From Slave to King: My Rebate System Built Me a Kingdom With Beauties!-Chapter 169: The Mogul, Grik

The world had shifted for the worse, the balance that had held for centuries now tipping like a boulder on a cliff’s edge, waiting for the final push to send it crashing into the abyss below.

Ten days had passed since the fight against the Stonehide Chieftess, ten days of uneasy peace in the western region where Byung’s mine stood defiant against the encroaching darkness.

The mine itself had been fortified further—new barricades hammered into place with the ring of metal on metal echoing through the tunnels, goblins working double shifts to stockpile weapons and food, the air thick with the scent of sweat and determination. Maui, Naz, and Naruz had remained, their presence a symbol of the alliance forged in blood and fire, their massive orc frames moving through the cramped spaces with careful grace as they trained goblin recruits in combat techniques.

But news traveled fast in a world where survival depended on knowing your enemy’s movements before they struck. Runners carried whispers across borders, merchants traded information along with goods, and the underground networks of spies and informants—those who lived in the cracks between kingdoms and tribes—buzzed with the latest developments. And the most shocking piece of news to ripple across the lands was this: Vrognut’s capture and the plan to ship him off to the humans. The mutilated cannibal, armless, toothless, tongueless, a grotesque shell of the monster he had been, was to be handed over to Rodell as a gesture of goodwill, a demonstration that the goblins were capable of policing their own.

The news reached the region Vrognut originated from in the east, a bleak expanse of rocky badlands where the sun beat down mercilessly during the day and the cold bit deep at night. This was goblin territory, but not like the western mines—here, the clans were older, more savage, ruled by warlords who had survived countless battles and bore the scars to prove it. The settlements were carved into canyon walls, hidden from casual eyes, with watchtowers of stacked stone keeping watch over the barren landscape. Smoke rose from cook fires, carrying the smell of roasted lizard and bitter herbs, and the sound of sharpening blades filled the air like a constant, metallic heartbeat.

The Mogul who ruled this region sat in his stronghold, a cavernous space carved into the heart of a massive rock formation that jutted from the badlands like a broken tooth. The chamber was dimly lit by torches that cast dancing shadows on walls etched with crude pictographs—battles won, enemies slain, the history of his clan told in blood and stone. Hides of beasts hung from the ceiling, some still bearing claws and fangs, trophies from hunts that had tested even his formidable strength. The air was thick with the scent of leather, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of old blood that never quite washed out of the stone.

The Mogul himself was built different from any goblin Byung had ever encountered. Where most goblins were lean and wiry, built for speed and cunning rather than brute force, this one looked like a compressed orc—muscles bulging under green skin that bore countless scars, each one a story of survival. His shoulders were broad as a human warrior’s, arms thick as tree trunks, veins standing out like twisted cords under the skin. He stood barely stood 3 feet 5 inches tall, but his presence filled the room, a gravitational pull that made even his most hardened warriors avert their eyes when he passed. His body was a testament to decades—no, centuries—of combat, survival, and ruthless dominance over every challenger who had dared question his rule.

But he was also much older than most goblins ever lived to be, his face weathered and lined like ancient bark, green skin faded to a dull olive. His white hair hung long and wild, cascading past his shoulders in matted strands that hadn’t seen a comb in years, and his beard—equally white and tangled—reached down to his chest, bound with crude iron rings that clinked softly when he moved. Age had taken its toll in other ways: his movements, though still powerful, carried a stiffness that spoke of joints worn by time, and his breathing rasped faintly, lungs laboring under the weight of too many winters.

The messenger who had brought the news stood trembling before him, a young goblin with wide eyes and hands.

"Mogul Grik," the messenger stammered, voice barely above a whisper, "the western goblins... they’ve captured Vrognut. They plan to—"

"I know what they plan," Grik interrupted, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder rolling across the badlands. He leaned back in his throne—a crude construction of stone and salvaged metal, draped with beast hides—and stared at the ceiling, his mind working through the implications.

Vrognut’s capture was shocking enough; the cannibal had been a force of nature, feared even among the eastern goblins for his savagery and cunning. But more shocking was what came next.

The goblins in the west had entered some sort of alliance with the female birthing sleeves—a crude, derogatory term the eastern goblins used for orc women, viewing them as nothing more than tools for reproduction and death. But these weren’t just any orcs. It defied everything Grik had known, upended the natural order where goblins and orcs were predator and prey, or at best, uneasy neighbors locked in endless cycles of raid and counter-raid.

But he also got news of something unheard of happening, something that made even his ancient heart skip a beat. It was the birth of a goblin without the death of the mother. Naz had survived, birthed a hybrid child, and lived to cradle it. For centuries—millennia, even—goblin reproduction had been a death sentence for the female host, the rapid gestation tearing through their bodies, leaving corpses behind. It was why goblins raided, why they kidnapped, why they were despised across every land. But now, one had survived. And if one could survive, others might follow.

Grik smiled upon hearing this, his lips peeling back to reveal a mouth where half of his teeth were missing—some lost to battle, others to age, leaving gaps that whistled faintly when he breathed. The remaining teeth were yellowed and chipped, but sharp enough to tear meat from bone if needed. The smile was not one of joy, but of dark satisfaction, the expression of a predator who had just caught the scent of prey stumbling into a trap.

"So," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the crackling torches.

"The little bastard in the west thinks he can change the world. Alliances with orcs, miracle births, handing over one of our own to the humans like a gift." His scarred hand clenched into a fist, the sound of knuckles cracking echoing in the chamber.

"He forgets the old ways. Forgets that goblins are meant to survive by any means, not bow to others."

He stood slowly, joints popping audibly, his towering presence dwarfing the messenger who shrank back instinctively. Grik moved to the chamber’s entrance, staring out over the badlands where his clan sprawled in hidden warrens and fortified camps. The wind carried the scent of dust and distant rain, the sky darkening as storm clouds gathered on the horizon.

"Call a meeting," Grik said, his voice rising to carry across the chamber, the command echoing off the walls. "Send runners to the other Moguls. Tell them the west has broken tradition, aligned with orcs, and threatens the balance."

The messenger bowed low, nearly scraping his forehead on the stone floor, and fled to carry out the order. Grik remained at the entrance, his white hair and beard whipping in the rising wind, his scarred face set in grim determination. The world was shifting, and he would not allow goblins to become lapdogs to orcs or pawns of humans. If the west wanted change, he would show them why the old ways had endured for so long. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

.

.

.

.

A/N: We will be having a brief timeskip and entering arc 2