Dungeon Overlord: Monster Girl Harem!-Chapter 176: The Goblin City of Astrea

Leonhardt hadn't commanded a massacre.

Those who dropped their weapons. Those who knelt. Those who trembled but didn't raise a blade—Leonhardt let them live.

"Terror lasts longer when it's remembered," he'd said.

And his goblins obeyed.

The second ring had fallen, with the guards routed or dead. The banner so Astrea torn and scattered in the streets. What remained was a crowd, dozens of lesser nobles, merchants, housekeepers, and mistresses, all packed together in front of a cracked stone manor. Their pride was gone. All that remained was fear.

A few women sobbed. One man pissed himself trying to crawl away before a goblin boot crushed his hand. The goblin didn't kill him. Just leaned closer and smiled.

Gobbolas stood atop a crumbled wall, bow slung across his back, barking orders with a sneer. Gobomir, bloodstained and still breathing hard, rested against a pillar beside his shadow wolf. Neither spoke of mercy. But neither raised their blades.

A woman stumbled forward, blonde, dishevelled, one strap of her dress barely clinging to her shoulder. Maybe a noble's mistress by the look of her, with rouge smeared across her cheeks and panic behind her eyes.

"W-what do you plan to do with us?" she asked.

Two men beside her stiffened. One with a bruised jaw, the other with a merchant's gut.

"Stupid bitch," the larger one muttered under his breath.

"Be quiet, woman," the other snapped, glaring at her like she'd just signed their death warrant.

A shadow passed between them.

Griv stepped forward.

Slick black coat, polished boots, blood on one sleeve like it belonged there.

He didn't raise a weapon—only extended a gloved hand toward the trembling woman.

"My lady," Griv said smoothly, "do not listen to these violent dogs."

His muddy yellow eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his hat.

"You are a guest of His Majesty now. And we are nothing if not… civil."

The woman stared at his hand, too stunned to take it. Her eyes darted between the goblins—those still clutching weapons, the archers perched like gargoyles on shattered rooftops, and the soldiers with blood on their boots. Then back to Griv, who tilted his head slightly, as if amused by her hesitation.

One of the men beside her snorted. "She's nothing but a whore—don't waste time on her."

Griv's eyes didn't leave the woman's.

But his hand flicked out with a speed that shouldn't have belonged to something so small.

The man who spoke collapsed with a wet cough, blood spilling from the neat puncture in his throat with no sign of a drawn blade. Only Griv's gloved fingers, now slightly damp.

"I wasn't speaking to you," he said, almost lazily.

The other humans flinched.

Gobbolas laughed somewhere behind them. "He's still got it."

The remaining man dropped to his knees, begging before the words fully formed.

Griv ignored him.

His hand remained outstretched.

And finally, the woman took it—hesitantly, carefully, like her life depended on not trembling too much.

Griv kissed the air just above her knuckles, then stepped aside and gestured toward the street.

"This way, my dear. His Majesty is waiting. You'll want to be clean when you meet him."

Many might doubt the goblins' actions, but Gobomir and Gobbolas would never doubt Griv.

Snaggle crossed his arms, grumbling under his breath as the humans were led away. His sharp teeth clicked together with annoyance. "Tch. You spoil them. She's just a woman with tits and too much perfume."

Lina didn't speak at first. Her narrowed eyes followed the mistress's retreating. Her lip curled—not with disgust, but something closer to possessiveness. She didn't like new offerings for her beloved Master without her approval. Not when she'd spilt blood for him. Not when she'd knelt first.

Still, neither of them moved.

Because both of them knew what Griv was.

He wasn't just a butler. He was a hunter with a silver tongue and a sharpened sense buried beneath layers of morbid charm. His skills weren't divine, but damn close.

Butler's Eye. Intuition. Discerning Gentleman.

Separate, they meant little. Combined, they were terrifying.

Griv could glance at a woman and see the arc of her future. Not all of it. Not fate. Just the parts that mattered to Leonhardt—loyalty, adaptability, potential. He didn't waste time on the weak-willed or the righteous. He picked those who could change.

Those who would kneel willingly—and stay there.

Some said his ability only worked on women.

Griv didn't care.

He only needed to find those worthy of serving a man he'd chosen to worship.

His master.

His king.

His god.

And when Griv chose, he didn't miss.

