Chapter 23: The Shaman

The goblin village wasn’t what I expected.

I had pictured something savage: huts made of bone, pits of fire, maybe a few skulls impaled on spikes for that classic barbarian nightmare look.

Instead, as I stepped forward, I found myself entering a settlement that seemed to have grown from the forest itself rather than been built within it.

Towering trees arched overhead, their thick branches intertwining to form natural archways, while long vines draped from above like emerald curtains, their leaves shimmering gently as shafts of sunlight filtered through the dense canopy.

The ground beneath my feet wasn’t rough, cracked earth either, but a thick carpet of vibrant moss that felt soft and cool underfoot, swallowing each step until even my footsteps became little more than whispers in the quiet embrace of the forest.

The village itself was thriving.

Dozens of goblins moved with purpose, each absorbed in work that spoke of structure rather than chaos, of a people who had built something resembling civilization.

Some were warriors, their massive forms wrapped in thick hides as they sharpened crude stone and bone weapons, muscles rippling with every stroke.

The blades lacked refinement, yet there was no mistaking how deadly they would be in battle.

Others had taken up the roles of artisans instead, their enormous hands moving with surprising precision as they carved intricate patterns into wood and stone or wove cloth from strange fibers I couldn’t recognize, their practiced movements betraying years of experience.

All around me, goblins laughed, talked, and worked, the village alive with the constant rhythm of daily life.

I stood there, stunned, my eyes taking in everything around me.

This wasn’t a tribe of mindless brutes living in crude huts like I’d expected.

It was a civilization.

Maybe not one that rivaled human kingdoms, but a civilization nonetheless, built with purpose, history, and a culture all its own.

I must have looked completely awestruck, because Talia, walking beside me, let out a quiet sigh. "It was once more beautiful than this," she said softly, a trace of sadness slipping into her voice. "When magic still flowed through the vines."

More beautiful?

I struggled to picture it.

If this place, weathered by time and decline, could leave me speechless, then what must it have looked like in its prime?

I turned to ask her, but before the words could leave my mouth, she had already continued on, her footsteps calm and unhurried as she led me deeper into the heart of the village.

More goblins joined the growing crowd, their curious gazes pressing in on me as murmurs spread through them like ripples across a still pond.

Every pair of eyes seemed fixed on me, each one silently questioning who I was and why I had come, and before long the weight of their attention stirred an uneasy tightness in my chest.

Then my gaze drifted past the crowd, and I saw it.

At the very center of the settlement stood a towering tree unlike anything I’d ever seen.

Its bark shimmered with a deep silver hue, while its massive roots snaked across the ground like living veins, disappearing into the earth as though they were feeding on something hidden far below.

The entire tree seemed to pulse with an ancient energy that radiated quiet authority, carrying the unmistakable feeling of something old... something powerful.

And beneath its vast, shadowed branches, he sat.

The instant my eyes landed on him, I knew.

He wasn’t just any goblin.

He looked old, yet undeniably powerful, his hulking body covered in thick scars, each one a silent testament to countless battles fought and survived.

What truly caught my attention, however, were the intricate runes etched across his skin, glowing faintly with a deep blue light.

They pulsed rhythmically, almost as though they were alive, their mysterious energy whispering through the air. Then I met his gaze.

His piercing golden eyes locked onto mine, and there was something undeniably dangerous within them, something that made it feel as though he could see straight through me, reading every thought before I even had the chance to speak.

At that exact moment, a familiar blue notification materialized before my eyes.

[Chief Orgrun] - [ Level 25 Shaman]

I froze, my breath catching in my throat as my eyes locked onto the number floating above him.

Level 25?

It was the highest level I had ever seen. Not a single creature or being I’d encountered until now had come close to it, and the realization sent a chill crawling down my spine.

Before I could process what it meant, Talia stepped forward and dropped to one knee.

As though they were all obeying an unspoken rule, the other trolls quickly followed, each lowering their heads in silent submission until only one figure remained standing.

Me.

The sight clearly didn’t sit well with Gunther.

His expression darkened, the muscles beneath his thick hide bulging as his enormous frame tensed, looking as though he was only a heartbeat away from forcing me down himself.

"You filthy runt! On your knees!" he barked.

I let out a short harrumph and folded my arms, but before anyone could say another word, a deep chuckle echoed through the chamber.

It rolled from Orgrun’s chest like distant thunder, rich and unhurried, carrying none of the scorn I’d expected. Instead, there was only quiet amusement.

"And so the young one rejects tradition," he mused, his golden eyes glinting with curiosity. "A sign of strength... or ignorance?"

I frowned. "Let’s call it a bad knee problem."

The moment the words left my mouth, silence settled over the clearing.

Every goblin around me seemed to stiffen at once, their yellow eyes narrowing as low, guttural growls rumbled in their throats and their muscles tensed, ready to spring into action if their chief gave the slightest signal.

For a brief moment, I couldn’t help wondering if I’d pushed the joke a little too far.

Then Orgrun threw his head back and laughed again, this time even louder than before.

The deep, booming sound rolled across the camp, slicing through the tension so completely that the hostile atmosphere vanished almost instantly.

The other goblins gradually relaxed, their wary expressions fading as they realized their chief had taken no offense.

Orgrun’s gaze settled on me.

"Young one, what is your name?"

"Sylas."

He gave a slow nod, as though committing the name to memory.

"Come, young one. Sit," Orgrun said, his deep voice calm and welcoming as he gestured toward the woven mat laid out before him.

I hesitated.

Every instinct screamed at me to stay on my feet, to remain ready for anything, but refusing their offer would be a step too far.

So...