Paul’s POV

It had been a month since the adventurers killed Alaric. So far no one had come into his part of the Deepwood looking for him. Alaric’s slayers haunted his every step. Each village he took, he expected the adventurers to show up and kill him.

Paul didn’t dream any more, but if he could, he knew he would have nightmares about them. He didn’t even know who they were, but if they could kill Alaric, they had to be strong.

In the past month he hadn’t been idle. He had taken 6 other villages. His number of undead was up to 253 skeletons and 173 zombies. The number of goblins under his rule was over 400. The population of Gravewell had nearly doubled.

The month had been somewhat productive. Gravewell now had a wall, which Paul was ecstatic about, but the goblins were too incompetent to make a keep. They could hardly build anything more than a square building with no internal walls.

The desire for a keep brought him to his current situation. Having conquered 8 villages, a couple goblins managed to escape the conquest, but took word of him to other villages about him. He was now known as the Conqueror.

Apparently, conquerors showed up every now and then and tried to untie the goblin tribes into one giant army. Usually, they failed.

This new reputation however, brought new opportunity. A few days earlier a messenger arrived from a village of nearly 500, led by the hobgoblin Rikkard. Rikkard assured Paul that he had several human slaves that knew the intricacies of fort building. That and the submission of his village to the new conqueror, all for one simple task.

About two miles from Rikkard’s village was a grove of giant trees. Inside the grove was what was interesting.

Deathweaver.

And who was Deathweaver might you ask? It was a spider the size of a large house. Deathweaver had a taste for goblins. So, a deal was offered and accepted. If Paul could slay Deathweaver, Rikkard’s village would swear itself to Paul.

Paul’s crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light of the cove. He moved with preternatural grace, each step as silent as a whisper. The air was thick with tension, the musty scent of damp earth mixing with the sharp tang of magic. Before him, Deathweaver, a monstrous spider with a leg span as wide as a house, lurked in the shadows. Its many eyes glittered like black jewels, reflecting the faint light that seeped into the cavern. The creature’s chitinous body was dark and foreboding, with thick, spiked legs that clattered ominously against the stone floor.

Paul tightened his grip on the blackened staff he held, its surface cold and slick, pulsing with the energy he had siphoned from his tethers. He could feel the mana coursing through him, a steady stream from the tethers to death, fire, and air. Yet, even as the power flowed into him, he felt the subtle leak of it, like sand slipping through his fingers. He needed to act, to strike before he lost too much.

Deathweaver struck first. With a speed that belied its massive size, it lunged forward, its fangs dripping with venom that could melt through steel. Paul barely had time to react, his instincts guiding him as he thrust his hand forward. He summoned the power of the air tether, channeling the mana into a gale-force wind. The blast hit Deathweaver head-on, throwing it back against the stone wall with a deafening crash. Dust and loose stones rained down from above as the spider let out a screech, more infuriated than injured.

Paul didn’t wait for the creature to recover. He drew on the fire tether next, feeling the heat of it flood his veins. With a swift motion, he slashed his staff through the air, releasing a wave of flame that rolled across the cavern floor like a living thing. The fire roared toward Deathweaver, illuminating the dark space with a hellish glow. The creature responded with an eerie, high-pitched hiss, its legs moving in a frantic blur as it scrambled to avoid the blaze.

Deathweaver was no ordinary beast; it was a predator born of dark magic, bred to kill. With uncanny agility, it leaped to the side, scaling the wall in an instant. The fire passed beneath it, singeing the stone but missing its mark. From its new vantage point, Deathweaver shot out thick strands of webbing, aiming to ensnare Paul where he stood.

Paul’s senses flared with the impending danger, and he reached deep into the death tether, pulling forth its chilling power. Shadows gathered around him, swirling and coalescing into a protective barrier of dark energy. The webs struck the barrier and disintegrated, the necrotic energy consuming them on contact.

