Leonhart lay still on the cold cave floor, listening to the sounds of the goblin tribe as they stirred. The weak scuttled about, scraping for scraps. The strong barked orders or took what they pleased. It was chaos, but a pattern emerged the longer he observed.
Hierarchy ruled here.
And if he wanted to survive, he had to climb it.
Hunger gnawed at his insides, a sharp and painful reminder that this frail body had limits. He had no choice—he had to eat. But the weak didn't get food unless they took it or earned it.
That meant joining the hunt.
"Get up, runts!" A guttural voice snarled.
A hobgoblin loomed over a group of smaller goblins, his muscular frame dwarfing them. He held a crude spear, its tip jagged and rusted. His yellow eyes swept over the group—and landed on Leonhart.
"New runt," he sneered. "You hunt, or you starve."
Leonhart met his gaze but said nothing. He had learned quickly—words meant little here. Strength spoke louder. He simply nodded and followed the group as they were herded toward the mouth of the cave.
A damp forest stretched beyond, thick with fog. The scent of damp earth and rotting leaves filled the air. The goblins moved in a loose pack, their bare feet silent against the dirt. Some clutched makeshift weapons—clubs, sharpened bones, rusted daggers. Others carried nothing, relying on their claws and teeth.
Leonhart flexed his fingers. His body still felt sluggish, but it was adjusting. He had spent the night testing his movements, pushing his muscles, forcing himself to move with purpose.
This body is weak. But it can be trained.
"Quiet, runts!" The hobgoblin hissed, raising a fist. The goblins froze.
Ahead, movement.
A wild boar, its bristled fur matted with mud, snorted as it foraged among the roots of a tree. It was massive compared to the goblins, its curved tusks sharp enough to gore.
The goblins tensed.
"Kill it," the hobgoblin growled.
A handful of goblins lunged. The boar squealed and charged, slamming into one of them and sending it flying. Another goblin leaped onto its back, clawing at its hide, but the beast thrashed violently, throwing the attacker off. The rest hesitated, their eyes flickering between hunger and fear.
Leonhart watched, muscles coiled. Instinct screamed at him to stay back. To let the others fight. To scavenge the remains.
No. That is not who I am.
He moved.
Darting forward, he grabbed a discarded spear from the dirt. His grip was awkward, his balance off—but he adjusted. As the boar turned to charge another goblin, Leonhart drove the spear forward.
The tip struck just behind the creature's shoulder, sinking deep.
The boar shrieked, stumbling. It bucked, knocking Leonhart back, but he held firm, twisting the spear. Blood gushed from the wound.
The other goblins saw weakness.
They swarmed. Claws, teeth, and rusted blades tore into the wounded beast. It fought, but its strength was fading. Soon, it collapsed, its squeals dying into a wet gurgle.
Silence.
Then, the goblins let out a chorus of excited screeches, victorious in their kill. The hobgoblin stalked forward, yanking the spear from the carcass.
His eyes settled on Leonhart.
"Not bad, runt." He smirked. "You might last longer than I thought."
Leonhart met his gaze but said nothing.
Before the goblins could begin dividing the spoils, a low growl rumbled through the trees.
Leonhart's head snapped up. His instincts flared, every muscle in his body tensing. The goblins froze.
From the underbrush, glowing yellow eyes pierced the darkness. A wolf. Lean, hungry, its fur bristled as it prowled forward. It wasn't alone. More rustling. More growls.
Then—it struck.
The wolf lunged, jaws clamping onto the throat of a goblin who had been too slow to react. A sickening crunch filled the air as blood sprayed across the leaves.
Panic erupted. Goblins screeched, some scrambling to flee, others brandishing weapons with trembling hands.
Leonhart's heart pounded. A wolf was dangerous prey—fast, strong, lethal. The goblins fought in chaos, their attacks uncoordinated. The beast dodged their wild swings, fangs flashing.
Think! I can't fight like them—I have to fight like I used to!
The wolf lunged again, knocking another goblin aside. Leonhart gritted his teeth, gripping his stolen spear.
He adjusted his stance.
As the wolf turned its attention to him, Leonhart didn't wait. He surged forward, driving the spear upward—straight into the creature's open maw. The jagged tip tore through flesh, piercing the roof of its mouth and into its skull.
The wolf let out a strangled yelp, its body twitching violently before going limp.
Silence fell once more.
The remaining goblins gawked, their gazes shifting from the dead wolf to Leonhart. Even the hobgoblin's eyes held a flicker of something new—something between wariness and respect.
Leonhart exhaled slowly, yanking the spear free.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was proving himself.
And this was only the beginning.