyd standing amidst the fallen soldiers. His eyes, unyielding, met the gaze of the ruling goblins. "My master's mercy is not a weakness," he declared, the echoes of defiance lingering in the opulent chamber. The rulers, now confronted by the indomitable force that stood before them, faced a choice—yield to mercy or plunge into the maelstrom of Arthur's just wrath.
Lloyd's unwavering gaze held the ruling goblins captive as he continued, "If I wanted, I could easily end each of you right now. But my master's wish is for a fair and honorable battle on the field, not a massacre. I depart, but mark my words: in three days, the battleground awaits. Fail to meet us there, and our master will descend upon your kingdom, painting it in the colors of hell itself. The choice is yours—face us on the battlefield or witness the wrath that follows."
As Lloyd concluded his ominous declaration, a shadowy figure from the back attempted a surprise attack. Yet, like a specter passing through the mist, Lloyd effortlessly evaded the assailant's strike. In a seamless motion, Lloyd retaliated with a swift stroke of his sword, leaving the attacker sprawled on the ground.
A cryptic smile played upon Lloyd's lips as he vanished into the air, leaving behind a mystifying aura. The rulers, now left to grapple with the weight of impending choices, were haunted by the phantom-like display of Lloyd's abilities.
The clock ticked ominously. Three days hung in the air like a looming storm, a countdown to the decisive clash. Lloyd's departure left the grand hall in silence, the rulers contemplating the gravity of the ultimatum. The battlefield, a canvas for justice and retribution, awaited the clash that would unfold with the dawn of destiny.
The grand hall, once vibrant with opulence, now echoed with the gravity of Lloyd's parting words. The ruling goblins, torn between pride and the imminent threat, exchanged uneasy glances. The looming specter of an unleashed master and the haunting promise of hell painted a tense tableau.