Maybe it's because Leonhardt never touched the women that his subordinates took an interest in—this made even the lesser goblins and Snaggle surprised.

But it was one of his first promises to his people: he would not steal their wives, nor betray their basic rights, as long as they never betrayed him.

"Master, this Griv has fallen in love once again!"

Although Griv held an ardent love for Goblina, not to be mistaken with the Head Speaker... Goblina was a violent and powerful warrior who served under Gobomir, and Griv came to understand that she wanted to mate with Gobomir and not him.

Thus, he tried to move on.

"Griv, does master have any other orders?"

"Hmm?"

Gobbomir's hoarse voice caused many of the younger goblins to tremble, but Griv just shrugged his eyes watching the powerful archer, a glint of jealousy in his eyes for a moment, before he remembered.

He wasn't the useless Griv anymore.

Gobbolas grinned from the rooftop, letting the last arrow settle into his quiver. His archers were already moving—skittering down walls and broken battlements like rats with discipline. They didn't need commands. Griv's words were enough.

The moment the order was given, the atmosphere shifted. Fear became certainty. The goblins weren't just monsters anymore. They were soldiers.

"Push to the seventh ring," Gobbolas muttered, stretching his shoulder with a pop. "That's a lot of stairs for short legs."

Gobomir didn't reply immediately. He stood near the crumbled wall where his shadow wolf had collapsed, panting heavily, muzzle coated in red. One squire tried to bandage his side. Gobomir waved him off.

His gaze locked on Griv.

"The humans will dig in deeper from here," he said. "We'll lose more goblins if we push through without regrouping."

Griv nodded, brushing a fleck of blood from his sleeve with a cloth he pulled from his coat. The gesture was polite, precise.

"That's expected."

He looked toward the main road where fires still crackled in half-collapsed homes. The seventh ring shimmered just beyond the next gate, smoke curling into the sky from distant towers.

"The nobles won't run. They'll fortify. This will be where the spine of Astrea breaks."

Snaggle sneered from the side, arms folded, pouch of gold tucked too tightly into his belt. "Fortify or not, the seventh ring's where they hide the real profit. We should strike now, before the vultures pick the bones clean."

"Greed," Lina said calmly, stepping down from her perch with the slow, deliberate poise of a priestess. "Always your first prayer." frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

She walked past him, her eyes trailing over the kneeling humans who were now being led away by Griv's handpicked escort.

"I'll prepare an altar. His Majesty deserves praise before the city's heart is carved out."

Griv's voice followed after her.

"Gobomir. Gobbolas. Push forward, but with discipline. No pointless deaths."

"And the loot?" one archer whispered.

Griv turned slightly, just enough to show a crooked, dangerous smile.

"We keep."

The goblins cheered.

Even the squires.

Gobomir didn't smile, but he reached for his blade again.

The hunt would continue.

——

Meanwhile, watching from a spire above the city.

The smoke curled higher now, orange against the darkening sky, casting long shadows across the black stone balcony.

Leonhardt watched in silence, one hand resting on the carved railing as goblins marched through the ruined streets below. The second ring had fallen exactly as planned. No desperate last stand. No grand heroics. Just fear, blood, and the sound of boots on stone.

From here, the humans looked like ants. Scrambling, breaking, running in every direction that didn't lead toward him.

He didn't smile.

Griv's performance had been flawless, as always. The little bastard had taste, timing, and a strange affection for the dramatic. The mistress would kneel, like the others. Not from compulsion. But because Griv always picked the ones who wanted to kneel.

Gobomir had held the line. Gobbolas had thinned it. Both had lived up to their names.

And the council had remained steady. Predictable. Controlled.

That mattered more than any victory.

Leonhardt turned slightly, glancing at the flickering projection crystal beside him. Another window to another street—a flicker of nobles fleeing toward the inner wall, dragging children, screaming at servants to carry faster.

Useless.

His gaze shifted toward the black banner rising over the far watchtower, stitched with flame-branch embroidery. The symbol of his reign. No longer hidden in tunnels. No longer whispered in corners.

Now it flew in daylight.

"They'll regroup," he murmured. "Then they'll beg."

Behind him, Ifrit's voice crackled like a whisper in the flame.

[And then what, Leon?]

He didn't answer.

Because the humans still had one chance left.

And he was already preparing to crush and burn it down.