The sound wasn't a threat.
It was a violation.
Ren stood in the center of his den—the sanctuary he had carved out with cunning and blood. The rat carcass at his feet was a trophy. The spear in his hand, a scepter. Level 2 pulsed through his veins like strong wine.
For the first time, he felt a spark of control.
Then the sound came.
That primitive language—a cacophony of clicks, squeals, and guttural growls—invaded his small kingdom, shattering the silence.
Shattering the illusion.
His first instinct—the Survivor—was to hide.
His second—the King of the Mud Pit—refused.
This was his territory.
He took position behind the barricade, spear steady in both hands. He wasn't the trembling prey from the first cave anymore.
He was Level 2.
He had killed.
Three figures emerged from the tunnel.
Small. Green. Goblins.
A scouting patrol.
Ren's mind assessed them instantly.
The first was small, even for a goblin. Wide, nervous eyes. A wooden club that looked too heavy for him.
The second—a female. A "goblit," as players called them. Slightly softer features. Better-kept leather wrap.
The third—
Ren tightened his grip.
Big.
A full head taller. Broad shoulders. Knotted muscle. A jagged white scar ran across one eye, locking his face into a permanent snarl.
Mismatched leather armor. Looted.
A crude stone axe.
Hugh.
He didn't need a nameplate.
But it appeared anyway.
[Hugh, Goblin Warrior - Lv. 4]
The trio stopped.
Black eyes fixed on Ren.
They saw the barricade.
The rat.
The spear.
The small goblin squealed in surprise.
The goblit tilted her head, curiosity flickering.
Hugh?
Hugh narrowed his good eye.
A low growl rolled in his chest.
He didn't see survival.
He saw a challenge.
Ren held his ground.
Don't show fear. Weakness invites attack.
Hugh stepped forward.
He pointed at the rat carcass with his axe.
One word.
"My."
Ren's human mind exploded.
Yours? I killed that. I outplayed a swarm for it. I defended this place. It's mine!
His body betrayed him.
A tremor ran through his arms.
Instinct screamed louder.
Bigger. Stronger.
What's yours… is his.
Submit.
Ren fought it.
He raised the spear.
Point aimed at Hugh's chest.
Mistake.
Hugh didn't see defense.
He saw defiance.
He moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
Ren tried to pull back—
too late.
Hugh slapped the shaft aside with the back of his hand.
The spear flew from Ren's grip, spinning, clattering to the ground.
Then—
A kick.
Brutal.
Straight into his stomach.
[-5 HP]
Air exploded from Ren's lungs in a strangled gasp.
He flew back. Hit the stone wall.
The world tilted.
Spun.
Hugh approached.
Slow. Dominant.
He looked down at Ren—gasping, broken.
Pure contempt.
Then he leaned in—
and spat.
Thick, green saliva hit Ren's face.
The goblit let out a mocking hiss. Disgust—directed at Ren. Then admiration—directed at Hugh.
Humiliation.
Ren knew it as a human.
But this?
This was raw.
Primal.
Hugh turned away.
Ownership established.
He grabbed the rat carcass.
Walked back.
Dropped it on Ren's chest.
Heavy. Final.
Then pointed.
At the rat.
At the tunnel behind them.
The command was clear.
Carry.
Ren's mind boiled.
This stupid Lv. 4 mob. As Zephyr, I'd one-shot him. I know his patterns. His weaknesses. He's just EXP with an attitude.
But his body—
traitor.
It trembled.
Wanted to shrink.
To obey.
The dissonance was agony.
A god trapped in a slave's body.
Slowly, painfully, Ren stood.
He lifted the carcass.
His trophy—
now his burden.
He picked up his fallen spear.
The smaller goblin stepped in and kicked him in the back.
Urging him forward.
Ren didn't react.
He walked.
Followed.
Prisoner.
Servant.
Bottom rung of the goblin hierarchy.
As they moved through the tunnels, rage cooled into something sharper.
Observation.
He listened.
Clicks. Whistles. Patterns.
Language.
He watched the path.
His mental map ignited.
Direction. Slope. The faint scent in the air—
Sulfur.
They were heading northwest.
Toward the Sulfur Fissures.
A territory that—
in the game—
didn't belong to goblins.
Idiots, Zephyr's voice cut through his mind, cold and precise.
They're marching straight into a Kobold nest.