The next day, Gribul woke up with the strange feeling of being clean.
He had a dry blanket.
Warm soup beside him.
And no one kicking him to get up.
It was almost… too dangerous to be true.
He stayed lying down a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling of the tent and trying to remember if he had dreamed everything. The war. The elf falling from the sky. The blood. The fainting.
But when he looked at himself, he saw: the pot-lid armor was still there. Only now it was clean. And shining, in a ridiculous way.
The wooden spoon? It had been replaced by another. Slightly more intact. But still a spoon.
And the red cape was still dragging on the ground. Cleaner, too. Almost like someone had taken care of him.
Gribul sat up slowly.
Maybe he was sick.
Or maybe he was dead and this was hell.
Then the tent flap opened.
"CAPTAIN GRIBUL!" shouted a tall demon with two pairs of wings and a voice that made the tent shake.
Gribul fell backward from the scare.
"Your presence is requested by General Mor'dral. Urgent!"
"General...? But I… I didn't even do anything!"
"Exactly! A legend like you doesn't need to explain actions. Actions explain you."
Gribul was dragged out of the tent.
The camp looked different.
As he passed by the soldiers, they stopped.
They stared.
They greeted him with respect.
"That's the Silent One."
"The cold-blooded killer."
"The one who stares death down with a wooden spoon."
He wanted to say the spoon was just because he had no other weapon.
But no one asked.
Two soldiers opened the door to the main tent.
Inside, sitting on a throne made of skulls (Gribul hoped it was decorative), was the general.
A huge demon with a goat's head and four arms.
Two held goblets. One held a map. And the last one pointed straight at Gribul.
"This him?"
"Yes, sir. Captain Gribul, the Silent One."
"The one who defeated an elf with a stare and then slept standing up?"
"Yes, sir."
The general laughed.
That rough laugh, full of smoke.
"You're a strange goblin. But effective."
Gribul opened his mouth. Wanted to say "I'm none of that."
But before any sound came out, the general stood.
"By order of the Demon King, and in recognition of your brave act in the last battle, I declare your promotion."
"Promo… what?"
"You are now a Major. Of the Third Massacre Company."
Gribul froze.
Stopped.
Went stiff.
"Major? I don't even know what comes after Captain! Is there an order to this? Did I skip a step?!"
"Silence. Silence is your mark."
The general gestured with all four hands.
Two demons came in with a new armor set.
It was… horrible.
Made of twisted metal. Covered in spikes and plates.
Way too big for his body.
The helmet looked like a bucket painted black.
On the chest, it was engraved: **MAJOR GRIBUL — DARKNESS CLAN**
"It's… very pretty," he lied.
"It's the armor of legend," said the general.
Gribul put it on. Or tried.
The armor weighed more than he did.
Walking was hard.
Breathing too.
But no one noticed.
When he left the tent, the whole troop saluted.
"MAJOR GRIBUL!"
"GLORY TO THE SILENT ONE!"
"THE GHOSTLY MASSACRER!"
Gribul tried to smile.
But the armor squeezed his face.
---
That night, he returned to his tent.
Now he had a bigger one.
With a table, a bed, and even a scented candle.
They gave him good food.
A barrel of wine he didn't know how to drink.
And an assistant. A goblin smaller than him with an annoying voice.
"Major Sir! Do you need anything? Shall I hold your spoon?"
"No… just… go away."
Gribul lay on the bed.
Stared at the ceiling, as always.
Thinking.
"I became a Major.
Without doing anything.
Literally fainted and woke up promoted.
Maybe I'm some kind of reverse hero.
Or maybe the world went insane.
Or… or maybe I died and this is punishment for stealing that carrot from the dwarf that one time."
He sighed.
All he wanted was a simple campfire.
A plate of fried mushrooms with garlic and salt.
And the sound of the cave dripping water in the back.
But no.
Now he was Major Gribul.
A living legend.
Commander of massacre.
And the war… was just getting started.