The morning sky was a slate-gray sheet, broken only by the jagged silhouettes of distant mountains. The human army stretched across the plain like a river of black and silver — soldiers sharpening blades, checking armor, chanting under their breaths to stave off fear. Smoke from early cooking fires mingled with the chill air, carrying the smell of soot, iron, and sweat.
Somewhere in the distance, a lone falcon cried, circling above the battlefield soon to be drenched in blood.
In the command tent, Aurelian Kael Vorthane stood with his arms folded, dark eyes scanning the maps spread across the table. He did not speak to his generals yet; he did not need to. The moment had weight, and he allowed it to settle.
A messenger rushed in, panting, bowing low before the black-clad figure.
"Lord Vorthane," the soldier said, "reports from the southern training grounds. Several new recruits… they are uneasy. They question the campaign. Some fear the goblins. Others… question whether we should risk human lives in front of goblin fire."
Aurelian's gaze sharpened. He did not raise his voice. He did not show anger. But the air in the tent thickened, as if the world itself had leaned closer to hear his thoughts.
"Bring them here," he said softly. "All of them. I will speak."
The messenger bowed and departed, leaving the generals exchanging uncertain glances. Whispered concerns passed among them, but none dared contradict him.
By midmorning, the recruits and the veterans alike were assembled on the plains. Tens of thousands of humans stood under the pale sun, black armor glinting, swords strapped to sides, mages murmuring incantations that danced like threads of light, and healers ready to tend to the inevitable. Even the navigators, scholars, and siege engineers stood in line, the weight of expectation pressing down on them all.
Aurelian emerged from the command tent. His presence silenced the chatter instantly. He stepped onto the low platform, the long sword at his side, the black coat flowing in the wind. He did not look at the generals. He did not look at the soldiers. He looked through them, as if peering into the hearts of everyone present.
Then he began to speak.
"For decades," he said, calm, measured, and rhythmic, "they have enslaved us. For decades, they have stolen what is ours. They have poisoned the world with their verminous existence. They call themselves rulers. They call themselves wise. They call themselves civilization. And yet, they teach their children to see humans as tools, as sacrifices, as nothing more than pawns on a board too large for our lives to matter."
The wind snapped at his coat. The banners behind him, black and silver, whipped violently, echoing the cadence of his words.
"They call it peace," he continued without pause. "I call it a cage. They call it law. I call it chains. They call it order. I call it death by inches. And we… we were expected to bend, to kneel, to accept this slow suffocation of our race. And yet, some of you doubt. Some of you tremble at the thought of facing goblins in battle. Some whisper that our cause is too heavy, that sacrifice is too costly, that liberation is beyond our grasp. To them, I say this: you are already dead if you do not understand why we fight."
Murmurs rose briefly in the ranks, but the rhythm of his speech swept over them like a tide, drowning hesitation. His voice did not falter. It did not soften.
"The goblins are not men. They do not suffer. They do not hesitate. They do not bargain. They multiply. They poison rivers. They burn forests. They steal lands. They enslave children. And still, some of you dare question whether our swords should strike? Some of you dare hesitate as the world demands action? We will not wait for peace to fall into our laps. Peace does not exist among vermin. Only liberation exists. And liberation, my soldiers, is paid in blood."
He let that settle, the weight of each word pressing into the hearts of the gathered army. His eyes moved slowly across the lines, meeting the gaze of new recruits, of veterans who had seen cities reduced to ash, of soldiers who had carried the bodies of fallen comrades from battle after battle.
"Look at your hands," he said. "Look at the swords you hold. Look at the shields that guard you from death. They are not tools of convenience. They are instruments of survival. They are instruments of liberation. And yet, the price… the price of liberation is not measured in victories alone. It is measured in courage. It is measured in fear confronted. It is measured in those who fall so that others may live. That is the price. That is the path. That is your duty."
No pause. His voice continued, a machine of rhythm and intensity, words striking like hammer on steel.
