The world dissolved.
Don's consciousness was ripped from his body and thrust into something else—something that wasn't his, wasn't real, but felt more real than anything he'd ever experienced.
He was standing in sunlight.
Real sunlight.
Not the crimson twilight of the Shadowfen, but warm, golden light that bathed white stone towers in a glow that made them seem touched by divinity itself.
The Kingdom of Valdris.
Don stood—or rather, his consciousness inhabited the memory of someone who stood—in the grand hall of the royal palace. Marble columns rose like prayers toward vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of ancient heroes. Tapestries hung from walls, depicting battles won and peace hard-earned. The air smelled of incense and fresh flowers.
It was beautiful.
It was alive.
It was doomed.
"Your Majesty, the reports are... troubling."
Don's perspective shifted, and he saw him.
King Aldric Valdris.
Tall, perhaps forty years old, with golden hair touched by early gray at the temples. His face was strong, kind, weathered by responsibility but not broken by it. He wore simple robes—no crown, not here in his private study. Just a man reviewing reports, worry creasing his brow.
Beside him stood his closest advisors and his greatest warriors—the Knights of the Dawn:
Sir Gareth the Shield - A mountain of a man, broad-shouldered, with a beard like copper wire and eyes that had seen a hundred battles. The King's oldest friend.
Lady Seraphine the Swift - Lean, deadly, her twin blades never far from her hands. She'd been the King's shadow since childhood, sworn to protect him unto death.
Brother Matthias the Wise - A priest-warrior, his robes covering armor, his staff doubling as a weapon. The King's spiritual advisor and voice of reason.
Sir Roland the Just - Young, idealistic, the newest knight but already legendary. Golden-haired like his King, he believed in honor above all else.
And standing slightly apart, his expression carefully neutral:
Lord Cassius Thorne - Master of Coin, administrator of the western provinces, a man whose wealth rivaled the crown's. Handsome, cultured, always smiling.
Always watching.
"Troubling how?" King Aldric set down the parchment he'd been reading. "Speak plainly, Gareth."
Sir Gareth's jaw tightened. "The raids on the eastern border have stopped. Completely. For three weeks now, not a single goblin incursion."
"That's... good, isn't it?" Sir Roland leaned forward, hopeful. "Perhaps they've finally learned to fear our strength."
"No." Lady Seraphine's voice was cold. "Goblins don't stop raiding. They breed too fast, grow too hungry. When they go quiet, it means they're planning something."
Brother Matthias nodded slowly. "I have prayed on this matter. The gods... the gods are silent. That silence frightens me more than any omen."
King Aldric stood, moving to the window that overlooked his kingdom. Streets bustling with merchants. Children playing in courtyards. Farmers bringing harvest to market.
Peace.
"Double the patrols," he ordered. "Gareth, take five hundred knights and scout the Shadowfen. I want to know what they're planning."
"Your Majesty." Lord Cassius stepped forward, his smile apologetic. "Perhaps we're being... hasty? The kingdom's coffers are stretched thin from the last campaign.
Five hundred knights means five hundred horses, five hundred weapons, supplies for weeks. All for what might be nothing."
Gareth's hand moved to his sword hilt. "You'd risk the kingdom to save coin?"
"I'd risk coin to save the kingdom unnecessary expense." Cassius's smile never wavered. "These are goblins, Sir Gareth. Not dragons. Surely a smaller force—"
"Five hundred." King Aldric's voice was final. "And Cassius—open the western treasury. Whatever Gareth needs."
Something flickered across Cassius's face. So quick Don almost missed it.
Hatred.
Pure, venomous hatred, buried beneath the smile.
Then it was gone.
"Of course, Your Majesty. As you command."
The memory shifted.
Don was in a different room now—the royal bedchamber. Night had fallen. Aldric sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing his armor minus the helmet. Exhausted.
Beside him, Queen Elara.
