/’Sir’./ you telepathically correct the goblin girl.

“Eh? ‘Sir’?” Petunia tilts her head to the other side.

/From this point onward, whenever any of you four dare to emit sounds from your mouth, the first word you speak will be ‘Sir’! And the last will be the same as the first! Is that understood?/

“Why?” Petunia asks.

/Because I said so!/

“And if I don’t?” Petunia asks.

/… Does it look like I have a mouth?/ you ask the defiant goblin girl.

“Eh… No,” Petunia answers.

/But you still hear my voice, correct?/

“Correct.”

/Which implies that I’m using some form of telepathy, correct?/

“Most likely.”

/And you’re not the only one I can use my telepathic abilities on?/

“Looks like it.”

/Very good. Now. You have a magical sword with telepathic abilities, and you think it’s a good idea to anger such a sword. How about I tell your deepest, darkest secrets to everyone here, starting with your precious Fig?/

“…” Petunia’s lemon-colored face turns slightly paler. Her expression gives away her worry before she can collect herself and say, “You’re bluffing!”

/Really? Hey, Fig! Gilk! Dokloram!/ You shout into the minds of the other goblins especially loudly, drawing Petunia’s attention to the fact that all three of them are participating in this conversation, and hear you just as well as she does. /Petunia thinks that a magical sword with a killing speed at a minimum of one goblin per second would bother bluffing, so how about I tell you about the time when Petunia was alone, and checked several times that nobody was looking before—/

“SIR, PLEASE DON’T, SIR!” Petunia shouts at the top of her lungs trying to block out your speech.

/That’s more like it./

If you could smile, you would be grinning. It’s not like you can actually read any of the goblins’ minds. Not yet anyway. But what they don’t know won’t hurt them. And there is not a single person on the planet that doesn’t have some secret they don’t want others to find out no matter what. And the darker the secret, the easier they can fall prey to such tactics. It’s only natural that the same applies to this world.

/This also applies to the rest of you, worms! Do you understand?/

“Sir, yes, sir!” Fig and Petunia responded instantly. Gilk and Dokloram parroted the same after the duo, though with no commitment or resolve.

/I did not hear you, ladies. Again. Do. You. Understand?/

“Sir, yes, sir!” the four goblins shout at the top of their lungs. There can be no doubt that the other villagers in the fields heard them also. With any luck, some wolves or wargs also heard their potential ‘prey’ giving away their position.

/Good. Now, before I allow you to eat, you’ll have to earn your meal first. And it will be like that from today, until the very day we beat the ever-loving-shit out of Rogzor./

Dokloram and Petunia are obviously not happy to hear you say that. Their opinion on whether they’ve worked hard enough to earn a meal is written clearly on their faces. However, only one goblin speaks up about it.

“Earn it?” Gilk grimaces. “And what do you think we’ve been doing up till now?”

/Did I give you permission to speak!?/

“N-no, bu—”

/Did I not tell you that the first word to come out of your filthy mouth must be ‘Sir’!?/

“Y-yes, bu—”

/Then why is your filthy mouth not doing as it is told? Do you have a faulty brain? How else could you possibly fail to follow even the simplest of orders!?/

Gilk barely opens his mouth, but doesn’t get to speak.

/Did I hurt your feelings? You think I should respect your hard work more? You think you know better? When during a fight I will tell you to attack one target, will you attack another, because you’ll figure you know better? Do you not realize that would jeopardize not only your life, but the life of your fellow comrades?/

Gilk closes his mouth and looks aside as he bites his lip.

/Do you think you know better than a battle-hardened veteran sword that’s been in countless battles?/ (Two to be precise, but he doesn’t need to know that.) /Who would you like to risk their lives to save your genius blue little butt? Fig? Petunia? Dokloram? Doesn’t Dokloram risk his life enough already? Do you want to get him killed that badly?/

“Of course not!” Gilk shouts, looking at you.

