Within the obsidian throne hall of Dark City, the very air trembled with dread. Jagged black pillars—twisted like claws—stretched skyward, disappearing into a ceiling cloaked in endless shadow. Flickering blue flames danced eerily in wrought-iron sconces, casting ghostly glows along the stone walls. The floor, veined with ancient cracks and dark stains, bore the marks of countless executions—some dried with age, others still fresh, gleaming wet under the flames.
Upon the monstrous throne of fused stone and bone sat **City Lord Kahli**—a towering goblinoid figure clad in jagged armor forged from the hides and bones of fallen beasts. His crimson eyes burned with fury, his expression carved in wrath. Muscles rippled beneath his armor as he clenched the arms of his throne, his aura oppressive and volatile.
"I won't hold back anymore," Kahli growled, his voice like gravel dragged across steel. "Prepare the army. That human… he's more dangerous than those damn kobolds."
A goblin lieutenant stepped forward hesitantly, bowing low. "But my lord—"
Before he could finish, a blur of motion silenced him. Blood sprayed in an arc. His body was cleaved clean in half, both halves collapsing to the bloodstained floor with a sickening thud.
It had been Kahli. He hadn't even moved from his throne. One simple flick of his clawed hand had executed the offender without hesitation.
"I said," Kahli snarled, his eyes narrowing into slits, "we. will. attack. That human will not walk this world unchallenged. As for the key to that vault—we'll take it after we crush him."
His tone darkened further as he leaned forward, voice heavy with venom.
"I won't allow a mere human, one who's only been in this world for a *week*, to rise as a threat to *me*. He's already crippled our strength—Kazu is dead. Kaldor, too. My blades. My fangs." His gauntlet tightened, crushing the stone armrest of the throne like dry bark. "He'll pay for that in blood."
The atmosphere thickened as silence reigned in the hall. No one dared speak—until a lone goblin stepped forth and knelt. He was older than the rest, robed in dark silks and bearing a staff carved with ancient runes. The **Strategist of Dark City**, the only one whose tongue Kahli hadn't yet cut.
"My lord," he said calmly, "an immediate assault is unwise. The kobolds have grown bolder. They attack our borders without pause, sensing our weakness now that Kazu and Kaldor have fallen."
Kahli's eyes flared with renewed rage as he leaned forward on his throne. "*Then what are we supposed to do?!*" he roared, his voice shaking the pillars themselves.
"I heeded your advice once," he growled, pointing a bloodstained claw toward the strategist, "and sent Kaldor to handle that human. And what happened? Slaughtered. His entire army… gone. Not even a message returned."
The strategist lowered his head in shame, but a thin, wicked smile crept across his face. "That is why we must *not* strike with brute force this time, my lord. Let others bleed for us. Spread a false rumor… say the key to the Mysterious Vault has fallen into the hands of that human lord."
Kahli's glare sharpened. The strategist's smile widened.
"The kobolds already believe we've weakened. If they think the vault's key is with the human, they'll abandon us and turn their blades on *him*. Let them exhaust themselves in battle… let both sides bleed dry. And then, my lord, we strike—and *claim everything*."
Kahli was silent for a heartbeat.
Then—he laughed.
It started as a low growl, rising into a deep, guttural cackle that echoed throughout the throne hall like the howls of the damned. The flickering blue flames seemed to waver under the weight of his madness.
"A brilliant plan," he sneered, grinning with monstrous delight. "Let them tear each other apart for a lie."
The dark flames burned brighter.
The last echo of Khali's laughter faded like a dying ember, replaced by the tension of plotting evil.
The goblin strategist, Mortak, lowered his head further, sensing the weight of Khali's crimson gaze.
"Kobolds are not fools," Khali said, voice low and gravelly, yet brimming with menace. "How are you going to spread these rumors and make them believe it?"
Mortak smirked, not rising from his bow. "Through someone they already believe."
Khali narrowed his glowing eyes. "Speak."
"There is a kobold outcast—a traitor to their kind. He was once a captain but fell from grace after being accused of colluding with humans. He seeks revenge and has always despised their current general. If we reach him, and give him the right script, he'll do the talking for us."
Khali leaned forward, intrigued. "What is his name?"
"Skarn. Skarn One-Eye."
A cruel smile curled on Khali's lips. "Then summon Rarka."
A moment later, a deep rumble echoed through the hall. From the shadows at the far end of the throne room, heavy footsteps approached. A towering hobgoblin emerged—twice the size of an average man, his skin a dark crimson, his armor blackened and scarred. His right tusk was chipped, and across his chest was strapped a chain with severed ears—the trophies of his victims.