She was beautiful in the way autumn leaves were beautiful—warm, gentle, touched with gold. Her hair fell in waves of chestnut down her back. Her eyes, green as spring grass, watched her husband with concern.
"You're afraid," she said softly. Not an accusation. An observation.
"I'm always afraid." Aldric's hand found hers. "But I hide it well."
"Not from me."
He smiled, tired. "No. Never from you."
The door burst open and a small whirlwind of energy exploded into the room.
Princess Lyanna Valdris.
Eight years old. Golden hair like her father, green eyes like her mother. A wooden sword clutched in her tiny hands, her nightgown askew from whatever adventure she'd been having.
"Papa! Papa, I defeated the dragon! Sir Roland said I have perfect form!"
Aldric's exhaustion melted. He scooped his daughter into his arms, armor and all. "Did you now? And what did this dragon say when you bested him?"
"He said—" Lyanna made her voice as deep as an eight-year-old could manage, "—'Mercy, brave knight! You are too strong!'"
"Wise dragon." Aldric kissed her forehead. "Now, brave knight, even heroes need sleep."
"But Papa—"
"Even me. Especially me."
Elara took Lyanna's hand gently. "Come, little warrior. Your father needs rest. He rides out tomorrow."
"Rides out?" Lyanna's excitement dimmed.
"Where?"
"Just a patrol." Aldric knelt to meet his daughter's eyes. "Nothing dangerous. I'll be back before you know it."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Lyanna hugged him fiercely. "Be careful, Papa. The dragons are very fierce."
"I know. But I have you to protect me, don't I? Your bravery makes me braver."
After Elara had taken Lyanna away, after the door had closed and he was alone, King Aldric Valdris sat on his bed and allowed himself one moment of weakness.
His hands were shaking.
"Please," he whispered to gods that weren't listening. "Please let me be wrong."
The memory shifted again.
Dawn. The courtyard filled with five hundred mounted knights, armor gleaming, horses stamping impatiently. The air was crisp with promise of spring.
King Aldric, now fully armored, stood before his Queen one last time.
"Three days," he said. "Four at most. We'll scout the border, find nothing but cowardly goblins hiding in their holes, and I'll be back in time for Lyanna's naming day celebration."
Elara's hands gripped his gauntlets. "Aldric..."
"I promise." He kissed her. "It's just goblins, my love. We've faced worse. Remember the Bone Wars? The Plague Winter? We survived all of it."
"I know. I just..." She touched his face. "Come home to us."
"Always."
Lyanna appeared, still in her nightgown, clutching a small wooden figurine. "Papa! Take this!" She pressed it into his hand. "It's a dragon. For luck."
Aldric looked at the carved toy—crude, made by his daughter's own hands. "I'll treasure it."
"It'll protect you!"
"I know it will."
He mounted his horse. Sir Gareth, Lady Seraphine, Brother Matthias, and Sir Roland fell in beside him. Five hundred knights. The pride of Valdris.
Lord Cassius watched from a tower window, still smiling.
The gates opened.
The knights rode out.
Queen Elara held Lyanna close and watched until they disappeared into the morning mist.
She never saw her husband alive again.
The memory accelerated.
Don experienced it in fragments—
The march to the Shadowfen. Three days of finding nothing. Scouts reporting empty camps. Abandoned goblin warrens. Eerie silence.
Then—
"Your Majesty! Message from the capital!"
A rider, nearly dead from exhaustion, his horse foaming at the mouth.
"The city—they're in the city! They came from INSIDE! The gates—someone opened the gates from the inside! They're everywhere! THOUSANDS OF THEM!"
King Aldric's face went white. "How long?"
"It started six hours ago!"
Six hours. They were three days away at normal march speed.
"RIDE!" Aldric's roar split the morning. "RIDE NOW! LEAVE EVERYTHING! JUST RIDE!"
Five hundred knights turned and galloped toward home.
But they were too late.
They had always been too late.
The memory became a nightmare.