/Then do as you’re told! Otherwise, why should I even bother with any of this? Either follow my orders to the letter or get the hell out of here and stop wasting everyone’s time!/

Gilk clenches his fists, his a drop of blood forms where his tooth sunk into his lip and flows down to his chin. Gilk doesn’t move.

/You’re staying?/

“Sir, yes, sir,” Gilk mumbles to his feet.

/I’m sorry did you say something?/

“Sir, yes, sir!” Gilk shouts.

/I trust this is the last time we’ll be revisiting this subject./

You examine their scrawny bodies. Push-ups for everyone besides Dokloram might be too extreme.

/Alright, enough time has been wasted already. Let’s see how fit you really are. We’ll start with something so basic, even kindergarteners could do it. Lie on the ground and give me ten sit-ups!/

“Sir, what’s a kindergartener, sir?” Petunia asks.

/No questions! Do it!/

All four proceed to lie down on the dusty, gray surface. Then, each at their own pace, they get on their knees in variating positions of crouching or sitting, then lie down again, then sit back up, rinse and repeat.

/... We’ve got a long way to go./

***

Far away, but under a similarly black, smog-covered sky, stands a grand tent, over two hundred feet in diameter, over fifteen feet high. Well, ‘grand’ is in relation to how absolutely awful the rest of the surrounding tents are. Few people would complain about holding a get-away party in such a tent during a vacation.

The cloth of the tent has five sharp, elevated points, where the supports for the construction are located. At these points, five flags are blowing in the wind. All five flags have the same sigil – black background with a white crown. The crown has three long, curved spikes that look like blades. Overall, it has so many sharp points, that this crown could not possibly be worn by anyone who still has a sense of pain. A fitting crown for a Demon Lord, perhaps.

Only one of these flags is slightly weathered—roughed-up, slightly torn edges from the more ferocious storms that are common in these lands. But already there is a heavily armored, nearly six-feet high orc approaching the side of the tent with a new black flag in his hands to replace the torn one.

The tent is stationed on an elevated position, overlooking hundreds of small and medium tents. Countless, flickering lights coming from torches and campfires, make one wonder how the hell this whole encampment hasn’t burned to the ground yet. Especially considering, that next to the grand tent there is a sleek, black tail, covered in spikes and armored scales. The tail curves around the tent and, hidden in the shadow of the dark night and no lights behind the tent, rests a black dragon that could crush the entire tent with its body, should it be ordered to do so.

A young man walks inside the tent. His silver hair is combed back and looks like he has fallen in love with whatever constitutes for hair gel in this world. On his head, he wears a golden helmet, that bears more resemblance to a tiara and offers little protection apart from covering most of the man’s forehead. His armor consists of a mix of leather and steel. It looks stylish, but any fighter with a pair of eyeballs and a good piercing weapon could find at least a dozen weak spots, where the gaps between the steel are wide enough for a broadside of a great sword to fit through. The man also sports a gray cape that reaches to his butt and is cut up so that it resembles a rough shape of eagle’s feathers.

The tent is brightly lit, and, much like the camp it overlooks, borders on a fire hazard. The floor is completely covered in carpets made from what looks to be fur from wolves, bears, tigers, lions, and leathers of all shapes and colors.

Further inside, at a large table, that consists of about eight or so smaller wooden tables pushed together, sit a couple dozen people. Orcs, dark elves, various humanoid beastkin, and a wraith in black spiky armor, its dark spirit seeping like a cursed mist through many joints in the armor, but never spreading more than a foot away from the wraith. The table is covered in maps, wooden figures, and markers and piles of paper stacked at the head of the table where a pale dark elf with long purple hair sits in a chair covered in tiger fur.

Nobody pays attention to the young man. He takes a couple of steps to the side of the entrance and stands there, with his arms behind his back, waiting for the meeting to be over.

“We would have taken the White Fortress weeks ago if the damn werecats moved at least a little faster than sloths!” an orc with hellish-red skin, covered in black warpaint says in a loud tone, pointing to the beastkin with a lion’s head.

“We were securing supply lines and the rear to prevent the Alliance from probing yours,” the lion answers in a calm, dignified way, not even looking at the orc.

