Before he became anything of note, before his name was spoken with respect or fear, Grog was nothing more than a goblin the world would never remember.
He was small, even by goblin standards. His arms were thin, his posture slouched, and his strength was barely enough to keep up with his own kind. He was not a warrior, not a hunter, not a shaman. He was simply… there. One of many in a wandering goblin tribe that survived by scavenging scraps left behind by others stronger than them.
No one relied on Grog.
No one followed him.
And no one noticed when he went missing.
The forest swallowed him quietly.
During one of the tribe's migrations near the deep woods, chaos broke out, predators, shouting, panic. When Grog finally looked around, the sounds of his tribe were gone. No voices. No tracks he could recognize. Only towering trees and endless shadows.
He called out.
No answer.
Hunger came first. Then fear. Then the slow, creeping realization that no one was coming back for him.
For days, Grog wandered. He ate whatever he could find. Slept wherever exhaustion took him. The forest felt wrong, too quiet, too heavy. Paths twisted when he tried to remember them. Sometimes he thought he was walking in circles.
That was when he felt it.
A pressure in the air.
Not hostile, but overwhelming.
Like standing near something ancient and wounded.
Without understanding why, Grog followed it.
What he found was not what he expected.
The dungeon was still young then. Not the vast, terrifying structure it would later become. Its entrance was crude, half-formed, swallowed by roots and stone. Magic seeped from its walls like mist, heavy with sorrow.
Grog hesitated.
Every instinct told him to run.
Instead, he stepped inside.
The deeper he went, the quieter the world became. No monsters attacked him. No traps triggered. The dungeon seemed to watch him, judging, waiting.
Then he saw him.
Zortheus.
The demon knelt in the heart of the dungeon, unmoving, cradling a human skeleton with a tenderness that felt painfully out of place. His body radiated power, yet his posture spoke only of exhaustion and despair.
Grog froze.
This was death. This was the end.
Yet… Zortheus did not move.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
Grog realized something strange.
The dungeon was terrifying, but its master was broken.
Fear slowly gave way to something else. Pity. Confusion. And, strangely enough, curiosity.
Grog had never been good at fighting. But he was good at one thing.
Making noise.
The next day, he tried something foolish.
He tripped on purpose. Fell flat on his face. Groaned loudly. Then popped back up and bowed dramatically, as if he had meant to do it. There was no response.
The day after that, he juggled rocks. Poorly. One hit his head. He laughed it off anyway.
Still nothing.
Days turned into weeks.
Grog stayed.
He told bad jokes to the empty air. He made faces. He attempted crude dances. Sometimes he talked about the forest. Sometimes he talked about how hungry he was. Sometimes he talked about nothing at all.
Zortheus never reacted.
But Grog did not leave.
Something about that unmoving figure made him feel like leaving would be wrong.
Nearly a month passed before it happened.
One day, as Grog was in the middle of another ridiculous performance, pretending to wrestle an invisible enemy... he felt the air shift.
The dungeon went still.
Slowly, Zortheus lifted his head.
For the first time in years, his eyes focused on something that was not the past.
Grog stopped mid-motion.
They stared at each other.
Power met weakness. Grief met stubborn life.
Zortheus did not speak at first. He simply looked… confused. As if he had forgotten what another living being looked like.
Grog swallowed, terrified.
"Uh," he said weakly. "Hi?"
That was enough.
Something inside Zortheus cracked.
Not violently, but quietly.
In the days that followed, Zortheus spoke.
He spoke of loss. Of regret. Of rage that had consumed everything. He spoke of the dungeon, of how it was never meant to exist, of how he had chained himself to sorrow because it felt like punishment was all he deserved.
Grog listened.
He did not interrupt. He did not mock. He did not pretend to understand things beyond him.
When Zortheus finished, silence returned.
Then Grog spoke.
His voice trembled, but his words were honest.
"If that's your story," he said, glancing at the skeleton in Zortheus's arms, "then you shouldn't rot here."
Zortheus stiffened.
"That place," Grog continued, pointing around them, "this dungeon… it's already here. It won't go away. So maybe… you protect it instead of letting it eat you."
He looked back at the skeleton.
"That person mattered to you. Being broken forever isn't what someone like that would want."
The words were simple. Clumsy. Spoken by the weakest creature Zortheus had ever met.
And yet… they landed harder than any blade.
For the first time, Zortheus stood.
The dungeon responded.
Walls shifted. Magic stabilized. The sorrow did not disappear, but it settled.
Grog became the first to kneel.
Not because he was forced.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he chose to.
From that day onward, Grog was never just a goblin again.
Zortheus gave him strength, yes, but more importantly, he gave him purpose. And Grog embraced both with a resolve born from having once been powerless. He trained relentlessly, pushed his limits, and learned not only how to fight, but how to lead.
He grew far beyond any goblin should have.
Not merely in strength, but in spirit.
Grog understood weakness better than anyone in the dungeon, because he had lived it. He knew what it meant to be overlooked, to be discarded, to survive without being needed. And because of that, when he became strong, he did not rule through fear or arrogance.
He ruled through respect.
The creatures of the dungeon followed him not because he was Zortheus's first, but because he proved himself again and again. His presence steadied the weak, his commands carried weight, and his loyalty never wavered.
That was why he became the First Commander.
Not by accident.
Not by pity.
But because he earned it.
And in the shadow of the Dungeon Lord, Grog stood tall, not as a goblin who survived, but as one who rose.