Becoming a Monster

Chapter 464: Chapter 463: The Barracks Below Ashenveil

Far below the forest, past the corrupted tree where the chieftain met the demonic trolls, stood a place that no adventurer dared to pass.

An old, worn-down barracks.

Its original purpose was still visible at a glance. Squared stone foundations and the skeletal remains of collapsed watchtowers marked it as a former human stronghold, once maintained to hold a fortified position against invasion.

Time had not been kind to it.

Entire sections of the outer wall had collapsed inward, their gaps filled with crude reinforcements of bone, scavenged metal, and blackened timber. Rusted ballista mounts had been torn apart and rebuilt into monstrous launchers capable of firing thick, iron-tipped spikes. They weren’t elegant, but they were placed at exact angles, covering every viable approach.

Barbaric modifications were everywhere.

Skulls lined the walls, not randomly, but arranged in repeating patterns that doubled as banners and trophies. A brew of mud and unknown materials was used to reinforce the cracked stones in the walls. And support beams had been replaced with layered bone and iron.

Demonic creatures stood guard at different perimeters while even more patrolled atop the walls and scouted with the towers.

From the groups of monsters that guard the walls, both trolls and goblins were among them. The trolls were accompanied by massive boars bred for war. Their hides were scarred, while some had their tusks reinforced with metal bands. They snorted and stamped constantly, aggressive by nature, but even they responded instantly to command.

The goblins rode monstrous wolves fitted with surprisingly well-made saddles. The leather was evenly stitched, reinforced with bone splints and iron scraps. They were ugly to look at, but built to endure and perform their functions efficiently.

Two creatures who were natural rivals were now working and living together.

But just like the trolls, the goblins resembled nothing like the ones found within Ashenveil Forest.

Every goblin present was at least a hobgoblin. Each had undergone significant mutation. Their frames were denser, many nearing the strength of a chieftain in their own right.

Inside the barracks walls, demonic beings lived freely.

They spoke to one another. Exchanged goods and meat as currency. Old armories had been converted into storage dens. Former mess halls now served as communal gathering spaces.

It was just as much a settlement as it was a fortress.

And surrounding this settlement, positioned as if they were being cultivated, were blood trees. Unlike those in the outer part of the forest, several bore fruit that was a delicacy among the demonic inhabitants.

Beasts avoided the place instinctively. Only creatures that were attracted to the fruits were bold enough to venture into their territory. These beasts were in a league of their own.

There were more than one type of creature that craved these fruits, and it was this reason why they were closely guarded.

Because the beasts brave enough to steal them from under the demon’s nose were no longer normal beasts, even when compared to the regular creatures in the demon’s forest.

From demonic blood stags, sanguine wolves, parasites, and even mutated blood bears. Each of these creatures had the strength that could end in a demon’s death if taken lightly.

And yet, behind the barracks, partially shielded by the collapsed remains of an old training yard, stood something that didn’t belong.

A school.

It resembled a middle school. Six days in this forest had already taken their toll.

Some windows had been reinforced from the inside. Others were shattered completely.

Several doors were barricaded with desks and lockers dragged into place.

Others had been forced open.

Dried blood streaked the frames. Handprints smeared the walls and floors, creating a trail as if they were dragged.

It would’ve been far-fetched to claim that the blood and gore were all done within these six days.

But not to those who had come from Earth. Because when a building appeared here, it could only mean one thing.

There were people inside. And this time there were a lot of them.

From toddlers to elders. People of all ages were gathered. And they arrived in one of the worst possible places imaginable.

The demonic monsters claimed them all.

Those who continued to resist were quickly killed. The flesh and core of a powerful human were still prime resources for them. But the rest were being held. Even the women were not touched, not yet anyway.

Unlike the normal trolls and goblins found elsewhere, the creatures stationed here operated under strict rules. Rules imposed by beings far above them. True demonic entities, generals of the original demon itself.

