A commotion erupted in the corner of the goblin pen as Grax—the leader of our pack—ripped a chunk of rotting flesh from the hand of a smaller goblin. His victim fell, blood pouring from the claws that had dug into his cheek.
"This meal is for me!" Grax growled, his broken teeth gleaming in the torchlight. He was twice the size of the average goblin, battle scars dotting his greenish skin. "You all eat after I've had my fill!"
The other goblins backed away, heads bowed in fear. A brutal but simple hierarchy—the strong eat the weak. In this slave pen, Grax was a petty king with absolute power over his pack.
I watched from the corner of my pen, fingers gripping the bone spear I had perfected. Seven days had passed since I began training this puny body, and now it was time for the next step.
Leadership.
In the memories of my past as Marcus Thornfield, I recalled the first lesson every commander learns: a hungry and demoralized army is a defeated army. Grax may have physical strength, but he lacks strategic vision.
"You," Grax pointed at the trembling female goblin in the corner. "Give me your bread."
She shook her head desperately. "But I haven't eaten in—"
Grax's claws shot out, scraping her neck. Fresh blood dripped onto the stone floor. "Do you dare to resist?"
Enough.
I rose slowly, my spine strengthened by secret training holding me upright. My steps toward Grax were deliberate, controlled—like a predator evaluating its prey.
"Grax," my voice cut through the din, cold and sharp as a knife.
His red eyes turned to me, eyebrows raised in surprise. No goblin had ever dared to address him by name before.
"What do you want, runt?" he spat, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. "Want to feel the grip of fangs?"
"I want your position."
A deathly silence fell over the cage. The other goblins stared at me wide-eyed, as if I had just announced my intention to fly to the moon. Even the orc in the neighboring cage fell silent, pointed ears perked up by the drama that was about to ensue.
Grax laughed—a harsh sound that echoed off the stone walls. "You? The weakest goblin here wishes to challenge me?" He rose with a menacing gesture, nearly twice my height. "Very well, runt. I will grant you a swift death."
Arrogance. The same weakness that had destroyed thousands of my enemies in my past life.
Grax struck with surprising speed for such a large body, his claws flying toward my throat. To any other goblin, this would have looked like help—their leader versus a mad challenger.
But I was no ordinary goblin.
Time slowed in my perception, a phenomenon I had had since my early days as Marcus Thornfield. Grax's every move was mapped out in my mind—the angle of his attack, the distribution of his weight, the way his balance wobbled from his over-aggression.
I stepped aside, the bone spear moving in a pattern I had practiced a thousand times. The sharp tip stabbed just below Grax's ribs, piercing flesh and scraping his internal organs.
Grax roared in pain, warm blood splattering my hand. But he was not dead—just wounded. His red eyes blazed with a primitive rage.
"Lucky!" He swung his giant fist toward my head.
This time I didn't dodge. Instead, I charged into his attack, the spear spinning in an intricate spiral. A technique I had learned from the spear master at the Northern Academy—Dance of the Killing Serpent.
The spear tip found a gap between the fingers of Grax's fist, piercing through his palm and exiting out his back. He screamed, blood pouring from the gaping wound.
"It can't be," he stammered, staring at his impaled hand. "You just—"
I pulled the spear in a twisting motion, tearing more flesh. Grax staggered, his balance unsteady. It was time for the final blow.
Leaping into the air with the strength I had just built up, I drove the spear straight into Grax's left eye. No mercy, no hesitation. Just cold, efficient execution.
The bone pierced the eyeball with a disgusting wet sound, sliding through the brain and exiting out the back of the skull. Grax stood there for a moment, a look of shock fixed on his face. Then his massive body collapsed like a fallen tree.
Blood pooled on the floor, mixing with dust and dirt. I pulled my spear from the corpse, ignoring the lump of brain matter that clung to the tip.
There was complete silence. The goblins stared at me with a mixture of fear and awe. The smallest had killed the mightiest. The natural order had been upended in the blink of an eye.
I stepped over Grax's body, my gaze sweeping over every face in the cage. They bowed instinctively, acknowledging my new authority.
"From now on," my voice echoed in the cramped space, "I am your master." I raised my bloody spear, the tip dripping onto the corpse beneath me.
"Any objections?"
There was no sound. Even their breathing was barely audible.
The young elf in the cage across the way stared at me, eyes wide. "You… you are no ordinary goblin."
I smiled—a cold expression that did not reach my eyes. In my past memories, I saw myself standing over the corpse of the emperor I had conquered.
Power always tasted the same, no matter what form it took.
"The weak," I said, my voice dripping like sweet poison, "deserve to die."