In the days that followed the bloodshed, Kyros grew into a fine young goblin—respected by his peers, diligent in his work, and rarely taking a moment for himself. Whenever a new batch of goblin children was born, he took it upon himself to instill calm and restraint in them.

One of his methods was simple, yet effective: he would present a small bird to the younglings, safely enclosed within a handmade cage. Predictably, the children would react with instinctual savagery, lunging toward the creature. But Kyros would step in firm, commanding, and somehow gentle, and calm them.

It was never instantaneous. It took years of repetition, years of exposure, gradually introducing larger and more provocative creatures as the goblins matured.

The goal was always the same: to teach them control.

And for the most part, it worked.

The results spoke for themselves. Kyros had almost singlehandedly shifted the nature of his tribe. Violence still existed, yes,but now, it was tempered.

Thoughtful. Intentional. Not mindless. It was only reserved for hunting, no more.

There was still much to be done, and Kyros was well aware of that. But for now, he allowed himself a rare thought:

Progress.

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

He opened the door to find the elder, now hunched and visibly aged, the passage of time etched deeply into his frame.

“Ah, Elder. Welcome.”

“Kyros… come with me.” The old goblin’s voice carried a rare warmth.

Without further explanation, the elder turned and began walking. Kyros followed, closing the door behind him. As he descended the steps, he looked around and a quiet pride stirred in his chest.

The village had changed.

Homes now stood tall, built into and from the forest’s vast trees. A great hall, crowned with a dome of polished bark and lightstone, stood proudly at the center. Goblins roamed its paths, laughing, talking, trading fruits, meat, and crafted tools.

“I see you’ve begun to reap the fruits of your efforts,” the elder said, keeping his hands folded behind his back. His staff supported him, upright and sturdy, even as his body weakened.

The sun filtered gently through the canopy above, painting the village in soft, golden hues. Life pulsed all around them. Laughter echoed from shaded paths. Smoke rose lazily from kitchens and fires.

They rounded a corner.

To their right, a small open-air food stall served hungry goblins. Some rested on stumps and stones, trading gossip and discussing plans for the next hunt. Kyros offered a humble nod.

“Thank you, Elder. Though I believe much work remains. I will age too, one day. I must prepare the next generation to carry the flame forward, so they may teach the next… and so on.”

The elder stopped. He gazed upward toward the towering Goblos Tree. The sun shone brightly behind it, illuminating its leaves.

“I still remember when this place was nothing more than a few vine-covered huts in darkness,” he murmured. “When we spoke in grunts and screams.”

He wiped his face, overcome.

“Now… it’s a home. A true one.”

His voice wavered slightly.

“After all these years…”

This was a goblin who had witnessed centuries of violence. Who had watched kin slaughter kin, had stood under the shadow of their species’ darkest instincts.

And now, he stood in the light.

And he laughed.

Turning to Kyros, he placed a hand on the young goblin’s shoulder.

“You’ve made a man at the end of his life… feel as if it’s only just beginning.”

A pause.

“Thank you.”

Kyros nodded, standing tall. “It is my directive. Protection can come in many ways, you know.”

The murmuring of the town hall echoed across its high ceiling. Around the central seat, where the Elder usually presided, the tribe’s higher-ups whispered among themselves, discussing a matter of great importance.

Kyros was to be appointed the next chief.

He stood beside the Elder’s chair at the center of the room. Surrounding them were the carved seats of the council, positions reserved for those who shaped the fate of the tribe. The atmosphere, normally filled with bickering and drawn-out debates, was strangely quiet.

The Elder slowly rose, gripping his staff with both hands.

“I am nearing the end of my life,” he began, voice ringing clear. “I wish to live the rest of my days in solitary peace. As such, I must name a successor. And I believe this goes without saying—”

He turned toward Kyros.

“—the young Kyros is the only one fit for the role.”

Silence fell again, not from hesitation, but agreement.

