The Soul Forge had done its job.
The Goblin Legion lived again—if you could call it that.
But no one had prepared for what came after.
They marched through the barracks like ghosts returned from a forgotten war. Armor reassembled from memory, expressions half-formed, battle reflexes sharp but not always connected to present reality. For all their tactical discipline and unwavering loyalty, the resurrected goblins moved like they were stuck between centuries—because they were.
The Goblin Integration Crisis was no longer hypothetical.
Grax Ironjaw stood before a transparent wall, gazing into a fracture of space where three timelines folded into one. "This world makes no sense," he muttered. "We fought for clarity. Simplicity. You told us what was real and what wasn't. Now I can't even tell what day it is."
