For a Chosen, a life of battle wasn't a possibility—it was a guarantee. Conflict came with the title, like a curse carved into the soul. Killing another Chosen wasn't just vengeance or ambition; it was progress. Every death meant growth. Every victory meant more power.
You couldn't hide, not when the mark branded you as prey. Once chosen, you could be tracked, hunted, devoured. The only way to survive in this world was to climb higher than the ones coming for you.
Becoming powerful wasn't an option—it was the only way out.
Becoming the Goblin King was the only path left.
So I'd just do it.
I'd face whatever came my way, even if it meant fighting through other clans, other Chosen. The thought alone should've been daunting, maybe terrifying—but instead, I felt something else stir deep inside me. Excitement.
