Chapter 92: Forced Evolution

Rogg led the whole tribe out, running ahead of all of them to show them the way. Their eyes and noses were sharp, but the winds were still snowy enough that it was hard for them to see much. Thus, they followed Rogg.

Thus, Rogg would deliver them to true service.

Rogg ran and ran, faster than everyone else even though just an hour before he had felt weak and hungry, because now that he knew his body acted in service to the lord, there was no need to hold back. If he died in service, he died with his purpose fulfilled.

Some distance away from the Snowmound, Rogg stopped, and so did his brethren. Gobb shoved Rogg backwards with his burly arm and grunted.

"So, where the bear?" said Gobb as he poised his huge Everfrost blade in front of him. His tusks jutted from the gap of his horned helm, a trinket he had taken from an adventurer some a year ago.

The adventurers were scary humans, but over the years, the tribe had learned that the weak ones, none of the humans cared for. If the weak adventurers died, nobody came seeking vengeance for them. And the strong ones, the tribe avoided anyway.

But now, Rogg knew that there was no need to be scared anymore. Not of Gobb, not of adventurers, not of anything.

Such was the lord's light and warmth.

"No bear," said Rogg as he knelt into the snow. He looked up into the air with craned neck, his arms outstretched upwards, hands cupped as if to receive glorious blessing from the heavens, and soon, he saw a glimmer of gold shine through the white noise of snowy wind.

"Only lord."

"What!?" Gobb swiveled around to Rogg with a snarl, his tusks rattling as they jutted from his lips. Gobb grabbed Rogg's neck, his massive, scarred hand wrapping around Rogg's own sizably muscular neck in a comfortable grip.

"What you mean? You waste our time!?" shouted Gobb, spittle flying from his mouth as his blue eyes narrowed in a leer.

"The lord comes," Rogg managed to choke out through Gobb's grip.

==

The Collector, wreathed in an aura of light and flames that spiraled around it, descended upon the group of gathered hobgoblins like a falling meteorite. Its sheer weight caused sheets of snow to churn up around its landing point, though as soon as the snow flew up, it sizzled and melted.

Before the hobgoblins could process more than just startled looks, the Collector projected its voice.

"Stop. Be still. Be quiet."

The voice echoed out in resonating peals, and as soon as those enchanted sound waves washed over the hobgoblins, they no longer became independent entities. They became units. All of the tribe grew still and quiet, their arms hanging limp by their sides as they faced straight forwards with blank expressions.

All of the tribe except a specimen the Collector could immediately realize from his bulk and density of magical energy as the champion.

The champion remained still, but his body trembled as he strained against the Dominus-type magic.

Curious. The Collector slithered over to the champion and wreathed one of its ocular systems in magical energy, allowing it to better perceive the flow of mana to check for irregularities.

"So it is this," said the Collector as it put a finger on the champion's helmet. The flames raging from the Collector singed the champion's skin, but the champion could do nothing but remain still and face the burning heat.

The Collector could immediately note that there was a marking on the helmet packed with patterns of mana that formulated a spell. In essence, magic stored in certain symbols.

A common occurrence, it seemed in this world among tinkerers. Tinkerers engraved mundane objects with certain symbols, thereby granting them magical properties.

Here, the champion seemed to gain some measure of mental resistance, though not much. Regardless, the helmet was useless to the Collector for it could not process such sigils within its own body.

The Collector knew from experience dealing with goblins that neither the champion nor his tribe had not created this item. They simply lacked the necessary technological development. Likely, this piece of protective metal headgear had been taken from a tinkering species.

The Collector reached out for the helmet, and the champion managed to eke out words through its imposed stasis.

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Through gritted teeth, the champion stared at the Collector and muttered out, "Coward. You…no fight…do this."

The Collector stopped as its hands wrapped around the helmet, the flames wreathing its fingers slowly warping the shape of the weak metal. Then, it withdrew its hand and inched backwards, allowing its aura of heat and flames to stop damaging the champion.

