Goliath was a child of strength—and arrogance. Born in Gath, a city of warriors, he was a son of champions, his lineage tied to the Nephilim, the fabled giants of old. From the moment he could walk, Goliath was unlike other children.

By ten, he towered over grown men. By thirteen, he shattered bones in wrestling matches, his blows leaving opponents crippled. He did not train with the other boys—he dominated them. Every competition, every trial, every test of strength, Goliath did not just win. He humiliated.

One summer, as the midday sun bore down like an unrelenting hammer, baking the sand beneath their feet, warriors of Gath stood in a loose circle around a training pit. The air reeked of seat, blood, and dust as the giant boy faced a seasoned soldier.

Goliath was only thirteen then and yet, he stood taller than the scarred warrior.

His father, Shobal the Iron-Hand, stood at the edge of the pit, his thick arms crossed over his chest, eyes sharp with expectation. "Again," he commanded.

The soldier wiped blood from his mouth and spat into the dust, lifting his short sword. He had held back at first, but now he understood—mercy had no place here.

He lunged.

Goliath did not dodge. He did not need to.

The moment the blade came within reach, his massive hand shot forward. He caught the soldier's wrist in a grip of iron, twisting it with terrifying strength. The man cried out as bones snapped, his weapon clattering to the ground.

Goliath's fist smashed into his face, sending him sprawling into the dust.

Silence.

Then, laughter—deep, pleased.

Shobal stepped forward, his boots kicking up dirt. His massive frame cast a shadow over the fallen man as he looked down at his son with something close to approval.

"You see?" Shobal said, his voice like a grinding millstone. "They are nothing to you, Goliath. Their blades, their training—all worthless in the face of true strength."

The boy lifted his chin, golden eyes burning. "They are weak."

Shobal grinned. "No, boy. You are strong." He stepped closer, gripping Goliath's shoulder. The pressure in that touch was heavy, as if he sought to mold him by force alone. "You are not like them. You are made of stronger clay. The gods did not form you to toil among lesser men. They forged you to rule them."

Goliath said nothing, but his chest swelled at the words. He had always known—felt—that he was different. Stronger. Greater. Now, hearing it from his father, it was no longer just a belief.

It was truth.

Shobal stepped back and gestured to the wounded soldier, who groaned and clutched his ruined wrist.

"Look at him," Shobal ordered. "See what you have done. A man, reduced to nothing by your hands." His voice lowered, turning almost reverent. "That is power, Goliath. That is your birthright. And that is why you must never lose."

Goliath narrowed his eyes.

He would not lose. Not to anyone.

Shobal's grin widened as if he could hear the boy's thoughts. He reached for something at his belt—a bronze dagger, small compared to the massive weapons Goliath would one day wield.

"Take it," he said, pressing the handle into his son's palm. "Finish it."

The soldier gasped, struggling to rise.

Goliath hesitated.

This was different from breaking bones in a match. This was… final.

Shobal's expression darkened. "Do you think they will show you mercy when you fall? Do you think they will spare you?" He leaned in, his breath hot. "A god does not hesitate. A god does not doubt."

Goliath's fingers tightened around the dagger.

He stepped forward.

The soldier lifted his unbroken hand, pleading. "Please—"

A swift, clean strike.

The man gurgled, eyes wide. Blood stained the sand.

Goliath did not look away.

Shobal smiled, resting a heavy hand on his son's shoulder once more. "Now, my son," he murmured, his voice filled with pride.

"Now, you are ready."

Goliath continued to mock weakness. He laughed in the faces of those who faltered. Where others saw warriors, he saw pests, unworthy of sharing the battlefield with him.

But arrogance is a flame that burns too hot. And flames, no matter how fierce, can be snuffed out.

Goliath's victories swelled his pride to dangerous heights. He saw himself as untouchable, beyond fate, beyond the gods themselves.

But then, came Abiel, a renowned warrior from Ekron.

The arena in Gath was packed, the heat oppressive, the air thick with the stench of sweat and dust. Thousands watched, pressing against the stone walls, standing on the edges of rooftops, eager for the spectacle.

Goliath of Gath, the titan, the unconquered, stood in the center of the pit, rolling his massive shoulders, his confidence as tangible as the bronze spear in his hand.

Across from him stood Abiel of Ekron, a warrior of reputation, though one that paled in comparison to the legend Goliath had built for himself. Smaller. Lighter. Faster. He wielded a curved sword as compared to Goliath's giant spear.

This was meant to be a display, a formality—proof of Goliath's dominance.

But Abiel's eyes told a different story.

He wasn't here to play along.

He was here to win.