The ride back was hell. Horses died from exhaustion. Knights fell from saddles, too tired to continue. But Aldric pushed forward, pushed until his warhorse collapsed beneath him and he stole another, pushed until his knights begged for rest and he refused, pushed until—
They crested the final hill and saw Valdris.
Burning.
The white towers—those beautiful white towers that had stood for three hundred years—were blackened skeletons against a smoke-filled sky. The walls were breached in a dozen places. And pouring through those breaches, covering the streets like a living carpet of green flesh and gnashing teeth—
Goblins.
Thousands upon thousands of goblins.
"No." Aldric's voice was barely a whisper.
"No. No. NO!"
"Your Majesty!" Sir Gareth grabbed his shoulder. "We can't—there are too many! We need to—"
"MY FAMILY IS IN THERE!"
Aldric spurred his horse forward. His remaining knights—perhaps two hundred now, the others fallen on the desperate ride—followed.
They hit the goblin horde like a hammer.
And for one glorious, impossible moment, they won.
The Battle.
Don experienced it through Aldric's eyes, and even filtered through Emotion Suppression, the intensity was overwhelming.
Steel meeting flesh. Blood arcing through air. War cries in human throats answered by inhuman shrieks. Sir Gareth's shield crushing goblin skulls.
Lady Seraphine's twin blades weaving patterns of death. Brother Matthias's holy fire burning entire clusters of the enemy. Sir Roland, golden and terrible, cutting through goblins like they were wheat.
And Aldric himself, sword blazing with righteous fury, carving a path toward the palace.
They fought for three hours.
They killed hundreds.
They lost fifty knights.
But they reached the palace gates.
"ELARA!" Aldric's voice echoed through the palace halls. "LYANNA!"
The great hall—where he'd held court, where he'd judged disputes, where his daughter had played while he worked—was filled with corpses.
Human corpses.
His servants. His guards. His friends.
All dead.
"Your Majesty." Lady Seraphine's voice was hollow. "The throne room. I hear... something."
They ran.
The throne room doors were open.
And inside—
Don wanted to look away. Couldn't. The memory held him trapped, forced him to witness.
Lord Cassius Thorne hung from the rafters, his body torn apart. Not quickly. Slowly. His face frozen in a scream. Around his neck, a sign written in blood:
"TRAITORS RECEIVE THEIR REWARD"
He'd opened the gates. He'd let them in. Promised power, promised wealth by whatever dark intelligence commanded the goblins.
And they'd killed him anyway.
But that wasn't what made Aldric scream.
Sitting on the throne—his throne, the throne of his fathers—was a creature seven feet tall with four arms and eyes like burning coals.
Uzgoth.
The Devourer King
The Goblin Sovereign.
In his upper right hand, he held something small.
Something that was still moving.
Princess Lyanna Valdris.
Eight years old. Her nightgown torn. Her wooden sword broken on the floor. Her face—her beautiful, innocent face—twisted in agony.
She was still alive.
Barely.
One of her arms was gone. Not cut. Eaten. The Sovereign's mouth was still stained with her blood.
And at the Sovereign's feet, chained to the throne, Queen Elara knelt.
Whole. Unharmed. Forced to watch.
Her eyes met Aldric's.
And in them, he saw something worse than death.
Despair.
"Papa..." Lyanna's voice was so small. "Papa, it hurts..."
Uzgoth's gash-mouth opened in something like a smile.
"Ah. The King arrives. Just in time for the feast."
He bit into Lyanna's remaining arm.
She screamed.
Elara screamed.
Aldric screamed and charged.
Sir Gareth grabbed him. "YOUR MAJESTY, NO! IT'S A TRAP! HE WANTS YOU TO—"
Aldric threw Gareth off with strength born of pure anguish. His sword blazed—actually blazed, catching fire from the sheer force of his will and fury.
He reached the Sovereign.
His blade came down.
And struck a wall of solid poison that appeared from nowhere.
General Vex materialized from the shadows, his white eyes emotionless.