Paul could feel the strain. He had to keep gathering mana, had to keep the flow steady, or the shield would falter. With a snarl, he tightened his grip on his staff and channeled more energy into the shield, fortifying it against Deathweaver’s assault. The spider, sensing its prey was not so easily caught, paused for a moment, its many eyes flickering with something almost like intelligence.

In that brief lull, Paul made his move. He released the shield, letting it dissipate into the ether, and poured everything he had into a single, devastating attack. Drawing on the death tether with all his might, he summoned a spectral hand that materialized above the Deathweaver, crackling with dark energy. The hand reached down, grasping the creature’s body in a death grip.

Deathweaver shrieked, its legs flailing as the necrotic energy seeped into its body, draining its life force. Paul could feel the creature’s resistance, its will to survive battling against the death magic he wielded. He was relentless, his focus unyielding. The spectral hand tightened its grip, and with a final surge of power, Paul sent a wave of fire through the hand, igniting the death magic with a blaze that turned the cavern into an inferno.

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Deathweaver’s screams echoed off the walls as its body was consumed by the deadly combination of fire and death. Its legs twitched spasmodically, then stilled as the flames died down, leaving behind only charred remains.

Paul stood amidst the ashes, the last of his mana leaking away as he released his hold on the tethers. The cove was silent now, save for the faint crackle of dying embers. He had won, but he knew the cost of victory. He would need to replenish his mana soon, or the next battle might not end in his favor.

Paul hadn’t taken more than a few steps from the smoldering remains of Deathweaver when a scuffling sound caught his attention. From behind a large tree, a small figure emerged, darting forward with surprising speed. It was the goblin guide, a wiry creature with sharp features and a perpetually mischievous grin. His oversized ears twitched with excitement, and his wide eyes gleamed in the flickering light of the dying embers.

“Ha! You did it!” the goblin cackled, his voice a mix of awe and glee. “Big nasty spider, all crispy now!” He scampered over to the charred remains of Deathweaver, hopping from one foot to the other as if he could hardly contain himself.

Paul watched in silence, his expression unreadable, as the goblin circled the corpse. The creature had been a terrifying opponent, a lethal guardian of the dungeon’s secrets, but to the goblin, it was now nothing more than a trophy.

With a gleeful snicker, the goblin pulled back one of his scrawny legs and delivered a swift kick to one of the Deathweaver’s charred legs. The limb cracked and fell away, crumbling into ash upon impact. The goblin howled with laughter, clutching his sides as he pranced around the fallen beast. “Take that, you eight-legged freak! No more goblin snacks for you!”

He kicked it again, this time at the abdomen, and more ash scattered into the air. “You thought you were so tough, huh? But look at you now! Just a pile of crispy bits!” The goblin was practically dancing now, his excitement bubbling over with each taunt he threw at the lifeless corpse.

Paul couldn’t help but feel a twinge of amusement at the goblin’s antics. Despite the gravity of the battle, the creature’s exuberance was infectious. It was as if the goblin had forgotten entirely about the danger, they’d faced moments before, lost in the simple joy of their victory.

The goblin finally stopped his dance, panting slightly from his exertions. He looked up at Paul, his grin wide and toothy. “You’re one mean necromancer, boss! Nobody’s gonna mess with us now!”

Paul nodded slightly, acknowledging the goblin’s praise, though his mind was already drifting back to the next challenge that awaited them deeper within the Deepwood. For now, he allowed himself a moment of respite, watching as the goblin continued to celebrate their hard-earned victory in his own peculiar way.

“Take me back to the village.” Paul told his guide. “Rikkard should be happy with you as a witness that Deathweaver is dead.”

“You betcha he will.” The guide said. “We are with you now.”

Paul allowed a smile to creep onto his face. He wasn’t sure if Rikkard was going to surrender so easily, but he had given his word publicly, and Paul didn’t know the consequences of going back on your word in goblin society.