The drums thundered. The signal was given.

Goliath charged.

He expected fear, hesitation—the same reaction every opponent had given before. He expected Abiel to retreat, to crumble under the sheer weight of his presence.

Instead, Abiel sidestepped. Effortlessly.

Goliath's swing—one that had shattered bones, toppled warriors—cut through empty air.

Then came the pain.

A flash of steel. A sting along his ribs. Not deep. Not fatal. But real. A cut.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Goliath stumbled back, touching his side. His fingers came away red.

For the first time in his life, he bled.

A dull roar filled his ears—not from the crowd, but from inside himself. Rage. Confusion. Doubt.

It had been a mistake, he told himself. A fluke.

He attacked again, swinging his spear with the force of a falling mountain. But Abiel was never there when the strike landed. He danced around the blows, quick as a shadow, striking in short, controlled movements. Another cut to the arm. A graze across the thigh.

Goliath burned.

Not from pain—from humiliation.

It was supposed to be easy.

He was stronger.

He was bigger.

And yet—

Abiel's final strike came like lightning. A sharp cut across Goliath's shoulder, severing the straps of his bronze pauldron. The armor piece clattered to the ground, the sound like a hammer against an anvil.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. The signal to end the fight.

The duel was over.

Abiel stepped back, his blade still gleaming with Goliath's blood. He did not smile. Did not taunt. He merely bowed his head and walked away.

Goliath stood there, breath ragged, his hands shaking.

The crowd did not cheer.

They only stared.

That night, as he walked through the streets of Gath, he heard them.

The whispers.

"The great Goliath, bested by a lesser man?"

"Maybe he is not as invincible as he claims."

"He bled today. Maybe next time, he falls."

For the first time in his life, Goliath knew doubt.

And doubt was a poison he had never tasted before.

Goliath came before the elders of Gath, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. His body still bore the shallow wounds from his fight with Abiel—wounds that had already begun to scab over, but in his mind, they were gaping, bleeding reminders of his failure.

"I want a rematch." His voice was thunder, echoing off the stone walls of the great hall.

The elders exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Shobal the Iron-Hand, his father, sat among them, his gaze sharp as the iron spear he once wielded in battle.

Before any of the elders could speak, a voice answered from the doorway.

"No."

Goliath turned, fists still clenched, only to see Abiel himself standing there—his stance as relaxed as it had been in the duel, his face impassive.

"Coward," Goliath spat, taking a step forward.

Abiel didn't flinch. He looked at Goliath, eyes filled not with fear, not even with contempt—just indifference.

"I have no interest in fighting a child's bruised ego."

The words hit harder than any blade.

A murmur rippled through the hall. Goliath felt his face heat, his pride burning. He had expected a challenge, a chance to redeem himself, to erase the whispers that followed him in the streets.

But this—this was worse.

This was dismissal.

"You think this is over?" Goliath growled, his voice low, venomous. "You think you can walk away?"

Abiel tilted his head, considering him. Then, without another word, he turned and left.

Goliath stood there, trembling, his breath heavy, his vision red.

That refusal cut deeper than any blade.

That night, Goliath climbed to the highest tower of Gath, standing atop the wind-swept battlements, staring out into the darkened plains. His wounds stung in the cold air, but the pain was nothing compared to the fury burning inside him.

"Never again."

He spoke the words to no one.

"Never again will I suffer such humiliation."

The night swallowed his voice, but he swore it heard him.

"I will become something more. Something beyond human."

He looked down at his hands—hands that had crushed bones, split shields, torn men apart. But they had also failed him. He had relied on his strength alone. That had been his mistake.

"I will forge myself into a monster. A true giant among men."

His father's voice rang in his ears, a memory he now understood fully.

"You are not like them, Goliath. You are made of stronger clay."

"You are a god among men."

And gods do not bleed.

He would not be content with being the strongest warrior in Gath. He would become the strongest warrior the world had ever known. He would train harder than ever before, pushing his body beyond its limits, beyond what any mortal could withstand.

And when the day came that he met Abiel again—or any other fool who dared to face him—he would not bleed.

He would not fall.

He would crush them.

The years passed, and the arrogance of youth hardened into cruelty. The boy who mocked the weak became a man who crushed them without hesitation.

By his twenties, Goliath was the undefeated champion of the Philistines. He fought in the arenas of Ashdod, the pits of Gaza, and the courts of Ekron, slaying all who dared challenge him. Kings sought his strength, offering gold and women for his loyalty.

But Goliath did not fight for coin. He fought for his pride. For the fear in the eyes of men. He wanted worship, not wealth.

