The stream was a mess.
The signal stuttered, frames skipped like scratched film, and every few seconds the audio cracked into robotic noise. I could already imagine the barrage in the chat before even glancing at it.
"Potato cam strikes again!"
"Bro, are you livestreaming with a microwave?"
"Pixel Monster Hunter."
They didn't hold back. Viewers could be crueler than monsters sometimes. I adjusted the angle of the broken lens cam, hoping a miracle would fix it. Spoiler: it didn't.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," I muttered, keeping my tone casual. "Next time I'll stream with two tin cans and a string."
The witch gave me a sideways glance, amused despite the tension of the forest. Nyx just flicked her tail as if to say I told you so.
Then it happened.
A sudden golden glow bloomed across the chat feed, drowning out the mockery. Someone had dropped a massive gift—a sum so ridiculous my stomach tightened. The screen spammed with notification fireworks.
The name attached was simple: [GoblinFan99].
A single message followed the donation:
"Buy yourself a new camera. Get the Goblin Pro. Trust me."
I froze.
The audience erupted—half cheering, half laughing.
"OHHHH Bigshot in the house!"
"Finally, he can retire the microwave."
"Goblin Pro?? LMAO that brand is cursed."
Goblin Pro. I'd heard of it in passing—a brand whispered in review forums, mocked on cheap-tech boards. Supposedly produced by a tiny outfit called Little Goblin Inc. Their reputation was… well, "questionable" would be polite.
"Seriously?" I said aloud, not just to chat but to myself. "Of all the brands…"
The witch looked puzzled. "What is a… Goblin Pro?"
"Exactly," I sighed.
But the chat was relentless. They spammed emojis, memes, demands. Half of them wanted to see me suffer with a scam camera, the other half were genuinely curious what kind of disaster it would be. And the donation was enough to cover it three times over.
In the end, I raised my hands in mock surrender.
"Alright, alright. Goblin Pro it is. Let's see what kind of masterpiece Little Goblin Inc. delivers."
The comments went wild, screenshots and clips already flying across social media.
But as the glow of the donation faded from my overlay, I felt a strange chill in my gut. The name "Goblin Pro" lingered in my head like a riddle I shouldn't have accepted.
I should have refused.
I should have laughed it off.
Instead, I let the stream guide me—again.
Tonight, I wrote down every word, every hint, every command the chat had pushed my way.
And when I closed my notebook, the words Goblin Pro were the only thing that kept humming in my head like a curse.