High above the wandering skies, where the clouds tear under the weight of the impossible, floats the castle of the Mole Goblin Tribe. A fortress of dark stone and forgotten magic, suspended by forces no one fully understands. There dwell the one-eyed beings, creatures with fragile wings and minds as sharp as blades. They seek neither war nor conquest, yet their influence runs deep. They are peaceful, yes, but their peace is unsettling—like the echo of a truth one cannot ignore.

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Their daily life unfolds in shadows and whispers. They do not build nor destroy, but they weave stories into the minds of those who visit. In the mist-filled halls of their castle, they gather to discuss the invisible threads of fate, the fears buried in every heart, the words that can alter the course of a life. They leave no inscriptions, no monuments; their legacy lies in the doubts they plant and the uncertain paths they force others to walk. To them, thought is an art, and their greatest joy is witnessing how a carefully placed idea can either bloom or consume the one who hears it.

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For centuries, entire kingdoms have tried to stop them—not with swords, but with fear of their influence. Monarchs, sorcerers, and rulers have sought to silence them, but none have succeeded. Not because the Mole Goblins are invincible, but because they understand the deepest fears of every being. Those who challenge them soon realize that the true battle is not fought on a battlefield but within their own minds. And when they finally awaken, they find themselves changed, their thoughts no longer their own, walking a path they never meant to choose.

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The castle continues to drift, aimless yet watchful. The Mole Goblin Tribe has no desire to rule or destroy—only to observe and act when the balance begins to waver. And when the world falls, not by war, but by doubt and mistrust, they will descend. Not as conquerors, nor as saviors, but as the last voice that will whisper in the mind of the final thinking soul.