The roaring crater Antares had left at the main gate served as a violent exclamation point to his return. Yet, as the blinding cloud of snow and ice settled, it was not fear that filled the Northern Camp, but a raw, desperate hope.
Foragers, their skin cracked from the freezing winds, paused in their labors to cheer. Vanguard soldiers, rigid in their patrols, snapped their weapons in salute.
Beneath the disciplined leadership of General Yanrid, the camp was doing more than surviving; it was beginning to adapt.
Yanrid strode forward through the cheering crowd, his steps echoing with the crunch of ice.
His ice armor gleamed under the pale northern sun. He stopped before Antares and dropped to one knee, lowering his head.
"Welcome back, your Majesty," Yanrid's voice was like the grinding of glaciers—low, cold, and utterly resolute.
Antares looked down at his general. Even without actively calling upon the System's appraisal, he could sense it. Yanrid's mana pool was deeper, more condensed, and his aura hummed with a lethally sharpened edge. The cold battles of the North had not broken him but it had tempered him.
"You have crossed the threshold, Yanrid," Antares stated, a rare glimmer of a smile touching his scarred face. He could feel it; the Ice General had ascended to Master Rank, matching his own level.
"The Hive demands strength, Sire. I merely sought not to embarrass your trust," Yanrid replied, standing.
"Indeed I need stronger soldiers now more than ever," Antares said, turning to look at the bustling camp.
He spotted Lord Velas. The mage looked restored, his previously gaunt features filled out, his magical aura stable and potent.
The core of his leadership was intact and stronger than before.
"Where is Kael?" Antares asked, noticing the blacksmith's absence.
"Lord Kael and the remaining Red Sons are at the clay pits, Sire," Yanrid reported. "He has been overseeing the extraction process and the Sons are providing security alongside the other part of the workforce."
Antares nodded. The foundation of his future empire lay in that clay. "Prepare for an emergency council tomorrow morning. I need a full strategic assessment before Lord Yajin and Lady Sira arrive with the caravan."
Before inspecting the pits, Antares knew he needed to see his current, most crucial assets. Leaving Yanrid to handle the camp logistics, Antares strode toward the royal command tent.
He paused outside, sensing the aura within. It was vibrant, alive with nature and life, yet incredibly potent.
He entered.
Standing near a basin of water was Riya. When she saw Antares, she immediately dropped to her knees, crossing her upper and lower arms over her chest.
"Your Majesty. Welcome back from the south," her voice was melodic, carrying the scent of rain and earth.
[DING]
Antares looked at her and smiled, an idea popped in his head and with the system. He knew he was right.
"Stand, Riya," Antares commanded. "We are establishing the southern port city, Antisport. We are at a crucial point in our development."
"Sire. The surface jungle will bow to the Hive's needs," she vowed, her cyan eyes glowing with quiet determination.
Antares left the tent, a plan forming in his mind. He would take Adam with him to the clay pits. It was time to see how the work was going here.
While the Antmen's Northern territory faced perpetual cold and ice, trapped against the mountainous natural barrier, the other side of the Godwall was a hellscape of a different kind.
It was a desolate, rugged patch of earth.
The titanic mountains didn't just block entry; they seemed to drain the moisture from the air, creating a stark shadow on their northern flank.
Far from the Godwall, in a harsh, Savannah-like lands, the air was dry enough to crack skin, and the trees were skeletal, clawing at the sky.
Here lay a sprawling goblin camp. Tens of thousands of pitched tents, varying in size and made from rough animal skins and coarse furs, stretched across the arid landscape.
The campfires lit the night like a thousand mocking stars, and the cacophony rising from within was not of structured discipline, but of manic, brutal celebration.
Goblins, small but numerous and wiry, were gathered around open pits, roasting massive slabs of unidentifiable flesh. To the peripheral, heads of rival commanders—wild goblin leaders who had dared to oppose them earlier that day—were mounted on spikes, their faces frozen in gouts of dried blood.
The hunting dogs and scavenged hyenas fought in territorial snaps as they tore through the bodies of the defeated foes thrown to them by their laughing masters.
While some sang guttural war songs, others openly ravaged the spoils of war. Female goblins captured during the battle and the wretched slaves kept for reproduction—humans, beastfolk, and others—were subjected to their sickly carnal desires in open view, their cries of despair drowned by the goblin's manic laughter.
At the very center of this chaotic sprawl sat a massive tent.
Its support poles were carved from the gigantic white tusks that looked like that of an elephants or mammoth that had most likely been hunted down with overwhelming numbers.
This tent was special. It was made of deep red hide, decorated with intricate, macabre patterns of bones. In this ocean of ugly skin tents, it looked majestic—a palace built from savagery.
Inside, the horror was amplified. Women of various races goblins, beast folk, elves, humans, merfolk among others lay scattered on the ground.
Some were bloodied, covered in semen, unconscious, or worse. They were not viewed as living beings, but as property, mere "breeding sows" for the spread of the goblin race.
On a massive bed built of furs, a bipedal humanoid figure rose. Unlike the hunched, wiry, ugly goblins outside, he was large, with a massive frame covered in powerful muscle.
He had just finished a round of rutting with another breeding sow. She had passed out from exhaustion.
He moved his massive frame out of the bed, walking around the tent with a predatory grace, making sure not to step on any of his "property."
He pulled a thick, red fur robe over his naked, scar-covered body. A prominent, diagonal scar ran across half his face, from above his left eye down to his lip.
This was Warlord Zaka, the rebel leader. He had long white dreadlocks, and despite his scar and monstrous size, he was, in a brutal way, good-looking for a goblin.