“What was that!?” An orange orc, sitting next to the hellish one shouts and slams his fist on the table. This causes his table to shake and knock over a candle that instantly lights the map under it on fire.

“Ah!” the orange orc gasps.

“Put it out you moron!” the red orc shouts.

Most of the people sitting at the table chuckle or laugh. The armored wraith—sitting opposite of the orcs and two seats to the left—moves his right arm. A dark mist swiftly flies from his hand and covers the fire, lying heavily on it and snuffing it out in seconds.

“I-I’m terribly sorry, Lady Felicia!” The red orc stammers and sweats profusely, as if he’s the one who caused the fire. “I will punish the fool accordingly.”

“Of course, don’t worry—it was just a silly accident,” Felicia says with a smile waving off the orc’s concern. “With that said, it does remind me how long we’ve been at this and it is showing. You’ve all had a long journey, while I called this meeting on such short notice. I am pleased to hear how well things are progressing on the front lines. You’ve done a splendid job!”

“It’s all thanks to your hard work here that our condition has improved so much!” a catgirl with green hair and a little fang says cheerfully.

“And I have much more yet to do,” Felicia gestures to the piles of paperwork in front of her. “Lord Frost should arrive in a couple of days, you will have plenty of time to prepare. This meeting is adjourned.”

With shuffling and moving of chairs, everyone present—except for Felicia—stands up and, one by one leaves the tent. As they walk past no one says a word to the young man that stands to the side. When the armored wraith walks past the young man, it feels unpleasant and unnerving. Like caught in a draught with the wraith as the eerie source. The wraith does not seem to even acknowledge the young man’s existence. A few of the others throw glances at the man. The green-haired catgirl winks at him with a smile, but that’s about it. The hellish, warpainted orc seems more pre-occupied with cracking his knuckles and containing his rage for his orange comrade. Soon only Felicia and the young man remain.

“Come closer, Philip!” Felicia calls up to the man and waves for him to approach with one hand while holding up one of the yellow parchments with the other.

As Philip walks closer, Felicia speaks while reading the contents of the pages, “I might have overdone it a bit.”

“The war is going better than anticipated?” Philip asks and stops about ten feet in front of Felicia, as much as the table she is sitting at allows.

“Too well,” Felicia nods. “I will have to make adjustments. Also, I was thinking of getting some new leathers at the entrance—the old ones are worn out already. Do you think orange would fit with the rest?”

“I suppose,” Philip answers, though it doesn’t seem like he cares one way or the other.

Felicia sighs and puts down one paper, only to take another from one of the piles and says, “II was being serious. I wish you would offer feedback more seriously.”

“I have no expertise in decoration,” Philip says, still standing with his hands behind his back.

Felicia eyes him top to bottom and says, “And clearly no fashion sense either. Didn’t I tell you to lose that tiara?”

“You know I can’t.”

Felicia puts another page down, looks Philip straight in the eyes, and says, “Very well. Let us talk about something you have expertise in.”

“You do need to see this,” Philip says, finally revealing what he came for in the first place, and takes a couple of steps away from the table. He then brings his hand to his left eye, with three fingers pointing toward his eye, and nonchalantly sinks them around the eyeball and pulls it out of his eye socket. As his eye leaves his skull, the connecting red tissue rips, and snaps. A trickle of blood flows down his cheek from the hollow space. Philip then extends his arm, with his eyeball in his fingers, and then releases it, letting it fall to the floor, within arm’s reach.

Just an inch before reaching the floor, the eyeball flattens mid-air and extends into a white circle, six feet in diameter, reaching all the way to Philip’s feet. The surface ripples like water and an image appear. A gray and black hill with three small figures on it. Goblins. The picture closes in on one dark-green-skinned goblin who picks up a sword. Then purple energy forms around his hand, creeping up his body. The goblin screams and drops the sword, falling to the ground himself.

“Ara ara,” Felicia smiles and leans slightly forward, taking an interest in the image before her eyes.