The march was a procession of misery.
Ren stumbled through the darkness, the Dungeon Rat's body a dead, awkward weight slung over his shoulders. The carcass thudded against his back with every step, coarse fur scraping his skin, the stench of dried blood torturing his already hungry stomach.
Hugh and the goblit—whose name he'd learned was Zira—walked ahead. Zira occasionally glanced back, not at Ren, but at Hugh, letting out low, admiring chirps whenever the warrior's broad shoulder brushed the rock wall. Hugh walked with arrogance in every step, his stone axe swinging lazily as if he owned the very ground beneath his feet.
Behind Ren, the smaller goblin—mentally nicknamed "Kick"—kept jabbing and shoving him forward. Every time Ren stumbled, a sharp kick to his legs or back reminded him of his place.
Ren's human mind burned with rage and humiliation. They're mobs. NPCs. Obstacles. I should be farming them, not hauling loot for them.
He ran through scenarios. Trip Kick with the spear. Poison Hugh's food. Lead them into a trap using terrain knowledge.
But his goblin body was a traitor. Deep down, something primal craved this proximity. After days of terrifying isolation, the sound of his own kind—even abusive—was a warped kind of comfort. The clicks and squeals meant nothing to his human mind, but his body understood.
Pack.
Belonging.
He hated that feeling more than he hated Hugh.
After what felt like an hour, the tunnel widened. They emerged into a massive cavern lit by flickering fire pits. This was the main lair.
The smell hit him first.
Smoke. Half-cooked meat. Goblin sweat. Rotting garbage. Excrement.
In the center, thirty—maybe forty—green bodies moved in chaotic life. Goblits tended to noisy young. Older warriors sharpened stone weapons against rocks. Groups of younger goblins brawled with clubs, a mix of play and brutal training.
A filthy, violent society.
Alive.
Hugh's arrival caused a stir. Several goblits turned, whistling in admiration. Hugh puffed his chest, soaking in the attention.
He turned and yanked the dead rat from Ren's shoulders, tossing it to the ground with a dull thud. Then he roared—a call for the leader.
From the shadows of a crude throne made of animal skulls and rotting wood, a figure rose.
A goblin—but grotesquely large and obese. His skin was darker, almost gray, covered in scars and warts. One eye was white and blind. His teeth were yellow stubs.
Tribe Chief Grol.
[Chief Grol - Lv. 7]
Grol lumbered forward. He sniffed the carcass, prodded it with a clawed foot, then—without ceremony—ripped off a leg and took a massive bite. Raw meat and blood dripped down his chin.
Satisfied, he kicked the rest into the center of the cavern.
That was the signal.
The entire tribe descended on it like locusts.
In seconds, the rat was reduced to bones and scraps of fur.
Ren, shoved aside and forgotten, got nothing.
He watched everything with cold detachment. Zephyr's mind was already analyzing.
Power structure: brute force.
Grol ruled because he was the oldest—and likely the strongest for the longest. Hugh was the heir apparent. The current champion.
Food went to the strong first.
The weak, the old, the young—they got scraps. If anything was left.
Weapons: garbage. Wooden clubs. Sharpened stones. Crude axes. No formation. No tactics. Just aggression.
A stagnant society.
Inefficient. Dangerously inefficient.
His gaze shifted to a wall.
Scratched into the stone was a crude map. He recognized the tunnels they'd traveled. But there was something new.
Expansion.
A fresh section had been marked. And next to it—a symbol that made his blood run cold.
A reptilian head with a small crest.
The player marker for a Kobold nest.
That's when he smelled it clearly.
Beneath the stench of the lair—something else.
Mineral. Sharp.
Sulfur.
His worst fear was confirmed.
This tribe, in its arrogance and stupidity, was pushing into Kobold territory.
Kobolds were Level 5–8.
Smarter. Organized. And most importantly—smiths.
They used metal armor. Iron short swords. They fought in groups. They flanked. They defended territory with fanatic precision.
Against this goblin horde?
This wouldn't be a battle.
It would be extermination.
Ren stepped closer to Kick, the goblin who had tormented him. He pointed at the symbol on the map, then at himself, shaking his head hard while letting out a low warning growl.
Danger. Don't go.
Kick stared at him.
Confusion.
Then contempt.
He smacked Ren across the head.
"Gaaah!" the smaller goblin snarled—Shut up, worm.
No one was listening.
No one cared.
Ren looked at Hugh, now showing off for Zira, swinging his axe like a hero. Then at Chief Grol, already dozing on his throne of bones.
They were all dead men walking.
And he was chained to their fate.