Meanwhile, as the Goblin King fell, a new battle began. Armand the goblin was exhausted—physically, magically, and even to his very soul. But as soon as the Goblin King fell, something began to happen.

  Feeling something welling up within him, he hurried to his quarters under the wide-eyed stares of the elves. None of them knew exactly who Armand was, but they realized he had been helping them based on the constructs fighting around them. Upon reaching the cozy den at the center of the dungeon, Armand collapsed into a ragged heap. His worries over Isolde, Gideon, Jomead, Theoden, and the elvish kingdom as a whole were swiftly snuffed out as he was engulfed in darkness.

  He awoke, but this time the Grand Mother was before him in her massive draconic form. She leaned forward and inspected him, her gaze as intense as always. However, he noticed a small, silver goblin standing behind her.

  The god-clone was watching and felt the presence of the main body, but when he tried to greet Armand, only jumbled words fell out. The goblin god frowned but shrugged, seemingly accepting of his position, and simply took a seat.

  Armand looked up at the Grand Mother, her eyes almost telling him not to panic as she inhaled deeply. The goblin waited with bated breath, and she returned a breath of her own—but accompanying the air were golden flames that covered every crevice of the soul before her.

  The goblin expected some sort of pain, but it was nothing but warmth as the gold washed over his body. The dream transformed before him into an endless sea of goblins.

  However, this horde was much unlike the one led by Glordon. They were properly dressed in armor and clothes, packs upon their backs, and they were all kneeling before him. To his right stood what seemed to be an ancient goblin. Armand could tell that he was genuinely real; the ancient one possessed a soul of the most beautiful silver. He was dressed in a simple robe, and upon his head sat a crown of jagged horns—much like Armand’s, but fully grown and golden in color.

  “Who are you?” Armand asked, surprised that he could speak and that the question slipped so quickly from his mouth.

  “Your predecessor,” the old goblin replied. “Took four hundred years, but finally, someone has truly ascended to Goblin King once more.”

  “You have been stuck here all this time?” Armand had only lived a tenth of that time, and so much had happened.

  “Yes, in a sort of limbo until the arrival of the next Goblin King,” the wizened figure replied. “Now hurry up and take the damn crown.” The old goblin took off his crown of horns.

  “It comes off?” Armand had tried to pry the horns from his own head on a few occasions, but to no avail.

  “Yes, but only after it finishes growing in. This is common knowledge—why are you unaware of this?” the old man asked suspiciously.

  “Well, I’m not sure of our heritage… A lot has been lost over the ages.” The young goblin scratched his head. “The previous Goblin King didn’t have a crown; he just killed anyone who dissented.”

  “So it is worse than I thought.” The old king rubbed his temples, creating ripples through the numerous wrinkles on his face. He placed the crown of horns upon his own head and gestured toward a throne. “Sit… I’ve waited this long; I can wait a bit longer.”

  Armand sat upon the throne as the old goblin limped over and painfully bent down into a kneeling position. “Please, don’t do that…” the young goblin grimaced while watching his elder.

  “Unfortunately, it is necessary for the ritual,” the old king replied. “Besides, I’m officially done, and after this, I will have no need to get back up again.” The old soul took a deep breath. “First, I am Gaurdamir, 135th king of the goblin empire. Who are you?”

  “Armand… uh…” The goblin was unsure what else to add, then settled on, “a Dungeon Master.”

  “Most curious,” the old king stroked his chin. “This is a first. You may very well be the immortal king of the goblins, then—perhaps the true, final king. Now, my reign ended because we were attempting to create a weapon that could defeat a demonic uprising.”

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  “We also have something similar at the moment,” Armand replied. It seemed the demons were indeed the main perpetrators behind the Order of Return.

  “Have they manifested in the mundane world yet?” the old goblin worriedly asked.

  “No, just some soul clones,” the young goblin replied.

  “Good… good. Then the situation is manageable.” The old king breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, the weapon we designed was supposed to destroy the demons, so I guess it worked if your world is still around.”

  “Why would you think it didn’t work?” Armand asked.

  “We didn’t survive to see the result, and it seems neither did the goblin kingdom.” The king lamented his own realization. “Tell me, is there an area deemed too hazardous for living beings to survive?”

