PeaceKeeper

Peace was never an option. Now, neither is mercy.

I was a biological error. Hollow bones. Fragile wings. Prey. Then the System initialized, and I became the error code that crashes the game.

I am Honk. And I have evolved.

My feathers are razor-sharp alloy. My beak shears through plate armor like wet paper. I don't just defeat the "Heroes" sent to hunt me; I consume their gear to fuel my ascension.

That +1 Steel Helm? Delicious.

That Fire-Enchanted Longsword? Spicy, but nutritious.

The magical plate mail of the Orc Warrior? The perfect catalyst for my next tier of defense.

I've taken a tribe of pathetic swamp goblins and terrified them into a competent workforce. We don't just hide in the mud; we build kill-boxes. We engineer gravity-fed loot sieves. We turn arrogance into resources.

The Crimson Vanguards burned my shantytown. In return, I buried their tank in quicksand and broke their spirits. But the swamp is no longer enough. The System has designated the catalyst for my final evolution: The Royal Crown of the Human King.

They have stone walls. They have armies. They have high-level mages. I have a sadistic goblin translator named Runt, a body made of living warfare, and a hunger that can only be sated by the rarest metals.

The Iron-Wing Tyrant is coming.