The Evolution Of A Goblin To The Peak

Chapter 1185: Angels, Legendary, and Dangers I

Zandir stepped back from the mural, letting the silence settle before he spoke again.

”That is how our tribe came to this island,” he said quietly. ”And ever since that time, we have lived here. We’ve explored every corner, every shore but we have never found another island.”

The torch’s flame crackled, its light dancing across the murals like ghosts of a forgotten age.

”The history of your tribe is... truly something else,” Eztein murmured, his voice echoing faintly in the chamber. His eyes traced the sweeping murals painted across the ancient stone—gods descending, mortals kneeling, worlds being torn apart and reforged. ”I never imagined your ancestor had witnessed the might of the gods.”

”You... you actually believe in gods?!” Zandir’s eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face like a sudden flame.

He had not expected acceptance, much less conviction. Most people dismissed such tales as myths whispered around dying campfires. Even in his own tribe, there were many who doubted. At times, Zandir himself wasn’t certain where truth ended and legend began.

”Believe?” Eztein let out a quiet breath. ”We’ve already fought for gods in the past. It’s not new to us... but their power remains beyond imagination.”

”You’ve met gods before?!” Zandir’s voice cracked, stunned.

”Yes.” Eztein and Doranjan answered in unison.

For a moment, Zandir forgot to breathe. Their certainty struck him harder than any weapon. All his life he had wrestled with doubt wondering if his ancestor’s words were nothing more than heroic exaggerations told to inspire the tribe. Now, hearing these outsiders speak so casually of gods... it shook something deep within him.

Their conversation spilled forward, weaving between myths, memories, and the long-guarded secrets of the Fergo Tribe. The firelight flickered along the walls, casting the painted gods in shifting shadows as if they moved with every spoken word. To Eztein and Doranjan, it felt as if they were peering through a doorway into a forgotten age.

Through Zandir’s stories, they learned not only about the tribe, but about the other inhabitants scattered across the island.

This land, Red Crate Island, lay far beyond any known horizon. The sea surrounding it was vast and treacherous, swallowing every attempt to cross it. For generations, the Fergo Tribe had remained isolated, a lone flame burning on an island forgotten by the world.

There were other tribes scattered across the island—some wary, others openly hostile to outsiders. And beyond them lurked monsters and nameless beings that defied description. They moved through the shadows like half-formed nightmares, seen only in the corner of one’s eye before vanishing back into the darkness.

Every sunset, a dense fog rolled over the island like a living veil. When night fell, the world shifted. Paths twisted. Landmarks disappeared. Sounds carried strangely, as if whispered by unseen things. Many who wandered during those hours never returned—or if they did, they came back changed, unable to explain what they had encountered. There were places, Zandir warned, that defied all logic, places the tribe refused to speak of.

After their long conversation, Eztein and Doranjan finally stepped out of the cave. The cool air greeted them, along with the watchful eyes of the tribesmen who lingered nearby. Some curious, some cautious, all silently measuring the strangers among them.

”The laws here are weaker... but I didn’t expect this level of disorder,” Doranjan said quietly as he gazed at the sun hanging low in the sky, its light diffused by the ever-present haze. ”These strange phenomena around the island, they’re symptoms of it.”

”It’s probably connected to the gods Chief Zandir mentioned,” Eztein replied. ”I think the ’evil god’ he spoke of is the Ruler of Gluttony.”

”I think so too...” Doranjan’s expression darkened. ”If a battle between gods really happened here, then one of them must have pulled its followers into this secret realm to escape the destruction.”

The uncertainty pressed on them like a weight. They knew so little barely the surface of this island’s history, its laws, its dangers. And whatever truths lay hidden here, they were not the only ones seeking them.

They would have to tread carefully. They were strangers in a forgotten land... and they were not here alone.

There were countless others who had forced their way into this forsaken realm—ambitious hunters, desperate survivors, and power-hungry monsters disguised as men. And now, every one of them was searching for the same thing.

”The legendary fruits...” Doranjan whispered, though the words felt like a vow carved from stone. ”We must get them before the others do.”

Eztein’s eyes hardened, a shadow passing over his face. ”I know. They’ll strengthen us immensely. Our growth will accelerate with the right resources.”

The wind shifted. The air grew unnaturally still.

Then—

BOOOOOOM!!