Then the day came, when he was called into the presence of King Achish of Gath. The king sat at the center of a great hall, on a bronze-carved throne. His aging features shadowed by flickering torchlight.

His robe, embroidered with the sigil of the Philistines, draped loosely over his shoulders, but his eyes were sharp—calculating.

Before him stood Goliath.

Achish steepled his fingers, his gaze traveling over the warrior before him. "You've built quite the reputation, Goliath." His voice was smooth, laced with the ease of a man who held power. "They say you leave nothing standing. That you crush armies as if they are made of sand."

Goliath did not bow. He did not kneel. He stood still, a monument of stone and unshaken will.

"I do what is required," he said simply. His voice was deep, like distant thunder.

Achish chuckled, reclining slightly. "What is required now is war." His fingers tapped against the armrest of his throne. "Saul of Israel grows bold. His men push farther into our lands, their faith making them blind to reason. We need a weapon—a force to remind them of their place."

He leaned forward. "We need you."

The hall fell silent.

For a moment, Goliath did not answer. Then—a smirk, slow and knowing, crossed his lips.

"Why should I fight your war?" he asked, voice laced with amusement. "I need no cause to prove my strength."

Achish's expression did not change, but his fingers tightened slightly on his armrest. "You misunderstand, Goliath. This is not about proving anything. This is about power. About legacy. The Philistines already fear you, but what if the world did?"

He gestured toward the gathered advisors and warriors, their eyes locked onto the giant. "The Israelites whisper about their God granting them victory, but what happens when they face something even greater? Something that even their God cannot protect them from?"

A pause.

Then, Achish's voice lowered.

"You do not need to prove your strength. You need only to show them."

Goliath's smirk faded, his golden eyes narrowing.

Achish saw it—the gleam of hunger, the flicker of something deep within the warrior's soul.

And he knew.

Goliath would not refuse.

He did not fight for kings. He did not fight for gold, nor for banners.

He fought for dominance.

He fought to be unquestioned.

And this?

This was his stage.

And so he agreed.

For forty days, he taunted the Hebrews, his voice shaking the valley. "Send your best! If he kills me, we serve you. If I kill him, you serve us!"

He had long forgotten Abiel. Long forgotten the only man who had ever made him bleed. He truly believed no one could stand against him.

Until a boy did.

A boy with no armor. No sword. Only a sling and a handful of stones.

Goliath laughed.

But then—he fell.

The last thing he remembered was darkness.

A shock of impact, a blinding jolt through his skull, and then—nothing.

No pain. No sound. No time. Just an endless, consuming void.

For how long did he drift? Days? Years? Eternity? There was no way to tell. The last thing his mind clung to was the memory of falling, his great frame collapsing like a toppled monument, the earth shaking beneath his ruin. A boy with a sling. A single stone.

And then?

Oblivion.

But then… he woke.

His first sensation was cold—not the kind that made men shiver, but something deeper, something unnatural. The air was thick with the scent of rot and old blood, the taste of death clinging to his tongue. He was not in Gath. Not in the land of his fathers, not in the world he knew.

His eyelids lifted, and the world around him bled into view—a chamber of stone, walls slick with moisture, the flickering glow of sickly green fire casting grotesque shadows on the floor.

And at his side…

A figure.

Gorlois.

The tyrant's form was shrouded in tattered robes, his face gaunt, his eyes alight with an unnatural gleam. The smell of decay and dark magic coiled around him like a living thing.

Goliath tried to move, but his body was not his own.

His flesh was paler, stretched too tight over his towering frame. His hands, once calloused and warm, were now cold and lifeless, as if carved from stone. He felt no heartbeat, no familiar drum in his chest.

Only silence.

His gaze drifted downward. He saw the gash in his forehead, where the boy's stone had struck. A wound that had killed him.

A wound that should not be whole again.

And yet—he stood.

"Rise, my Giant."

Gorlois' voice was a whisper, but it carried a weight that pressed against Goliath's hollowed chest. It slithered through his mind like a serpent.

"You fell once. You will not fall again."

Goliath clenched his fists, his knuckles crackling like splintering bone.

He should have felt fear. Confusion. Despair.

But instead, he felt something else. Rage.

White-hot and endless, curling through his veins like fire.

They had mocked him. The Israelites, the Philistines, the world. They had dared to whisper of his fall, to laugh at the great Goliath laid low by a boy and a stone.

But now?

Now they would scream.

Never again would he be mocked. Never again would he be bested. Never again would he bleed.

He turned his eyes to Gorlois, his master, his chains, his liberator.

"…What would you have me do?"

The tyrant's lips curled into a knowing smile.

"Conquer."