Chapter 17: The Rising Storm

[Leav's POV]

The wind carried the scent of damp earth and old stone as Leav stood atop a crumbling watchtower, overlooking the sprawling ruins that had become their stronghold. The Bonefangs had retreated, but he knew they were not broken.

Victory had bought him time—time to strengthen his forces, to consolidate his rule, and to prepare for what was coming. The taste of his latest evolution still lingered in his body, the power humming beneath his skin. He had transformed from a Goblin Tactician into something greater—a Goblin Strategist. His mind was sharper, his ability to process battlefield information faster. Every movement, every ripple of change in the tribe, he could sense it as if the very air whispered to him.

But power alone wouldn't secure their future. He needed his companions to grow alongside him.

His gaze drifted downward, observing the training grounds. Tear, his enforcer, barked orders at a group of newly trained warriors, pushing them harder than ever. Yorl, the berserker, was locked in a brutal sparring session, his massive form moving with more precision than before. Weal, ever the poisoner, had taken to experimenting with more potent toxins, while Frot had expanded his spy network, ensuring that no threats approached unseen.

Leav clenched his fist. They were improving, but was it enough?

The Bonefangs wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Next time, they would come with overwhelming force. Leav had to ensure that when that day arrived, they would be ready to crush them completely.

[Yorl's POV]

The clash of bone clubs and dull iron rang through the training grounds. Yorl panted, his chest rising and falling as he stood over the crumpled body of his latest opponent. The goblin he had been sparring with twitched on the ground, groaning in pain.

"Pathetic," Yorl spat, shaking his head. His blood was still burning, his instincts demanding more. He wanted a real fight.

Tear, standing off to the side, crossed his arms. "You're improving," he admitted. "But you're still wasting too much energy on wide swings. A stronger opponent will use that against you."

Yorl gritted his teeth. He hated hearing that he was lacking. After his last battle, he had leveled up, pushing him to the brink of evolution. He could feel it coming, the need to shed his old self and step into something greater. But unlike Leav, who calculated his progress with precision, Yorl could only fight and push forward, hoping that the next battle would be the one that broke his limits.

"I'm stronger than before," he grumbled.

Tear gave a small nod. "Yes. But you can be more than just strong."

More than just strong? The thought irritated Yorl, but deep down, he knew Tear was right. Strength had always carried him forward, but if he wanted to survive the coming battles, brute force alone wouldn't be enough.

He needed control.

[Weal's POV]

The scent of burning herbs filled the underground chamber. Weal watched with fascination as a drop of his newest creation slid into a bowl of water, turning the liquid a deep, ominous black.

He grinned. Perfect.

Leav had given him resources, freedom, and most importantly, purpose. He had gone from a mere scavenger to an alchemist of death, crafting poisons and concoctions that could decide the outcome of a battle before the first strike was even made.

Weal had leveled up as well, pushing him into the realm of Goblin Venomist. His understanding of toxins had increased dramatically, and his body had even started adapting—his resistance to poison was growing, and his touch could cause minor irritation if he willed it. It was a subtle but terrifying change.

Still, his ambitions stretched far beyond just poisons. The world had so much more to offer.

He looked at the scattered notes in front of him—crude sketches and scribbles outlining experiments he wanted to conduct. If he could refine his poisons further, mix them with other elements… who knew what he could create?

His eyes gleamed with hunger.

Leav was preparing for war. And Weal?

He was preparing for something far worse.

[Frot's POV]

Frot leaned against a half-collapsed wall, watching the comings and goings of the tribe. His spies had been busy. Messages flowed in, whispered secrets and stolen documents piecing together a larger picture.

The Bonefangs were moving, just as Leav had predicted. Their leader, a monstrous brute known as Gorgul the Cleaver, had been gathering forces—not just goblins, but other creatures as well. Rumors spoke of orc mercenaries, of tamed beasts, of dark pacts being made in the depths of the forest.

Frot's lips curled into a smirk. He loved this game.

Leav was brilliant, but there were things raw intelligence couldn't solve. Information was power, and Frot wielded it better than any blade. He had already placed spies among the enemy ranks, listening, waiting.

But he needed more.

He needed to see Gorgul himself.

Slipping into the night, Frot vanished into the shadows, moving like a whisper through the ruins. If he could get close to the Bonefangs' camp, learn their movements firsthand, it would give them a devastating advantage.

And besides—he enjoyed the thrill of sneaking past death.

[Leav's POV]

The night stretched long, but Leav did not sleep.

The world was changing, and he was changing with it. His Goblin Strategist form had given him increased intelligence, greater tactical insight, and a new ability that made his blood sing.

[Tactical Instinct] – A passive skill that allows the user to process battle situations in real-time, increasing reaction speed and predicting enemy movements.

With this, he could see gaps in an enemy's stance before they even moved. He could anticipate a strike before it landed. His combat ability, once reliant on calculated decisions, had now been enhanced by instinct itself.

But it wasn't enough.

His evolution path stretched ahead of him, showing glimpses of possibilities. He had reached a critical point—one more level, and he could evolve again.

The choice was coming.

Would he remain in the realm of strategy, refining his mind into a razor's edge? Or would he take a different path, something more… lethal?

Leav's fingers curled into a fist.

For now, the answer could wait. First, he had a war to win.

The ruins echoed with the sounds of training, of whispered plans, of preparations for battle.

The Bonefangs were coming.

Leav and his companions were waiting.