The last thing he remembered was the blinding flash of an eighteen-wheeler's headlights, the screech of tires, and then... nothing. Until now.
He awoke to a world of absolute horror. The air was thick with the stench of raw meat, damp earth, and something indescribably foul – a musky, unwashed odor that clawed at his throat. His head throbbed, a dull ache that resonated with the guttural grunts and squabbles echoing around him. He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt alien, too short, too weak, covered in rough, leathery skin. Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at his nascent consciousness.
He blinked, or at least, something in his new body did. The cave was dim, lit by a few flickering torches jammed into cracks in the rock. Huddled masses of creatures, squat and green-skinned, moved in the periphery. They had beady, red eyes, sharp fangs, and disproportionately long arms ending in clawed hands. Goblins. He was among goblins.
No. I am a goblin.
The realization slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. He brought a hand up to his face, a small, weak, three-fingered claw. The skin was indeed green, coarse. He could feel the stubby remnants of horns just above his brow, and his nose was flat, barely a slit. He was tiny, no bigger than a large dog, and painfully scrawny. A runt. He was a goblin runt.
A larger goblin, twice his size and scarred, snarled, kicking a smaller one away from a pile of gnawed bones. The smaller goblin whimpered, scrambling back, its eyes wide with fear. This was his new reality. A brutal, primitive existence where only the strong, or at least the slightly less weak, survived. He felt a profound despair, a longing for his past life, for human hands, human food, human thought.
He spent what felt like hours, maybe days, huddled in a damp corner, observing. The tribe was a chaotic mess. A hulking, brutish goblin with a rusty cleaver, clearly the chieftain, occasionally roared, scattering the others. His authority was based purely on brute strength, and any defiance was met with swift, crushing violence. Food was a constant struggle, scavenged scraps of whatever unfortunate creature stumbled into their traps, fought over with tooth and claw. He, being the smallest, was always last, barely getting enough to quiet the gnawing hunger.
Just as the despair threatened to consume him, a flicker. Not a torchlight, but something internal. A translucent blue screen shimmered into existence before his eyes, visible only to him.
[System Initializing... Complete.]
[Welcome, Host.]
He stared, dumbfounded. A system? Like in those novels he used to read? His heart, or whatever rudimentary organ now pumped blood through his goblin body, hammered. Could this be it? His chance?
More text appeared, detailing his pathetic new existence:
[Name]: Unassigned (Current Designation: Runt Goblin)
[Race]: Goblin (Variant: Common Cave Goblin)
[Realm]: Mortal (Uncultivated)
[Attributes]
Strength: 0.6 (Abysmally Weak)
Agility: 0.8 (Poor)
Mana: 0.0 (Non-existent)
Endurance: 0.7 (Fragile)
Perception: 1.2 (Slightly Above Average for Runt)
[Skills]
* [Scavenge (E)]: Basic ability to locate discarded items.
* [Weak Bite (F)]: A bite barely strong enough to break skin.
[Essence Points]: 0
A grimace contorted his goblin face. These stats were worse than he imagined. But then he saw it: "Uncultivated," "Essence Points." This wasn't just survival; it was progression. A cold, calculated resolve began to displace his fear. He wouldn't just survive; he'd dominate. He'd use this system to crawl his way up from this primordial hell.
Suddenly, a low, guttural growl rippled through the grotto. It wasn't one of the goblins. The chieftain, normally indifferent, was now agitated, sniffing the air near the cave mouth. Other goblins began to chatter nervously, their beady eyes darting. A strange scent, not of prey, but of something sharp and metallic, laced with an unfamiliar earthy aroma, began to permeate the air.
Then, a distant thud. Then another. Getting closer. The chieftain let out a panicked shriek, unlike his usual roars.
Humans.
The thought flashed through his mind, an instinctual dread from his goblin form, combined with his human knowledge of how dangerous cultivators could be. The air grew heavy, crackling with an unseen energy. The thuds became a rhythmic, powerful stomping. The grotto entrance, usually a dark maw, began to glow faintly with a golden light.
The humans were here. And the goblins were about to be slaughtered.