Rarka, Warlord of the Silent Teeth Unit, knelt with a thud before Khali. "You summoned me, my lord?"
Khali's voice boomed. "You are to lead a covert operation. Your target is a kobold outcast named Skarn One-Eye. Find him. Feed him a lie so sweet, it poisons every ear that hears it."
Rarka didn't flinch. "As you command."
Mortak interjected, rising slowly. "I will give him the details. Skarn must believe he's found the truth on his own. He must become the voice, the prophet of the false key."
Khali grinned. "Good. If this works, the kobolds and that damn human will tear each other apart… and Dark City shall rise."
---
Mortak led Rarka into a side chamber where maps and scrolls were scattered across an obsidian table. Several goblin spies and scouts waited, including one hunched figure with a raven perched on his shoulder—Mek, the Whispercatcher, master of information.
"Skarn was last spotted near the southern ruins," Mek rasped. "He travels alone, but the bastard is slippery. Carries poison daggers. Hates his own kind more than he hates us."
Mortak unrolled a parchment. "Then this is what he must believe: that Arthur, the human lord, has discovered the key of the Vault of Asha'thar—a legendary vault rumored to contain treasure of the fallen Kingdom. You will stage a false excavation site near kobold territory. Scatter fake relics. Leak intercepted messages. And you," he pointed at Rarka, "will make sure Skarn hears all of it."
----
Rarka was a ghost in the shadows, his heavy steps muffled beneath enchanted leather, his presence like a hunter born of nightmare. It took him less than two days to find the kobold outcast named Skarn One-Eye—alone, bitter, and half-mad with resentment, living off wild roots and raiding corpses along the war-torn edges of the Emerald Fissures.
Skarn didn't even know he was being manipulated. Not truly.
Rarka never approached him directly. He simply let the clues fall—a torn goblin banner buried near a fake excavation site, a shattered keystone etched with Arthur's name left beside an empty relic box, false reports scattered by goblin corpses left "slain" in mock skirmishes. It was a perfect illusion: war between Dark City and the Human Lord. And at the center of it all—the Vault of Asha'thar, a mythical treasure said to hoard the treasure of the fallen Kingdom.
By the fourth day, Skarn had collected enough fragments to feel the weight of destiny on his shoulders. He didn't question the coincidences. His hatred for both the kobold high command and the rising human lord made him the perfect pawn. A pawn who believed himself a kingmaker.
And so he ran—clutching the forged artifacts like holy scripture.
On the sixth day, at the kobold war camp was chaos when Skarn arrived. Guards tried to seize him, commanders shouted for his execution—but he dropped to his knees before the towering warlord, General Rekkar, and spilled the contents of his satchel at his feet.
"Your enemies have already found the Vault," Skarn growled, his single eye burning with defiance. "And you sit here doing nothing."
Rekkar, a massive cobalt-scaled kobold clad in bone-plated armor, stepped forward in grim silence. Around him stood his captains, dozens of them, armed and suspicious.
One captain hissed, "You expect us to believe this traitor?"
"I expect you to listen," Skarn barked back, slamming his claw down on a scroll that bore the seal of Arthur's territory—a forgery so fine even seasoned officers blinked in alarm.
He pulled a relic shard from his belt—a fragment of the false keystone, glowing faintly with fabricated runes.
"This was found near the southern ruins, buried beneath goblin corpses. There was a human banner nearby a star being pierced by a sword. They're digging it up. Claiming what should've been ours."
He pointed to a burned scroll—a 'transcription' of a supposed message between Arthur's officers, talking of the Vault, its key, and sealing rituals.
"I watched goblins die trying to stop Arthur's soldiers from carrying relics back to their city. They're hiding the truth. Why do you think they haven't attacked in full force lately? Because they're scared. They're weak. And they're losing ground."
The camp was silent now.
Rekkar picked up the keystone fragment and examined it under a detection spell. Mortak's forgeries held up. The glow, the texture, the ancient language—it all screamed truth.
Rekkar looked at Skarn, his slit pupils narrowing.
"If what you say is true, then Arthur has claimed the most dangerous artifact in the Southern Wilds… and sits upon it like a dragon hoarding flame."
Skarn smirked. "Then burn the dragon. Before he learns to fly."
Rekkar slowly nodded.
"Ready the troops."
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NOTE- THIS IS FUTURE EVENT. 6 days in the future.....