His intelligence was palpable, radiating from his cold, assessing gaze.
"Chief! Chief!" The guard outside his tent shouted, the panic evident in his high-pitched voice.
"Enter," Zaka answered, his voice a low, gravelly growl that immediately quieted the noise inside the tent.
A goblin guard in full armor came rushing in, immediately dropping to his knees and pressing his head against the ground. "A messenger has come, Great Chief."
"From?"
"The princess, Great Chief," the guard squeaked.
Zaka stood up immediately, his eyes flashing with lethal intent. He kicked a few of the nearest unconscious women out of the way. "Clear the tent! Get this filth out of here and prepare it for a guest of state! Bring him in quickly."
The women who were conscious scurried away in terror, dragging the unconscious ones with them as guards rushed to "clean" the tent by throwing fresh furs over the messy ones.
Moments later, the guard brought the messenger in. The figure was draped in a thick, black robe and a deep hood that obscured his features. He didn't drop to his knees; he simply walked forward with an air of arrogant power.
"Leave us!" Zaka snarled at his guards. When the tent was empty, he sat near the fire pit. Because of the size and height difference—the mage was much taller—sitting in this humble manner was preferable.
Zaka remained quiet until the old man spoke.
"I see you have won another victory, Zaka," the messenger's voice was raspy, yet it carried the undeniable authority of power.
A chill passed through Zaka. He knew this "messenger" was a powerful human mage, and the "employer" behind him could reduce his army to ash if they felt insulted. But he had to remain strong.
"Thank you, great mage," Zaka replied, maintaining his composure. "It is only because of the young Princess's support and the weapons you provide that we managed to win again against these wild ones."
The old man chuckled, the sound like dry leaves rubbing together. "Quite the humble one aren't you. Anyway, I carry word from the Princess."
Zaka listened attentively.
"The Antmen live and they are active." the mage said simply.
The air in the tent seemed to grow cold.
"Impossible," Zaka snapped, unable to contain his disbelief. "The last war that was waged against them crippled them for life.The former king ensured they would die on the other side of the Godwall in the cold, and the curse that was put on them by the great goblin shamans was no simple one. I was on the front lines! I watched the antmen ran for their life and sealed the passage through the Godwall!"
"Well, look like you were wrong in believing all that," the mage replied, pulling a piece of parchment from his robe, handling it after taking a horn filled with fine wine served by one of Zaka's female attendants. The mage drank it in one go. "Hah! That is a nice one. I haven't drank in a while because of work." Again he laughed loudly.
While the mage drank, Zaka read the parchment.
He was one of the few goblins who could read and write—a testament to how much resource the Redbeard princess had poured into his cultivation.
The text was undeniable. Sources were vague, but the Princess's brother, Prince Tayron, had been confirmed to be interacting with Antmen on the other side.
Zaka wasn't really scared of the Antmen; the passage that had once allowed direct access to their territory was destroyed by the Antmen themselves during the last war. Cowards, he thought. They were trapped in their cold hell of despair.
"What are the Princess's orders?" Zaka asked, his voice filled with a bloodthirsty eagerness to prove himself worthy of the Princess's backing.
The old mage stopped drinking and became serious.
"She wants you to keep up the good work. Keep destroying and seizing other goblin settlements. Increasing your numbers remains a priority. Leaders who do not agree with your rule... kill them and absorb their people. The other two factions, Vulga and the Loyalists, will inevitably fall. You are to be the only force on this part of the continent."
Zaka heard him and smiled. If he continued to follow the orders of the Pirate Princess, he would become the Goblin King. Or even Emperor, if he could force all goblins to bow to him.
"Do not worry about supplies," the old man added, standing up to leave. "Slaves, food, and weapons will be sent your way to support your upcoming campaigns. We expect results, Zaka."
Zaka bowed deeply to him.
"Keep up the good work. We have high expectations of you," the mage said, covering his head with his hood and instantly teleporting away in a flash of purple light.
Zaka remained in his massive tent, thinking about his next move. The Antmen. He thought. He wasn't particularly worried. An attack on their rear, through the Godwall, was impossible since they themselves had destroyed the passage.
But he had to be safe.
"Gordy!" Zaka shouted.
An old, hunched goblin, his skin scarred and his features twisted, came stumbling into the tent, stumbling a few times in his haste. "Yes, Chief! Your loyal servant is here!"
"Send a detachment of five thousand goblins to the foot of the Godwall," Zaka commanded. "Let them camp there and secure it. Let them establish a fortified forward post exactly where the old pass into the Antmen territory was destroyed."
"G-Godwall?" Gordy squeaked, his eyes wide with confusion. "Why would we send our valuable men to go and secure that useless place, Great Chief? It is destroyed. An attack from those insects is impossible!"
"I have a feeling," Zaka declared, his eyes locked on the ancient wall in the distance.
"But—" Gordy began to protest.
Zaka glared at him, a lethal bloodlust filling his eyes. He didn't raise his voice; he simply leaned in close.
"Do not make me repeat myself, Gordy."
The old goblin's skin went pale green. He bowed so low his head hit the ground. "Yes, Chief! Yes! Right away!" He scurried out of the tent in a panic.
Zaka watched him leave, his fingers tracing the scar on his face. He didn't fear the Antmen, but he respected strength. He needed a warning if the stalemate was broken.
Turning his gaze back toward his massive bed, he shouted at his guards to bring him a fresh bunch of breeding sows. He would ensure they didn't run out of men. The expansion wars demanded numbers.
Also he wanted to please his lust.
Once a goblin, always a goblin.