Normally, this council would argue over trivial matters for hours, yet today, there was no dissent. The decision was obvious. Kyros had transformed their tribe. He had taken chaos and shaped it into structure.

Taught generations to control their urges. Built peace where there had only been blood.

It was only natural that he became the next leader.

“Then it is settled,” the Elder declared.

With slow reverence, he picked up the staff, the symbol of leadership, and held it out toward Kyros.

Kyros’s heart raced. Fear, doubt, and pride all swirled within him. His hand trembled over the staff. He knew this position would come with great responsibility, but also the power to make even greater changes. It was the only path forward.

It was his dream to one day walk beside the sapient races as equals.

He reached out—

“CHIEF!”

A voice burst through the hall. Harsh, ragged, desperate.

Everyone turned.

A medium-sized goblin stood in the doorway, blood pouring from his side. He clutched his arm, breathing in wet gasps.

“Toros?” the Elder asked, now gripping his cane.

“The… front gates… They’ve been breached… by a—!”

He never finished the sentence.

A blur.

A crunch.

Toros’s upper half soared across the room, spinning grotesquely through the air. It slammed against the wall and dropped to the ground like meat.

Gasps. Silence. Horror.

And there, in the doorway, stood the intruder.

Towering. Hulking. His black frame nearly touched the arch of the door. Muscle rippled beneath skin like obsidian. Jagged armor-like bone wrapped his shoulders and neck, giving him the silhouette of a beast carved from stone.

Two curved horns jutted from his skull. A mask-like face bore no emotion. Only two narrow slits marked his eyes—one of them glowing faintly red.

A massive club hung from his hand like a child's toy.

An orc.

The room froze.

Then—

“Can you goblins breed with any race?”

His voice was a low growl that shook the air like thunder. It coiled around Kyros, pressing against his chest like a weight.

No one answered.

Without warning, the orc swung his club, casual, effortless.

The group of goblins standing on the left were instantly pulverized. Bones shattered. Limbs flew. A black mist of blood and gore painted the wall.

Then came the chaos.

Screams.

Scrambling feet.

“Can you goblins breed with any race?” the orc asked again, unshaken.

“Y-Yes…” the Elder stammered.

Kyros’s mind reeled. An orc… here? The eighth layer was dangerous, but never had one descended this far. How had he even found the village? The Umbral Valley’s top layers alone were deadly. This wasn’t supposed to be possible.

The orc strode forward, stopping before Kyros and the Elder. His eyes pierced through them.

“Make me an army.”

“…What?” Kyros whispered.

“Goblins breed with other sapient races to create new monsters. Smarter. Stronger. I was born from a goblin and a daemon."

He raises his club into the air.

"My name is Tyrox.”

Kyros had heard of such experiments on the surface. Hybrid monsters are used as weapons by nations. Disgusting tactics. Goblins were often the ones sacrificed, used like breeding stock. Their offspring usually killed the goblin parent immediately.

They had no choice.

The Elder slowly stood, defiant despite the odds. “No—”

In that instant.

In that instant.

In that instant.

The Elder’s headless body collapsed to the ground, blood spilling across the floor like spilled ink.

And the room descended into true madness.

Kyros stared, unable to process. No matter how he searched for an explanation, all paths led back to one conclusion:

The Elder was dead.

The orc grabbed the old goblin’s corpse and threw it against the wall with a thud. Then he sat right where the Elder once sat, lounging like a king.

“You,” he said to Kyros.

Kyros flinched.

“Get out of my city. I don’t want you putting ideas in my people’s heads.”

Kyros looked around.

The other council members… were nodding.

No cries of resistance. No outrage. Only compliance.

The people he had taught control and kindness were mindlessly nodding like dogs when the man who had taught them about such positive things was banished. Perhaps it was just from a desperate attempt to save their own lives.

And so Kyros was banished from the home where he was born, where he had built a future, where he had tried to lead his kind into the light.

Now smothered again… in shadow.