  The young goblin knew immediately. “Yes! The Forest of Death. It is actually where the entrance to my dungeon is located.”

  “I feared as much,” Gaurdamir stated. “We attempted to connect to Animus and use its power to create a being powerful enough to fight the demons.”

  “Animus?” the young goblin asked, having not heard of this plane despite his numerous readings.

  “We goblins chose a different path than the other races. Many of them relied on mana, but we took inspiration from the beasts and began to cultivate a different form of strength: Vitus.”

  Armand had heard whispers of the idea of Vitus, mainly from the weapons manuals he studied. “I have heard mention of such a thing, but I lack any in-depth knowledge of it.”

  “It is a byproduct of taking in natural energy…” The goblin king looked exhausted. “Here, just take it.” He tapped a finger to Armand’s forehead as information flooded into his mind. The young goblin sat there, still as a statue.

  The old king didn’t hesitate to take the golden crown from his head one last time and place it upon the stunned goblin’s head. The golden crown seemingly melted and merged with Armand’s existing horns. The old goblin smiled in ecstasy as the dream faded, and he was pulled into Mythos to join the Grand Mother.

  Armand awoke in that moment. He felt groggy physically, but his soul felt as if ice-cold water had been poured over it. The knowledge the old goblin king had imparted was still slowly assimilating.

  He pushed his throbbing headache aside and burst upright, large patches of dead skin falling from his body. He must have gone through a hatching—the first time in a long while. No time for that, however; as he stepped out of bed, his movements felt restricted. He looked down, noticing his garments had shrunk for some reason. Still, there was the greater worry for his patients.

  The goblin took long strides, bursting out of the den and into the hall. He aimed for the faux hall he had constructed, the current resting place of his friends. As he tore through the corridors, everything seemed to be in a clean state; his automatons were keeping up with their functions, and he could feel them all diligently working.

  He arrived in the hall, sensing the presence of both Thoth and Uriel, who were in different rooms. Thoth was the more concerning one, so Armand checked his room first.

  The scene was both comic and horrific. Jomead was sitting in bed, eyes wide. Thoth sat across from him, spoon-feeding the dwarf a black, bubbling mixture with an evil grin on his face. The demon’s head turned to its master even as its hand continued the feeding. “You're up, Master! How stupendous.”

  “Thoth… what are you doing?” Armand wanted to laugh, but with Jomead held hostage, he wasn't sure of the best course of action.

  “Ancient Healing Poultice…” The demon waved the bowl, which literally smoked at the movement. “This dwarf will soon be as fit as… well, a dwarf.”

  The goblin looked in and saw the medicine was indeed helping Jomead heal, albeit slowly and painfully. He relented and let the demon do its thing as Jomead waved his arms, unable to speak because the spoon remained firmly in his mouth.

  Armand changed his target to the room with Uriel. The archangel was attending to Gideon. Specks of golden light radiated from her fingers and fell like gentle snow upon the warrior’s prone figure. Gideon lay there without moving; perhaps he was awake, but the goblin could not tell.

  Finally, he went to check on Isolde. She was sitting in the corner of the room, arms hugged around her knees. While the physical damage was minimal, it seemed the mental scars were significant.

  Armand walked over. “Isolde?” She sat there, unresponsive. “Gideon and Jomead are doing okay…” Her tight grip loosened for a moment, but soon returned to its vice-like hold.

  He had never seen her like this, even after the death of her parents all those years ago. The goblin sighed, moved to her side, and sat with her. She unconsciously pushed herself deeper into the corner.

  The goblin reached into the satchel permanently by his side and pulled out the worn book that accompanied almost every moment of his day.

  “A Knight to Remember,” the goblin breathed out. “Chapter One… The warm rays of the sun bore down on the brightest flower in the kingdom…”

  And so the goblin read. With every sentence, Isolde slowly softened. With every paragraph, she moved a little closer. Every page brought her to another world—one purer and more innocent than their own. By the time he neared the end of the story, she was leaning against him. When he gazed upon her, her eyes were half-open, and a small smile touched her face. She had aged, but that little girl was still deep within.

  “You’ve grown…” was all she said as she finally fell asleep.