"All of you," said the Collector, its voice projecting again in echoes. "Create a ring around myself and this specimen. Grant us ten meters of space within which to freely move."

All the hobgoblins immediately followed this order. They moved with precision, rushing into a circular formation with a degree of coordination they would never have been able to observe had they all been merely individuals.

Within half a minute, the goblins formed a ring of meat around the Collector and the champion.

"I shall assess now whether you are worthy enough of a specimen to undergo evolution," said the Collector as it moved back, granting the champion three meters of space. With a click of its mandibles on its main skull, the Collector broke the mental dominus on the champion.

"Now, engage in combat with me as you so desire," said the Collector, outstretching its four pairs of arms in welcome invitation.

Now free, the champion's eyes shifted from side to side, and the Collector clicked its mandibles again in disappointment, an emotion it was becoming more and more familiar with. The champion from its body language, the movement of its eyes, and the rushed cadence of its breathing felt fear, seeking only escape.

It would seem that the red-skinned hobgoblin champion possessed far more worthy a mindset than this inferior specimen.

However, when the champion realized there truly was no escape, that the ring of his brethren would push him back no matter, he faced the Collector with his Everfrost blade drawn. The champion snarled, his lips curling up to bare his sharp teeth and tusks.

"Agreeable," said the Collector, its six skulls peering down at the champion from a half meter height advantage.

"I…I fight." The champion eyed the Collector's monstrous form up and down, evidently attempting to assess the Collector's combat capacity. However, the champion had no reference with which to compare the Collector to, no monster or warrior or beast similar at all.

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But the champion knew that if he did not act, he would die. Thus, the Collector observed as the champion shot forwards, an aura of red wreathing his body.

A chaos-origin mana type, it seemed. Like the Collector.

The chaotic but powerful bursts of mana empowered the champion, and he accelerated forwards with enhanced speed and strength, swinging his blade to slice the Collector's stomach horizontally.

The Collector blocked the swing with the forearm carapace of one of its arms. The Everfrost blade clanged as it struck hyperalloy carapace, and the champion grit his teeth as he felt shock travel up his arm from hitting an immovable, solid wall.

Yet, the Collector's carapace did not yield. There the faintest hint of a chip from the point of impact, and damage so miniscule smoothed over with regeneration instantly.

The champion opened its mouth in surprise, but before he could utter any words, the Collector thrust out its other arm grabbed the champion's throat, lifting the two-and-a-half-meter giant of a goblin specimen up into the air with complete ease.

"My calculations have already proved as much, but it would seem that my strength now far outstrips that of any potential champion variant," said the Collector. It stared at the champion's gargling face as the Collector's hand choked the life out of it.

The champion thrashed and punched and kicked at the Collector, dropping his blade now that it was useless in such close range. None of the blows did anything. Rather, with how desperate they were, the Collector could only see that they damaged themselves, the skin peeling off and the knuckles beginning to fracture.

"Fight me to the death. Utilize every ounce of strength your meager form possesses," said the Collector, commanding the champion with Higher Calling.

The champion's blows redoubled in effort, but he only damaged himself more. Now, his desperate blows, pushed past their bodily limits, shattered bones and tore chunks of flesh from his feet and hands as he slammed them into the Collector.

None of the blunt force blows dealt any damage to the Collector for its long chain chitinous sublayer was highly shock absorbent. At best, they created small chips in the carapace itself, but again, these healed over with regeneration.

The Collector noted as the champion's bloody strikes grew weaker and more desperate, slower now that his face was turning blue from lack of oxygen.

"You are a champion. Thus, I had assessed you the potential to evolve among your kind. But now, it is difficult to calculate whether you possess the necessary means," said the Collector. "Nevertheless, I shall experiment."

Another of the Collector's arms arched back and balled into a fist. An aura of black-tinged red formed around the first before the Collector slammed it into the champion's stomach.

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