General Kragg emerged from behind a pillar, his cleaver dripping.
General Morgash stepped from flames that erupted on the floor.
General Skarr smashed through a wall, his warhammer raised.
General Zyx was simply there, as if he'd always been there.
General Rathka descended from the ceiling like a spider, her beautiful face twisted in sadistic joy.
Six Generals.
Against one King and his last fifty knights.
"Kill them all," Uzgoth said casually.
Then he bit Lyanna's throat out.
Elara's scream was the last sound of sanity in the throne room.
Then the slaughter began.
The End came quickly.
Sir Roland died first—Zyx's blade through his back before he'd taken two steps. The young knight who believed in honor fell without ever seeing his killer.
Brother Matthias lasted longer, his holy fire holding back the darkness until Rathka's blood magic ate his essence from within. He died whispering prayers that went unanswered.
Lady Seraphine killed seventeen goblins before Kragg's cleaver took her head. She died as she lived—a shadow, swift and deadly until the end.
Sir Gareth—brave, loyal Sir Gareth—stood over his King's body, shield raised, as Morgash's black flames consumed him. He didn't scream. He roared defiance until his lungs burned to ash.
And King Aldric Valdris—
He fought.
Gods, how he fought.
Even outnumbered. Even wounded. Even watching his daughter's body discarded like trash and his wife's mind break from horror.
He fought.
He took Vex's eye. Scarred Skarr's chest. Cut Morgash's arm. Made the Generals actually try to kill him.
But in the end—
Uzgoth stood from the throne, all four arms extending, and with almost casual ease, broke Aldric's blade.
Then broke his arms.
Then broke his legs.
Then forced the King to kneel before his wife.
"Watch," Uzgoth commanded.
And Aldric watched—forced to watch—as the Sovereign took Queen Elara's head in his hands and crushed it.
Slowly.
So slowly.
Until her skull cracked and her screams stopped and the light left her eyes and—
King Aldric Valdris, ruler of the greatest kingdom in the realm, died not from his wounds.
He died because his heart simply stopped.
Gave up.
Surrendered to grief too vast to survive.
The memory didn't end there.
Don was forced to watch as the Generals fed on the corpses. As the goblins swarmed the palace. As they melted down Aldric's crown—with fragments of his skull still attached—and reformed it into Uzgoth's crown.
As they turned the throne room into a feasting hall.
As they spent the next three days hunting down every human in the city.
Every. Single. One.
Ten thousand civilians.
Butchered.
Eaten.
Erased.
The Kingdom of Valdris died screaming.
And the Shadowfen was born in its place.
200 years ago.
It had been 200 years.
And nothing remained but bones and the monsters that fed on memory.
Don's consciousness snapped back to his body.
He was kneeling in the ruined goblin camp, hands pressed against the ground, breathing hard.
His Emotion Suppression was still active. He felt no sadness. No rage. No horror.
Just... cold understanding.
These creatures—these fucking CREATURES—
They had to die.
All of them.
Every. Single. One.
[HISTORICAL RECORD: COMPLETE]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL IMPACT: MODERATE]
[NEW OBJECTIVE UNLOCKED]
[DESTROY THE GOBLIN KINGDOM] [Kill all remaining Generals: 5/5]
[Kill the Sovereign: 1/1]
[REWARD: UNKNOWN]
Don stood slowly, his four Executioner's Edge blades materializing around him.
His mismatched eyes glowed in the crimson twilight—both showing gold cracks now, spreading like fractures in reality itself.
When he spoke, his voice was empty. Flat. Dead.
"I'm going to kill them all."
Not a promise.
A fact.
A certainty.
An execution already decided, just waiting to be carried out.
Somewhere in the darkness of the Shadowfen, five Generals continued their brutal existence, unaware that their executioner was coming.
And in his fortress of bone and blood, Uzgoth the Devourer King sat on his stolen throne, wearing his crown of melted gold and shattered skulls, believing himself immortal.
He was wrong.