The next few months passed like this. Mork was improving faster — his stamina, endurance, and muscles had grown to that of a proper fighter.
One day, Mork was cleaning the stable when Snagrot entered and said, "Follow me."
Mork nodded and followed him. Snagrot led him to his cabin and pointed to a large box that looked more like a coffin.
"Pull that out," Snagrot said.
Mork lifted it from one side; the metal inside made a clanging sound. He dragged it out of the cabin and followed Snagrot to the training ground. Snagrot stood in the middle of the field, and Mork placed the box in front of him, standing opposite his master.
"Your next trial for a rank upgrade is after four months," Snagrot began. "You've improved well in this time. You're now strong enough to be considered a fighter."
Mork smiled with pride.
"But…" Snagrot continued, "you're still not a fighter."
Mork's smile faded. His face shifted into confusion.
"Whaaat? B—but Master, I did everything you said!" he exclaimed.
"Calm down, young one," Snagrot said. "Think of it this way: you're like a block of iron. All this training was meant to melt you and shape you into a sword. But a sword is useless unless its blade is sharpened."
Mork's eyes widened. He nodded, beginning to understand.
"Now we'll sharpen you — by focusing on combat skills," Snagrot continued. "Without them, you're as useless as a sword without a sharp edge. Understood?"
"Yes, Master!" Mork replied eagerly.
"Good. Now open the box."
Mork unlatched it and lifted the lid. Inside lay an array of weapons — small knives, short swords, katanas, iron blades, long swords, and even spears.
"A weapon is the most important thing in battle," Snagrot said. "Choose it wisely. It can be the reason for your victory — or your defeat."
"Defeat?" Mork asked. "But how can a weapon be the reason for someone's defeat?"
Snagrot folded his arms. "You must choose a weapon that suits you and the situation. Otherwise, it will be the reason for your death. For example, we goblins are small and weaker than most creatures, but we are faster and more agile. So, when we fight larger, stronger enemies, we avoid long, heavy weapons. We prefer short axes, short swords, daggers — weapons that suit our size. If we were to use heavy long swords like human warriors, it would slow us down and make us easy targets. In that way, our own weapon would be our downfall. So choose wisely — your life depends on it."
As Snagrot spoke, Mork's mind drifted back to his duel with Mave, the dark elf girl.
He remembered choosing a sword far too large for him — one that slowed his movement and weighed him down — while Mave had chosen light daggers that let her move swiftly and strike fiercely.
"Now," Snagrot said, "pick the weapon that best suits you."
Mork studied the weapons carefully, then chose a short sword.
"Very well," Snagrot said. "We'll start with the basics — how to hold it, how to move with it."
Mork nodded. Snagrot began teaching him: correcting his stance, adjusting his grip, showing him how to swing and step with precision.
While instructing him, Snagrot looked at Mork's face for a moment. For an instant, he saw a goblin child's face — familiar, innocent — but when he focused, it was Mork again. A small smile crept across Snagrot's face.
The next four months were filled with combat training — learning techniques, weapon mastery, and tactical skills. Snagrot even taught him how to play Battelok.
Time flew quickly. Only two days remained before Mork's trial.
That evening, Mork and Snagrot faced each other in the middle of the ground, circling warily. Mork was taller now, stronger, more confident. He charged forward, sword in hand, then slid at the last moment, swinging toward Snagrot. Snagrot stepped back, dodging narrowly. Mork pressed on with a flurry of attacks — fast and fierce. Snagrot avoided several strikes but soon had to counter.
He blocked Mork's sword with his short axe, sparks flying, and pushed him back. They circled again, both breathing hard.
This time Snagrot attacked first — swinging his axe fiercely. Mork dodged and countered, their weapons clashing with ringing echoes. Suddenly, Snagrot ducked low and spun, his axe aiming for Mork's chest. At that same moment, Mork swung his sword toward Snagrot's neck. Both froze.
Snagrot's axe rested against Mork's chest. Mork's sword touched Snagrot's throat. They were both panting — then they smiled.
