The return of the demon lord

Hans stood at the heart of the goblin village, the weight of expectation pressing against his shoulders. Around him, goblins whispered in hushed voices, stealing glances his way. The lizardmen knelt in solemn devotion, their reptilian eyes gleaming with something he didn't yet understand—faith, loyalty, or perhaps the dangerous weight of hope.

He had spoken the words, but now they bound him.

"I am."

A declaration. A claim to power. A step onto a path he could not turn away from.

The goblin shaman's gaze bore into him, unreadable. The old goblin had called this moment fate, but Hans couldn't shake the feeling that he was standing on the edge of a precipice, one step away from a fall that had no end.

And the world had already begun to react.

The scout's warning had spread like wildfire:

The ogres were moving and they were coming for him.

By nightfall, the goblin village had transformed into a war camp. Fires burned low, their embers casting flickering shadows over hunched figures sharpening weapons, whispering prayers, or murmuring in fear.

Hans stood near the chieftain's hut, his mind racing. The Irontail Chieftain was seated nearby, his massive form hunched over a crude wooden table where a rough map of the valley lay unrolled.

The goblin shaman sat across from him, his aged fingers tracing the lines of the map with slow, deliberate motions. His eyes flicked to Hans.

"They are marching through the valley," the shaman murmured. "If they are not stopped, they will reach us in two days."

Hans studied the map. The ogres had numbers. Even if they fought defensively, the goblins would be overwhelmed. The lizardmen were disciplined, but against ogres in open battle? It would be a slaughter.

"What do they want?" Hans asked.

The Irontail Chieftain's golden eyes gleamed in the firelight. "To test you."

Hans frowned.

The chieftain's voice was steady, but heavy. "Ogres do not follow weakness. Their leaders are not chosen by blood or words, but by strength alone. If they believe your claim to Marlic's will is false, they will kill you and take this land for themselves."

"And if I prove myself?"

The chieftain bared his teeth in something like a grin. "Then they will kneel."

Hans swallowed. He wasn't ready for this. He had been a wanderer, a survivor—not a warlord.

But he had spoken the words.

He could not take them back now.

"We must prepare," he said. "And if I must fight, I will."

The shaman's wrinkled lips curled into something that might have been approval.

And so, they made ready.

Dawn broke over a restless army.

The goblins moved in frantic energy, crude weapons in hand. The lizardmen formed disciplined lines, their armor polished, their spears sharp.

Hans stood at the head of it all, his worn dagger at his belt, his heart hammering in his chest.

The Irontail Chieftain approached. "You have courage," he said. "That is good. But courage alone will not win this battle."

Hans forced himself to meet the chieftain's gaze. "What will?"

The lizardman's grin was sharp. "Blood."

With that, they set forth.

Beyond the ridge, the valley sprawled wide.

Smoke curled from ogre bonfires, the scent of charred meat heavy in the air.

And at the center of it all stood their chieftain.

He was massive, even among his kind—twice the size of any man, his crimson skin streaked with black war paint. His war club, studded with jagged iron, was a brutal thing designed to break bodies.

He stepped forward, his voice rolling through the valley like distant thunder.

"I see you, lizard scum! I see you, goblin filth! And I see your little demon hiding among you!"

Hans stepped forward, his throat dry.

The chieftain's crimson eyes bore into him, filled with nothing but contempt.

"You claim Marlic's will?" the ogre bellowed. "Then prove it! Face me, demon, and let the gods decide your fate!"

A challenge.

The battlefield held its breath.

The Irontail Chieftain leaned in close. "You don't have to do this. A leader commands through strategy, not just strength."

But Hans knew.

This wasn't about strategy. It was about power.

If he turned away now, he would lose more than the battle.

He would lose everything.

"I accept."

The moment Hans stepped onto the battlefield, the world seemed to shrink.

The ogre moved first. A blur of muscle and destruction, his war club swinging in a wide arc meant to shatter bones.

Hans barely dodged, the wind of the strike buffeting against him like a storm. The ground where he had stood exploded into dirt and shattered rock.

Too fast.

The chieftain wasn't just strong—he was skilled.

Hans circled, gripping his dagger tight. He couldn't fight head-on.

So he didn't.

Another swing. A brutal downward strike. This time, Hans didn't dodge back—he stepped in.

The club slammed into the dirt behind him, and Hans moved.

A flash of steel—his dagger slashed across the back of the chieftain's knee.

The ogre roared, stumbling.

Hans didn't stop.

He darted around him, cutting where the flesh was softest—behind the legs, at the tendons, at the joints. Small wounds, but they added up.

The chieftain swung again, wild with pain. This time, he was slower.

Hans ducked low, his dagger flashing one final time.

A deep slash across the throat.

Silence.

The ogre chieftain staggered, choking on his own breath. His war club slipped from his fingers, crashing to the ground with a final, defeated thud.

And then, he collapsed.

Dead.

For a moment, there was nothing then, the valley erupted.

A roar of triumph surged from the goblins and lizardmen, their cries shaking the trees. The ogres, once so sure of their chieftain's invincibility, hesitated.

And then, one by one—

They knelt.

Hans stood, chest heaving, staring at the impossible sight before him.

They weren't just surrendering.

They were submitting.

The goblin shaman stepped forward, his voice carrying across the field.

"The war is over." He turned to Hans, his gaze unreadable. "And a new ruler has risen."

Hans felt his heart hammer against his ribs.

He had won.

But in victory, he had become something else entirely.

Something greater.

Something dangerous.

And far away, in the deepest shadows of the world, others had taken notice.