Pain exploded in Vilcard's side before he even realized what had happened.
The goblin's club had struck him with the force of a sledgehammer, flinging him against the rough trunk of an ancient pine. The impact stole his breath—or what passed for it in his reptilian body. Stars danced before his eyes, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
He collapsed onto a bed of pine cones and dry needles, each breath tearing at his ribs. His scales, reinforced by his recent level-up, had cracked under the brute force of the blow. Warm liquid—his own blood—trickled down his left flank, seeping between the gaps of his natural armor.
How is this possible?
Minutes ago, he had held his ground against the goblin. Struggling, yes, but dealing damage, dodging, surviving. Now, the same creature loomed before him like a mountain of muscle and hatred, its phosphorescent eyes radiating malice drawn from the very depths of hell.
The goblin advanced slowly, savoring its dominance. Each step shook the spongy forest floor. Its greenish skin glistened with oily sweat catching the filtered light, revealing dark veins pulsing like a network of sinister roots. Its club, now wreathed in a reddish aura, dragged behind, gouging furrows into the soft earth.
Vilcard tried to rise, but his hind legs refused to support him. The spine. Something had gone wrong in his vertebrae. Panic surged—not the primal panic of a wounded animal, but the cold, calculating terror of the man he once was. Paralysis. In this merciless world, stillness meant death.
No. Not now. Not like this.
He activated [Cool Blood], feeling the slow but steady regeneration begin its work. It would not be enough—not fast enough—but maybe enough to…
To what? Flee? With half-paralyzed legs?
The goblin growled, a sound reminiscent of tectonic plates grinding. It lifted its club, raising it above its head like an executioner preparing the final strike. Rusted nails caught the light, each promising a specific agony.
[Natural Camouflage]!
Vilcard vanished, blending instantly into the carpet of leaves and needles. His body took on the brown hues of the humus, his contours blurring until imperceptible. He held his breath, praying the goblin would lose his trail.
The creature froze, tilting its head like a predator listening to the heartbeat of its prey. Its nostrils twitched, analyzing the forest's complex scents: lizard blood. Fear. Pain.
It knew he was there.
The goblin swung its club blindly, pulverizing the leaves a meter from Vilcard's position. Then another strike. Then a third. Each impact raised clouds of debris and made the ground tremble.
Vilcard crawled silently, using his front limbs to drag himself toward a cluster of ferns. Every centimeter was agony—his dorsal muscles protested, his tail dragged lifelessly behind him, useless. But his hind legs began to respond. Weakly, but they responded.
[Lizard Agility].
He leapt suddenly, bursting from his makeshift cover with a speed that even startled the goblin. But instead of fleeing, he attacked. His [Whipping Tail] lashed at the creature's calf, aiming for the same tendon he had damaged before.
The impact was… negligible.
Where his tail should have sliced flesh, it merely bounced off skin hardened like boiled leather. The goblin didn't flinch. He looked down at Vilcard with something resembling amusement.
Then his free hand—unarmed—descended like a hammer.
Vilcard rolled desperately, feeling the massive fingers graze his scales. He followed with a rapid sequence of [Whipping Tail] strikes, targeting eyes, throat, and joints. Each hit landed, but none seemed to cause significant damage.
How am I supposed to fight this?
He dodged a club strike that could have shattered a boulder, slipped between the goblin's legs, and bit. His fangs sank into the calf, injecting all the venom he could muster. The metallic-acrid taste of blood filled his mouth.
This time, the goblin reacted. It screamed—a sound that sent every bird fleeing a hundred meters away—and shook its leg violently. Vilcard held on for a few more seconds, jaws locked by primal instinct, then was hurled through the air like a projectile.
He slammed into a tree, bounced, rolled through the leaves, and ended up against a tangle of roots. Darkness threatened to swallow him. His broken ribs protested every breath, and warm liquid ran from his skull.
But he was alive.
Why? The thought arose from nowhere, clear and cold amidst the chaos. Why am I here? I should be dead. That truck killed me, I'm certain. So why?
The goblin advanced again, more cautiously this time. Its calf wound oozed blackish fluid—his venom working, slowing circulation, weakening reflexes. Not enough to equalize forces, but enough to give him a chance.
Who sent me here? And why in this pathetic body?
Questions crowded his mind as he struggled to stand. His vision stabilized, his tail regained mobility. [Cool Blood] was slowly completing its regenerative work.
There must be a reason. Logic. This world has rules—systems, levels, evolution. Everything is coded like a game. But who writes the rules?
The goblin charged suddenly, eyes blazing with red rage. Its wound no longer hindered it as much—self-healing, perhaps, or simply combat adrenaline.
Vilcard dodged purely by reflex, rolling under a club strike that sliced the air with a deadly whistle. He counterattacked immediately, tail arcing precisely toward the goblin's left eye.