"Well done, son," Snagrot said softly. "You are now worthy to be called a fighter."
Mork's face lit up with pride.
Snagrot stood silent for a moment, then turned away. "That's enough for today. Rest tomorrow. You'll need it for your trial."
He walked back to his cabin and closed the door behind him.
After Snagrot left, Mork went to the stable and threw himself onto the pile of dry grass he used as a bed. He rested the entire next day — eating, stretching, and preparing himself mentally for the coming trial.
When the sun set and darkness covered the citadel, Mork sat alone in the stable. Suddenly, he heard footsteps. It was Snagrot.
"Follow me," Snagrot said.
Mork stood and followed him outside. A bonfire burned in front of Snagrot's cabin, the flames flickering in the night air. Snagrot sat beside it.
Mork hesitated for a moment, then sat down too.
Silence lingered between them.
"So… tomorrow might be my last day here," Mork said. "If I pass the trial, I'll move to a higher rank — maybe even get my own room, like before."
"I'm sure you will," Snagrot said reassuringly. "You're stronger than you think. You'll do well."
After a pause, Mork spoke again. "If this is my last night here… would you mind telling me about your scar?"
Snagrot smiled faintly. "So you won't rest until you know, huh?"
"The curiosity might kill me," Mork replied with a small grin.
"I guess I'll have to tell you, then," Snagrot said.
Silence settled once more. Snagrot stared into the flames while Mork watched him quietly.
With a sigh, Snagrot began, "As I told you before, goblins live in colonies — and each has its own champion. I was the champion of my village.
A champion gets food without hunting, can choose any woman he desires to spend his night with, and lives with privilege. But there was one rule: we were forbidden to fall in love,we were forbidden to choose one as our mate and have children. Goblins believed love weakens a person — makes him blind, leads to mistakes others pay for with their lives.
I followed that rule… until I met her. Kreeva. She was from my village, yet I had somehow never seen her before. The moment I did, I fell in love. My duty told me loving her would risk everything — but my heart told me she was worth it.
In the end, love won."
Snagrot's eyes softened as he continued. "I secretly chose her as my partner. Not long after, she gave birth to our son. Everything felt perfect… until the humans attacked.
They burned the forest, expanding their borders. My duty was to lead my people, to fight even if it cost me my life. But when I looked at Kreeva and my son… all I wanted was to live, to stay with them."
Snagrot fell silent for a moment. Mork's eyes stayed fixed on him.
"I became weak," Snagrot said finally. "I ran — with Kreeva and my son. Away from my duty. Away from my people. They waited for their champion to lead them… but he never came. They all died."
He swallowed hard, staring into the flames. "We ran until the humans spotted us. They fired arrows, but we didn't stop. Eventually, we reached a cliff overlooking our burning village. Then I heard a sound — like a blade cutting through flesh.
I turned and saw Kreeva — a dagger buried deep in her back. She fell, along with our child. I reached out, but it was too late. All I caught was the dagger's handle as they fell."
His hands trembled slightly as he spoke. "I looked up and saw the humans — they had followed us. Rage took over. I attacked them. I drove that dagger into one's skull, then another, and another. They tried to run, but it was all in vain.
Their leader came at me on horseback. He swung his sword and cut my eye — this scar. He fought well but in the end I was the one to behead him. When it was over, I wandered the forests for months, waiting for death. Until the Grandmaster found me and brought me here… and gave me purpose again."
Snagrot turned his gaze to Mork.
Mork stared back, eyes wide and filled with sorrow — and something else, something like sympathy.
"That's enough for tonight," Snagrot said quietly. "Go rest. Tomorrow is a big day for you."
Mork sat there silently for a moment before standing up. Just as he turned to leave, Snagrot spoke again.
"My son would have been your age… if he were alive," Snagrot said softly. "I'm glad I got to train you, son."
Mork turned back, eyes welling up. He stood at attention and said in a trembling voice, "It was an honor to be your student, Master."
Snagrot smiled and nodded.
Mork looked at his face one last time — there was a peace there, a quiet relief.
He smiled back and walked away into the night.