The Howling Hills are a desolate landscape. Mounds of earth and rock rise like frozen waves, covered in a dry, yellow grass that hisses in the constant wind. It is this wind, funneling through the countless caves and crevices, that gives the region its name. It produces a continuous, mournful wail that sets the nerves on edge.
I arrived at the edge of the area in the middle of the night. I slept for a few hours, hidden in a ditch, my armor my only pillow. My body is used to this kind of spartan comfort.
At sunrise, I begin my hunt. Finding the goblins' lair is not difficult. They are careless. Messy tracks, leftover meals, and debris from looted caravans litter the ground. They do not expect to be hunted. They feel safe in their new kingdom.
I find the entrance to their main cave before noon. It's a wide, gaping opening at the base of one of the largest hills. Two goblins stand guard. They are small, scrawny, armed with rusty spears. They are bored, roughhousing and shoving each other to pass the time.
Name: Goblin Sentry
Level: 3
Status: Inattentive
Easy prey. But killing them would alert the entire tribe. I need to find another way in.
I spend the next few hours circling the hill, using my Camouflage to blend into the landscape. I find what I'm looking for: a narrow fissure, half-hidden by a thorny bush. It is a natural ventilation shaft, just barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. The smell of smoke, filth, and goblin that emanates from it confirms that it leads inside.
I slip through. The passage is tight, claustrophobic. I have to crawl, my shoulders scraping against the rock. Stone Skin protects me from the deepest scratches. After about ten meters in the darkness, the tunnel opens up high on a ledge overlooking a vast cavern.
I have found the heart of the nest.
The cavern is a teeming chaos of life. Dozens of goblins are here. Some are cooking meat over crackling fires, others are fighting, screaming, or sleeping on filthy pallets. It is a vision of anarchic nightmare. To face this horde head-on would be suicide, even for a Bronze-ranked team.
But I did not come for the horde. I am looking for the king.
And I find him. At the back of the cavern, on a sort of throne made of looted caravan crates and beast hides, sits a figure that towers over all the others.
It is Grishnak, the Hobgoblin.
He is immense, far larger than a man, with powerful, gnarled muscles. His skin is a dark, grayish-green, his face bestial, with a prominent jaw and yellowed tusks. He wears crude iron plate armor, likely torn from some unfortunate guard. And next to his throne rests a double-bladed battle axe, a weapon so large it seems impossible for a human to wield.
Analyze.
Name: Grishnak, Chieftain
Level: 12
Status: Rested
HP: 350/350
MP: 50/50
Skills:
[Berserker Charge (Active)]: Temporarily increases Strength and Speed, but decreases Defense.
[Shattering Strike (Active)]: A powerful axe attack that can break armor and shields.
[Rallying Cry (Active)]: Increases the morale and attack of nearby goblin allies.
Weaknesses: Reduced mobility due to heavy armor, limited tactical intelligence (prefers brute force).
Essence: Humanoid, Martial. High absorption potential. High chance of assimilating physical combat skills.
Level 12. The same level as Caelan Burix. But Grishnak is a true warrior, not a noble who practices on dummies. His skills are all geared toward pure and simple destruction. And his essence... High absorption potential. My heart races. This is the feast I have been looking for.
I cannot attack him here. Even if I managed to kill him in one blow (which is impossible), his death cry would alert the entire tribe, and I would be trapped. I must isolate him.
I remain on my ledge, motionless, for hours. I am a statue, a shadow. I observe his routine. He eats, he drinks, he bellows orders at his underlings. He never leaves his throne, the center of his power.
Night falls. Most of the goblins eventually fall asleep. Only a few sentries remain awake, but their vigilance is low. Grishnak, however, seems to never sleep. He sits on his throne, his axe within reach.
How do I lure him out? I can't call to him. I can't create a diversion so obvious it would attract the whole tribe. I must use something that will only attract him. The bait must be irresistible.
I think about what motivates a creature like him. Power, wealth, domination. His throne is made of looted crates. He likes treasure.
I take the remaining Soul Ore from my satchel. It is a risky gamble. It is my catalyst. But I only need one fragment to lure him.
I choose the largest, most brilliant stone. I wait for a sentry to pass beneath my ledge. At the perfect moment, I drop the stone. It lands without a sound on the dirt floor, a few meters from the goblin.
The faint blue glow of the stone is like a beacon in the gloom of the cavern. The goblin notices it. He approaches curiously, prods the stone with the tip of his spear, then picks it up. His eyes widen at the beauty of the object.
As expected, he doesn't keep it for himself. Everything of value belongs to the chief. He scurries to the throne and presents his find to Grishnak.
The Hobgoblin takes the stone. He turns it in his massive fingers. I can see the greed in his eyes. He has no idea what it is, but he recognizes its value. He sniffs the stone, then his gaze lifts, scanning the cavern. Where did this thing come from?
I toss a second, smaller stone into the corridor leading to the main exit. It lands a little further away, its glow visible from the throne.
Grishnak stands. The bait has worked. He grunts something to one of his bodyguards and heads for the corridor, his curiosity stronger than his caution. He wants to know where these jewels are coming from.
I slip down from my ledge and follow him, staying in the shadows. I am the ghost stalking the king.
He exits the cave, under the starry sky. He finds the second stone, then sees a third that I have thrown even further, leading him away from the lair.
I follow him like his shadow, leading him far from his guards, far from prying ears. When we are a hundred meters from the entrance, in a small rocky basin, I decide it is enough.
I rise from my crouched position. The sound of my boots on the gravel makes him spin around.
He sees me, a lone figure under the moon. He is surprised, but not afraid. He looks at me, then at the stones in his hand, and he understands. It was a trap.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, and a wide grin spreads across his face, revealing his tusks.
"A brave little rat has come to play," his voice is a gravelly rasp. "You amused me with your pretty pebbles. Now, I will break your bones and take the rest."
He tosses the ore stones aside and grabs his battle axe. The weapon looks enormous in the night, its double-bladed edge gleaming with a malevolent light.
I draw my single, humble dagger. The scene is absurd. David versus Goliath.
But David did not have my hunger.
The fight for the crown of the Howling Hills is about to begin. And there will be only one king by the end of the night.