CLACK!
This time, the impact produced a tangible result. His tail scales cracked under the force, but the goblin's eye exploded in a spray of yellowish fluid. The creature staggered back screaming, hand pressed over the ravaged socket.
Finally!
Vilcard gave no respite. He chained attacks with surgical precision, systematically targeting vulnerable zones revealed by the previous wound. Throat, tendons, joints—each strike calculated to maximize damage while minimizing exposure to counterattacks.
But the goblin was learning too.
Its club traced wide arcs that forced Vilcard back. Then another, faster. The tempo accelerated, turning the improvised weapon into a whirlwind of death sweeping the area around the one-eyed creature.
Vilcard danced literally for his life, dodging by increasingly narrow margins. His muscles began to betray him—fatigue, injuries, constant tension. Every movement cost superhuman effort.
I can't keep this up indefinitely.
A club grazed his spine, peeling away a trail of scales. Another missed his head by mere millimeters. He was losing rhythm, and the goblin knew it.
Think! There must be something…
The environment. He had used the forest as an ally all along, but not effectively enough. Trees, roots, uneven terrain—all could become weapons if he learned to wield them.
He moved toward a pine whose protruding roots formed a natural labyrinth. The goblin followed, less assured on the uneven ground. Its single eye limited depth perception, forcing caution.
Vilcard dove between two interlaced roots, forcing the goblin to crouch to pursue. As the creature entered the narrow passage, he leapt upward, using the rough bark as a springboard.
His [Whipping Tail] struck the base of the goblin's skull, where the neck met the cervical vertebrae. The impact reverberated through the body, and this time he felt something give.
The goblin collapsed face-down, its club slipping from its hands.
Is it…?
No. The creature was already rising again, slower than before but with undiminished determination. Its eye wound had stopped bleeding, and the dark veins beneath its skin pulsed with renewed intensity.
It evolves. In real time. With each injury, it adapts.
The realization chilled him to the bone. This was not just a survival fight—it was a race against time. The longer the combat lasted, the stronger his opponent became.
The goblin turned toward him, its single eye gleaming with cold, calculating intelligence. It picked up its club, but this time it did not charge blindly. It waited.
It's learning my attack patterns.
The wind rose suddenly, shaking the canopy violently. Leaves swirled around them, forming a leafy curtain that partially obscured their movements. The scent of the approaching storm mixed with blood and sweat.
In this electric atmosphere, the two faced each other like gladiators in a primitive arena. One massive and powerful, constantly adapting. The other small and fast, slowly exhausting his remaining resources.
Why me? The question kept coming, insistent. What did I do to deserve this? Or… what must I prove?
The goblin stepped forward, then another. Its gait now perfectly balanced despite the calf wound. It had compensated, adapted its locomotion. In a few minutes, it would be fully operational again.
Vilcard retreated, desperately seeking a strategy, an attack angle, a flaw in his opponent's defense. His strength waning, his mind remained sharp. Analytical.
If this world works like a game, there must be rules. Progression methods I haven't discovered. Hidden skills, combos…
A lightning bolt streaked through the branches, followed by thunder shaking the humid air. First drops of rain began to fall, turning dust into mud and making tree bark slippery.
The goblin chose that moment to attack.
This charge was different—more controlled, precise. It no longer sought to crush him with brute force, but to corner him, limit his dodges.
Vilcard dove aside, but his legs slipped on wet leaves. He rolled clumsily, felt the club graze his back, and ended up pinned against a tree trunk.
Trapped.
The goblin raised its weapon, a terrifying grin twisting its brutal features. Its eyes—its single eye—glowed with anticipatory triumph.
Now or never.
Vilcard activated all remaining skills simultaneously. [Lizard Agility], [Cold Gaze], [Whipping Tail]. Every ounce of energy concentrated into one final desperate maneuver.
Instead of dodging, he leapt straight at the goblin.
The club fell, but Vilcard was no longer where it expected him. He had climbed the tree behind him, using the rough bark as a launch ramp. His jump carried him over the goblin's head, and his tail struck with all the force he could muster.
The target: the other eye.
The impact was perfect. The eye exploded in a spray of fluid, and the goblin roared with rage that shook the entire forest. Blinded, off-balance, it thrashed violently, club swinging wildly.
Vilcard landed heavily, legs buckling under the impact. But he was alive. And for the first time since the beginning of this infernal battle, he had the advantage.
Now, finish it.
He rose painfully, ignoring the pain radiating through his body. The blinded goblin continued to thrash, but its movements were becoming less coordinated. Less dangerous.
It was the moment.
Vilcard launched for the final strike, tail poised like a blade, aiming directly for the exposed throat of his enemy.
But just as he was about to strike, the goblin did something unexpected.
It smiled.
And in the darkness of its empty sockets, something began to glow with a blood-red light.