Half a month later.
The outer goblin tribes had been completely wiped out. Those who survived the bloodshed fled deeper into the plains, abandoning their settlements in a desperate bid to escape the advancing Night Tribe.
After weeks of brutal combat, the warriors of the Night Tribe had undergone a remarkable transformation—not in supernatural strength, which takes far longer to cultivate—but in cohesion, discipline, and battlefield synergy. The raw energy of individual fighters had been tempered into a more formidable force. Now, instead of swinging wildly and charging in alone, they moved in practiced formations, working side by side like the blades of a great war machine.
Every warrior had learned to face three or four goblins at once, their survival hinging not on raw might but on coordination and trust in their comrades. Under the deliberate restraint imposed during the night battles, they had no choice but to learn or perish.
Where before they might strike with an open palm, now they punched with a clenched fist—focused, precise, and deadly.
"Concentrate our forces," Ye Zhan ordered. "We march into the heart of the plains."
The outer ring had fallen. There was no need for delay.
Deep within the plains.
There, coiled around an enormous rock, grew a grotesque blood-red vine. Thick as ancient tree trunks, its sinuous branches twisted and stretched across the land like veins feeding a monstrous heart. This was no ordinary plant—it pulsed with unnatural life.
Clusters of goblins gathered around it, a vast congregation unlike the weak tribes on the outskirts. These goblins were bigger, their skin tinted with a crimson hue, their frames denser and more muscular. If not for their unmistakable goblin features, one might mistake them for another species entirely.
"They've butchered our people," said a wiry old goblin, his voice edged with panic. "All the tribes on the edges are gone. Are we just going to sit here and do nothing?"
"Hmph. Let the weak perish," scoffed a towering goblin in full armor, his skin the color of fresh blood. "With the Fruit of Life, they'll be reborn soon enough."
This was not mere callousness. It was goblin law.
Unity among goblins was a fragile thing. They fed on the fruit of the blood-red vine—fruit that grew stronger with the blood of the fallen. It was a vicious cycle. Every few years, wars erupted not with outsiders, but between tribes, as they slaughtered one another to nourish the vine. The victors earned the right to evolve, transforming into the formidable blood-red goblins.
So when the frail goblin priest spoke again, his words carried more weight. "More of our kin are arriving every day, fleeing the humans. Our food won't last. The balance is already breaking."
Another voice added grimly, "The humans may be few, but their strength is undeniable. If we wait any longer, we'll be picked off one by one."
"This is why I called you here," the skinny goblin snapped. "If we keep watching from the sidelines, we'll be next. Or have you already forgotten how they're pressing on Kara's borders?"
"Hah, so that's what this is really about," one of the other leaders sneered. "You're scared your tribe will be first to burn."
"And if we fall, you think you'll be safe? Don't be fools! United, we can crush them. If we wait, they'll crush us!"
The priest slammed the table and rose. "Our Kara tribe will take the vanguard. We'll fight to the death. But we need all your support!"
Silence hung in the air for a moment. Then came the responses—one by one, tribal leaders stepped forward.
"They've gone too far. We can't just sit and watch."
"I've always wanted to test the strength of humans. Let's see what the legends say."
"The Mos tribe will send 30,000 warriors and 3,000 elite blood-red goblins."
"The Has tribe offers 10,000 troops, 2,000 elites, and 100 Big Fools."
These Blood-Red Goblins were the evolved elite of the species. Their bodies, hardened by the fruits of the vine, were faster, stronger, and smarter than their green-skinned ancestors. Each one was a warrior in their own right, rivaling a human extraordinary. But they were also rare—and valuable.
To the tribal leaders, losing regular goblins meant little. More could always be bred or gathered. But Blood-Red Goblins were precious. Once too many were lost, their tribe's future would teeter on collapse, ripe for annexation by rivals.
So while they agreed to war, none wanted to risk too many of their own. Let the Kara tribe take the brunt. They would join the battle, but preserve their elites.
Soon, under the unified banner of survival, a goblin army nearly 200,000 strong began to march.
It was a chaotic, booming procession. The goblins had no concept of stealth. They moved in a roaring flood, shouting and howling, drawing more stragglers into their mass like a storm sweeping through the grasslands.
The sound of their march was like thunder. Their numbers darkened the horizon.
It didn't take long for Ye Zhan to learn of their advance.
Standing at the edge of his fortified camp, he narrowed his eyes as scouts relayed the scale of the enemy force.
"So, they've decided to come all at once." He gave a cold smile, filled with the calm hunger of a veteran. "Good. Let them come. Let them see the fire in our warriors' hearts."
There was no panic in the camp—only purpose. The Night Tribe readied their weapons. Thirty thousand warriors stood tall against the tide, their spirits sharpened by fire and blood.
The storm was coming, and they would meet it head-on.