The decision of what to do with the captives was not theirs to make.

The barracks merely served as an outer stronghold. The first line of engagement should there be anything attempting to push deeper into demonic territory. To the generals, the creatures stationed here were expendable.

Although they were replaceable, they were still useful.

And because a general didn’t reside there, they needed to delegate someone who could lead the riffcraft. That role fell to a goblin, a demonic goblin shaman who was turned into a demon by the general itself.

The chieftain not only had to be strong enough to maintain discipline. But also strong enough to serve as a liaison. Someone who could interpret and carry out commands without needing constant oversight.

A general would never demean themselves by ruling such a place directly. Speaking to creatures this weak was beneath them. Issuing orders to them personally was a waste of time.

That was the chieftain’s role.

And today, the chieftain and its followers were reminded of their weakness when a direct subordinate of the general arrived.

It was the reason why the trolls and goblins were patrolling, taking their jobs seriously for once.

At the center of the barracks, beyond the converted mess halls, stood the structure reserved for the chieftain.

It was a hall more massive than the mess halls.

It had once been a training complex with wide floors and high ceilings.

Now, it had been repurposed.

The roof had been torn open and rebuilt higher, to allow a troll to stand at full height. Stone walls were reinforced with iron plates. The floor was stained dark from repeated use. Blood soaked too deeply to scrub away.

A throne-like platform dominated one end of the hall.

Just like everything else, it was crude in appearance. Made with the best metal they could find, and adorned with the most worthy skulls. It was built more for authority’s sake rather than comfort.

Lines of goblins and trolls stood on both sides of the hall, while the chieftains’ strongest were kneeling before the seat.

But among those elites, directly in front of them was also the chieftain, kneeling towards the throne.

Compared to the trolls surrounding him, his size was undeniably lesser. He stood shorter, his frame lacking the overwhelming mass that defined true troll-blooded strength.

But among goblins, he was anything but small. He carried the physique of a seasoned hobgoblin warlord. Green-black skin stretched over hardened muscle.

The attire he wore fitted a warrior rather than a shaman. Armor plates reinforced his torso and shoulders. Nothing about his equipment was ceremonial.

His hands rested on the staff planted before him.

The staff was taller than he was, constructed from layered bone and darkened metal bound together by reinforced bands. At its head sat a massive skull, far larger than any goblin’s.

The skull belonged to a mutated blood bear. Its glow leaked through the eye sockets and fissures along the jaw.

The throne itself was empty. However, it was the being standing in front of it that received the others’ fealty.

A being that had a close resemblance to elves, and yet had none at all. An Elf whose skin was as black as scorched earth.

A thick beard framed his jaw while his hair fell wildly down his back. Black at its roots and streaked with deep crimson nearer the ends, as if it had been permanently soaked in flames.

One eye glowed while the other one remained dark, looking down on the creatures with a detached gaze that made it hard to tell if he looked down on the creatures or merely viewed them as tools.

Despite what he had become, he wore armor that made his standing unmistakable. Gold-lined engravings traced along the edges. A crimson mantle fell from his sword.

The design carried remnants of elven influence. Whatever pride had once defined his race had not been discarded. It had been reshaped into what he believed was the ultimate and true elven heritage.

Behind him stood others of his kind.

A small entourage of elven figures formed a loose half-circle several steps back, each standing at attention with disciplined stillness. Their armor differed in weight, heavy or light, but within those distinctions, no piece stood apart from the rest.

It was a decision made entirely by their leader, who prided appearance just as much as power.

They all shared the same scorched complexion and altered features that marked them as demons.

They were not the strongest beings in the hall. A few of the trolls present could have torn them apart in a direct clash. Even some of the mutated goblins carried more raw physical power.

And yet, none of that mattered. Their gazes still were filled with contempt, all the same.

Everyone’s attention snapped to attention when the elven figure finally spoke.

”You know why I’m here. Now start with the demon in Ashenveil Forest.”