The sky shuddered.

The blast tore through the distant treeline, a shockwave rumbling across the land like the roar of an awakening beast. Dust spiraled into the air. Birds scattered, screeching. Even the ground under their feet trembled.

Eztein and Doranjan immediately pivoted toward the sound.

Around them, the Fergo Tribe dissolved into chaos.

Children screamed as their mothers dragged them indoors. Elders hobbled toward shelter with terror etched into their faces. Warriors scrambled to form a defensive perimeter, gripping their crude weapons with trembling hands. The shadow of the explosion lingered in the sky like a wound.

”This... this isn’t normal,” Doranjan muttered. His voice was tense, almost cold. ”This energy level—”

”Hero-rank,” Eztein finished, the word falling like a blade. ”No one below that could release something like this.”

The air still pulsed with the aftershock—dense, violent, suffocating. A warning from something powerful. Something dangerous.

Swoosh!!

Before the tribe could recover, Eztein and Doranjan shot upward, streaking into the sky like twin bolts of judgment. In the next heartbeat, they were gone—nothing more than fading trails of light vanishing into the horizon.

”Wait! The sun—it’s almost gone!” Zandir’s voice trembled as he reached out, but they were already far beyond his grasp.

His hand slowly lowered, fingers curling with helpless dread.

Above him, the dying sun dipped behind the jagged cliffs, and the first fingers of the night-fog crept over the ground—cold, thick, alive. It slithered between the huts like a hungry thing, swallowing colors, twisting shapes, distorting sound. The island groaned as if reacting to its presence.

Zandir’s breath frosted in the air.

When the fog rose, the island changed. Something else woke.

Creatures the tribe refused to name.

Voices that didn’t belong to any living thing.

Shadows that clung to the edges of reality.

He stared toward the horizon where the two strangers had vanished.

He didn’t know how strong Eztein and Doranjan truly were. But the way they confronted that monstrous energy without hesitation... it told him they had walked through hell before.

Yet even so, as the fog thickened and the world darkened into an alien stillness, a cold certainty crept into Zandir’s heart:

This island was shifting.

And whatever was coming... it would not be merciful.

...

In the far distance...

A lone woman tore through the forest, her white wings beating frantically as she dodged streaks of burning light that carved through the air beside her.

Boom! Boom!

Explosions erupted in rapid succession, ripping trees out by the roots and painting the sky with fire. Splinters and dust chased her, but she never looked back. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to live.

Her breath trembled, her vision blurred, but her resolve never wavered.

She had to escape.

”You can’t run, Esriel!”

The powerful voice thundered across the forest, shaking her to the core. The moment she heard it, something inside her cracked. Her wings faltered.

She knew that voice. She feared that voice. And now, she knew—she might not make it out.

A dazzling ray of light speared through the air.

CRACK—BOOOOM!!

It missed her body but struck the earth at her side, detonating with enough force to hurl her like a rag doll. Esriel smashed through several trees before crashing onto the ground, dust and leaves scattering around her broken form.

Blood filled her mouth. She coughed hard, forcing herself upright with trembling arms. Her wings twitched, feathers scattered. Pain tore through her body.

She lifted her gaze... and froze.

Three figures hovered above her, suspended in the air like executioners awaiting their verdict. Holy radiance bled from their bodies, illuminating the forest in haunting white light.

A man. Two women. All three with pristine, pure white wings. All three radiating divinity. All three wearing the same expression—cold, merciless judgment.

They were angels.

”Esriel,” one angel said, voice laced with ice, ”you dare betray us? You will face punishment.”

Esriel spat blood onto the ground, her breathing ragged.

”Kill me then!” she screamed, voice raw with rage and despair. ”I’m done with your justice! All of you! Every single one! Are full of shit!”

The angels didn’t flinch. Their eyes remained empty.

”Then say your farewell.”

One of them stepped forward, holy energy coiling around them like a divine blade, light gathering to strike her down.

Clap! Clap!

The slow applause echoed through the ruined forest.

The angels halted. Esriel’s eyes widened. All four turned toward the sound.

A man walked toward them through the drifting smoke, unfazed by the divine pressure in the air. His steps were calm. Measured. Almost bored. Behind him, a figure with draconic features moved like a looming shadow, eyes glowing with predatory focus.

Eztein and Doranjan.

They had arrived.