The village lay in ruins. Flames licked the remnants of buildings that had taken weeks to construct, inferno consuming everything in its path.
The explosion had not only shattered the physical structures but had also claimed the lives of thousands of Hobgoblins caught in its devastating blast.
Through the thick smoke and scattered rubble, General Gralnor emerged, a figure of fury and resilience. His rage was palpable, his massive form pushing through the debris.
Half of his face was a grotesque mask of melted flesh, the searing heat having burned away skin and muscle, exposing raw, charred tissue. His body bore the marks of the explosion, with patches of skin hanging loosely, revealing the sinew beneath.
Despite the inferno, there were still about two thousand Hobgoblins who had been fortunate enough to be outside the blast radius.