The thick canopy of the Deepwood loomed above Paul as he made his way into the heart of the goblin village. The air here was dense with the scent of pine and earth, and the sounds of distant wildlife blended with the murmurs of goblins moving through the trees. Makeshift huts, made of wood and dried leaves, dotted the clearing, their occupants peering out cautiously as Paul approached.

In the center of the village, Rikkard, the hobgoblin chief, stood. His massive frame cast a long shadow; his yellow eyes gleaming with suspicion. Around him, goblins and a few hobgoblins lingered, watching the scene unfold with a mix of curiosity and fear. Rikkard's hand rested on the hilt of his cleaver, the worn handle showing the signs of many battles fought and won.

Paul stopped a few paces away, his crimson eyes reflecting the fading light filtering through the trees. The air between them was thick with tension. The goblin guide, still buzzing with excitement, skipped ahead of Paul, waving his arms in the air as he approached Rikkard.

"Chief! The necromancer did it! Deathweaver is dead! I saw it myself!" the guide chirped, his voice barely containing his glee.

Rikkard’s expression hardened, his thick fingers tightening around the cleaver's handle. He stepped forward, his towering form dwarfing the goblin beside him. "Is that so?" His voice was a low growl. His gaze shifted to Paul, and there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "You killed the Deathweaver, bloodsucker?"

Paul’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like the threat of a storm in the distance. "Dead and burned, just as I promised. Now, you will swear fealty to me, as agreed."

For a moment, the village seemed to still. The goblins held their breath, waiting for their chief’s response. Rikkard’s eyes narrowed, his lip curling into a sneer. "You think one dead spider is enough to make me bow? You may have killed the beast, but you’re in my land now. My warriors are ready to gut you where you stand."

The hobgoblins around Rikkard tensed, their hands drifting toward their weapons. The goblins stirred nervously, unsure of what might happen next. Rikkard’s voice dripped with disdain. "Why should we follow you, bloodsucker? We don’t kneel to the likes of you."

Paul’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to chill. He raised a hand slowly, and shadows began to pool at his feet, creeping outward like tendrils of darkness. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of unspoken power. "Do not mistake your strength for superiority, Rikkard. You’ve seen what I can do. I could raise the dead from these woods, fill the night with fire, or drain the very air from your lungs. Test me, and you will see."

The goblin guide, ever eager to avoid conflict, stepped closer to Rikkard, his voice pleading. "Chief! I saw it! Deathweaver’s dead. He burned it to ash! You said you'd swear if the necromancer did the job. We’re safer with him, not against him!"

Rikkard glared down at the guide, his muscles coiled with tension. His pride was at war with the reality of what stood before him. He knew, deep down, that Paul wasn’t bluffing. The power that radiated from the vampire was something beyond anything the goblin chief had ever faced.

After a long, tense silence, Rikkard spat on the ground at Paul’s feet. "Damn you," he growled, lowering his gaze. With slow, deliberate movements, he dropped to one knee, placing his cleaver at his side. His eyes burned with resentment, but there was submission in his voice. "I, Rikkard, chief of the Deepwood goblins, swear fealty to you, Paul. My warriors will follow."

Around them, the hobgoblins hesitated for a moment before following their chief’s example, kneeling one by one. The goblins quickly followed suit, bowing their heads in submission to Paul.

Paul stood tall, his cold gaze sweeping over the scene. He had won, not by brute force, but by fear and power. The goblin village was his now, and with it, a foothold in the Deepwood. Rikkard’s reluctance mattered little. What mattered was that Paul had another piece of his growing influence secured.

As the village slowly returned to its usual rhythm, Rikkard rose to his feet, his eyes burning with silent fury. He would obey for now, but Paul knew the hobgoblin chief was a creature of pride. It would take more than a dead Deathweaver to truly bind him to loyalty. For now, though, Paul had what he needed.

Without another word, Paul turned and walked away, leaving Rikkard and his warriors in the clearing, the weight of his victory hanging heavy in the air.