"Some of you will die tomorrow. Some of you will see friends torn apart before your eyes. Some will carry the burden of choices that will haunt you for the rest of your lives. And yet, if you hesitate, if you falter, if you question whether your actions are justified, then everything we fight for dies. Humanity dies. And the goblins will not pause, will not hesitate, will not mourn. They will strike, they will enslave, they will exterminate. Their cruelty is infinite. Their ambition is endless. And we… we are their only barrier."
A ripple passed through the ranks. New recruits shifted on their feet. Some clenched their hands. Some swallowed hard. But the rhythm of his words carried them forward, the cadence of inevitability in every phrase.
"Do you understand?" he asked, though his voice never changed, never softened. "Do you understand what it means to stand here, to hold the line, to raise your sword against the vermin of the world? Do you understand what it means to risk everything for the sake of our people?"
He paused briefly, enough for a single moment of silence, and then unleashed the next volley, continuous, unbroken:
"If you fight, you fight for honor. If you fight, you fight for freedom. If you fight, you fight for humanity. And if you fall, if you die, if your name is lost in the dust of this war, then know this — your death is not meaningless. Your death is the hammer that strikes the chains from our people. Your death is the proof that liberation is not given. It is taken. And taken at a price."
The crowd shifted. Some eyes widened in fear. Some hearts raced in anticipation. Some understood for the first time that war was not an adventure; it was a crucible.
He leaned slightly forward, voice sharper now, each word striking like a blade:
"The goblins will call you weak. The goblins will call you fools. The goblins will call you prey. And yet, you stand here. You raise your shields. You grip your swords. You prepare to march into hell for the sake of a world that has never valued you. And I… I will lead you. I will bear the hatred of the world. I will strike the vermin until they understand that humans are not to be toyed with, that humans are not to be dismissed, that humans are not to be ruled."
He let that sink in for only a heartbeat before continuing, faster now, a torrent of conviction and fury:
"Some of you think liberation is painless. Some of you think victory comes without cost. Some of you believe the world will cheer when we reclaim our lands. No. No, no, no. Liberation is fire. Liberation is blood. Liberation is fear transformed into steel, doubt transformed into courage. The price is high, the price is personal, the price is absolute. And yet — it is a price worth paying. And if any of you hesitate, if any of you falter, if any of you fail… humanity dies. And the goblins laugh. They always laugh at weakness. They always laugh at doubt. They always laugh at those who do not understand the price of survival."
The soldiers were silent now, caught between terror and inspiration. The rhythm of his speech hammered into their minds, into their very bones. Every word a command, every phrase a drumbeat, every pause a heartbeat.
He lowered his hand slightly, though his voice remained unwavering, resolute, unrelenting:
"Do you understand, soldiers? Do you understand that the path we walk is narrow? Do you understand that the path we walk is lined with death and horror? Do you understand that to strike against the goblins is to embrace both life and suffering, both liberation and destruction? This is the price. This is the truth. This is the burden of being human. To stand, to fight, to survive — even if it means we must be hated, even if it means the world calls us monsters, even if it means our own hearts are scarred beyond repair. This… is the price of liberation."
He stepped down from the platform slowly, his cloak flowing behind him, sword at his side, eyes sweeping over every line of soldiers, every new recruit, every veteran hardened by war. He did not smile. He did not raise his fists. He simply stared, the calm eye of the storm, and waited.
Then a single voice broke the silence.
"For humanity!" it cried.
Another followed.
"For victory!"
A third:
"For freedom or death!"
The cry spread like wildfire. Fists rose, voices thundered, armor clanked, shields rattled. The entire army roared in unison, not as individuals, but as one living, breathing force of human determination, bound together by fear, hatred, and the shared understanding that the world had never been theirs — and that they would claim it, no matter the cost.
Aurelian allowed a small nod, almost imperceptible, before turning toward the tent where the war maps awaited. His mind was already moving, already calculating, already planning the next strike against the goblin kingdom that lay ahead.
The army was ready. Their resolve was absolute.
Liberation or death.
Price paid in blood.
Humanity would not kneel.
And somewhere in the distant mountains, goblin scouts noticed the ripple across the plains, the black and silver tide of humans gathering, shouting, and moving as one. A shadow fell across their stronghold, and they realized — the war was not coming. The war was already here.