The first to awaken from their fetid slumber was not Armand the goblin but rather Armand the construct. Once the ambient mana had returned to normal levels, the construct could finally exit its hibernation and began to move.

  He surveyed the damaged castle and surrounding kingdom; the damage done was incalculable. The castle was nearly destroyed, and the houses and lands beyond were not faring much better.

  But even at this distance he could see the movement of life, both friendly and hostile. It seemed that his work had yet to be completed. He quickly jumped from the castle height, barreling toward the ground at massive speed.

  The impact was gentle; he engaged some air runes to create a cushioning spell. "Feather fall" is what the mages called it. There were many people in the streets, battered civilians, and more than a fair share of dead ones presented in macabre ways, most likely to instill fear and obedience into the survivors. There was also a fair share of guards wearing the garb of the intruders.

  He looked at their souls; these ones had a mix of people with red and gold. Most likely some of them were Isolde’s previous people and, in a bid to survive, had to wear the garb of their enemy.

  The construct reconsidered the situation when they lunged at him first. He would have frowned at the complication. For now, he could use nonlethal means, as he reduced the output of his thundermagic to pitiful levels. All the charging individuals fell to the ground spasming.

  Those who remained, the ones with red souls, were easy picking as he reaped their lives with the efficiency and speed of an actual harvester, a reaper of sorts. The commoners were terrified at the speedy and direct violence but that was the least of the construct’s concerns.

  He turned to the immobilized guards, many of whom he recognized over the years; their eyes were glazed over, not a common side effect of paralysis from thunder magic, so he went to examine them.

  He could feel a magic, something sinister, coming from their backs, so he quickly stripped one of the guards of their gear. A complicated pattern was revealed to the open air, an enslavement rune. Likely carved with a blade, they had used threads of magic beast hair to create the mana channels.

  This was going to hurt, but at least it would break the spell. A sharpened point grew from one of his fingers, with a small hook on its end. He slipped it under the scar tissue and caught the strand of hair. Once he was sure he had ahold of it, he began to pull.

  The body beneath him began to squirm during the process, but eventually the resistance lowered and he finally got it all out. The guard had gone into a fully relaxed state, deep breaths indicating a deep sleep.

  “Several Hundred more to go…” The construct huffed as it went to the next unconscious guard. The citizens seeing this had various reactions; some stood still, frozen in fear; others began to flee elsewhere, while some stepped forth and began stripping the guards of their gear to help their savior.

  Armand appreciated their efforts as he quickly removed the slave brands from the guards. Once done, he couldn’t help but look at one of the more intact corpses, revealing the intact shoulder. They to had the slave rune but slightly altered and with additional patterns overlayed those of ‘master.’

  So, each loyal guard was assigned a group of slaves to control while those guards were enslaved to someone else, most likely the golden-haired half-demon he had killed. At this point, he was surrounded by people, blankly staring at him, expecting something—anything—from their savior.

  He would have sighed if he could have but inevitably made a decision and began to project his voice to the crowd. “The cultist leader has been slain! The queen is safe and will return soon!” The news brought tears to many of their eyes; both in relief and finally able to express their anguish, they collapsed, praying to the gods for their fallen loved ones.

  “Please, I know the grief you are going through, but you must busy yourself. If you collapse now, you may never get back up again.” The construct paused, remembering it all. “Stand up, build back your kingdom! For your loved ones, for those who have passed on, and for your queen!”

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  With clenched fists the citizens did what needed to be done; they wiped away the tears and began to work. To rebuild what had been destroyed.

  Armand sympathized and was going to join in on the effort but he felt something unusual; reaching into his chest cavity, he pulled out a glowing stone that was rumbling slightly. It was called a signal stone, a curiosity discovered by Cassian in his time trading magical artifacts.

  They had hoped it would replace the letter system but were disappointed that the magic did not work across dimensions. Instead, it was placed with the knight construct for when it entered the material plane and in this case, it was working.

  The construct infused some mana into the stone and the suave voice of Cassian rang out. “Master! You answered!” The merchant said with some excitement.

  “Indeed, I have escaped the dungeon and just in time too,” Armand replied. “There has been a catastrophe in the capital.”

  “Not just there, sir,” Cassian added. “There have been simultaneous attacks in most countries; each kingdom is under attack or has already fallen.”

  “What about the elvish kingdom?” The construct asked, an aura of heaviness pressing down on him.

  “They are under attack by a large group of greenskins.” The merchant updated him, “I believe Theoden went to assist.”

  “Hence his absence,” Armand muttered to himself.

  “Supposedly the goblin king himself is leading this assault.” Cassian added, causing the construct’s grip to tighten; several cracks appeared on the stone and the connection became more faded. “Did something happen, master?”

  “No, it was nothing.” Armand recomposed himself. “What direction is the elven kingdom from the capital?”

  “Northwest, sir, but it would take several days too…” Armand had already put away the stone and began moving. The closer refugees overheard the conversation as the rumor mill began to spin but were temporarily interrupted by the expeditious parting of their savior.

  One moment the construct was there; the next, it was gone. The construct had begun barreling towards the direction of the elven kingdom. His speed greatly increased as he got out of range of the capital, and he barreled through the wilderness with such speed that if a tree was not sturdy enough, it was likely to be felled in his reckless pursuit.

  Meanwhile, Armand the goblin had finally awakened from his own slumber; the constructs had diligently attended to his guests. They were still in deep slumber and probably would not awake for several more hours, perhaps even days.

  He felt the connection to his true clone on the outside world and assimilated the new knowledge. The elven kingdom was under attack as well; that would explain the most recent influx of elves into the lower dungeon level. Normally he let them be, but this was a major risk to his own safety too, so he began ordering the troops to move.

  The non-essential sentinels began to move, and his newest group of warbeasts also joined them. The wolves that Isolde and he raised and cared for had long died of old age despite the mana-rich environment. They didn’t leave him, however, as they became the hosts of the multitude of warbeasts under his command.

  They, led by Fenrir, began to make their way down. Armand even had to recreate the staircase downwards after he previously destroyed it. The elves new to the dungeon panicked, but those who had resided there for a while quickly calmed them down.

  It seemed that he was not too late, as a small horde of elves in various states of disarray began to pour out of the gateway and ran for the large trees that now littered the dungeon floor. Behind them goblins were carapaced in makeshift armor, obviously stolen from others and crudely reshaped to fit on their frames.

  After the goblins came orcs, man-sized beasts with protruding tusk-like canines and dark green skin. Another figure struggled to squeeze through the doorway, a titanous humanoid with brown-green skin, a troll.

  A low growl escaped the mechanical throat of Fenrir, not one of fright but rather excitement as it charged into battle as the other warbeasts followed.

  The greenskins who were happily chasing and tormenting the injured elves did not expect to meet such sudden and intense resistance. The smallest ones were like leaves on the wind as they were thrown into the air at the speed Fenrir leapt towards the troll.

  The orcs fared better and readied their weapons; the one immediately in front of the first warbeast was smashed into a fine red paste under its feet. Fenrir collided with the massive troll, who was still making it out of the doorway.

  To Armand’s surprise the rebound of the warbeast off the doorway he expected did not happen, as the warbeast along with the troll disappeared to the other side.