The ravaged remains of the wolves were a gruesome altar, a lesson etched in flesh and bone onto the forest floor. Devon descended from the strange apple tree, his legs trembling no longer with fear, but with the tremor of a cold, hard resolution. He retrieved his spear from the ground, and this time, the rough wooden shaft and the rusted piece of steel didn't feel like a mockery of his failures. It felt like a question. A question of what he would do next. The chapter of passive survival, of mere luck, had ended with the wet ripping sound as the giant bear claimed its prize. A new chapter, a chapter of becoming strong, was about to begin.
He started walking, leaving the small clearing behind. This time, however, his steps had a different purpose. He was no longer simply seeking shelter or a safe path. His eyes, which had scanned the woods for threats, now scanned for opportunities. Every tree was no longer just a place to hide, but an obstacle to climb, a source of wood for better weapons. Every sound was no longer just a warning of danger, but information about prey or predator. His mind, previously filled with despair and fear, was now filled with cold calculation. "I have to practice," he whispered to himself, the words becoming a mantra. "I have to become stronger, faster, deadlier."
He walked through the forest, which felt more welcoming now, under the shade of towering silver birch trees. The air here felt clean, filled with the scent of steel-toned pines and damp earth. But the beauty now had a new layer of meaning for him. It was a training ground. He imagined himself practicing with his spear, repeating thrusting and slashing motions until his aching muscles screamed. He imagined himself pushing his body to run further, building strength in his legs not to flee, but to chase. It was a new fantasy, not of dragons and dungeons, but of muscle and bone, of becoming the predator, not the prey.
It was then, amidst his determined reverie, that he saw it. In a small hollow between the roots of a towering tree, a small creature was squatting. The creature was alone. It was perhaps only waist-high to Devon, with dull olive-green skin, long pointed ears, and a snub nose that was constantly sniffing the air. It wore a crude leather loincloth and held a stone dagger that looked primitive. A goblin.
Devon's mind immediately lit up with false recognition. He had seen these creatures thousands of times before—in the pages of fantasy novels, on the screens of his MMORPG, in monster manual illustrations. They were level-one enemies. Cannon fodder. Livestock for fledgling adventurers to earn their first experience points. This shouldn't be too difficult. After all, the goblin was alone.
A dangerous surge of confidence, born of fiction rather than reality, washed over him. Here it was. This was his first test. Not an impossible giant bear or a pack of nightmarish wolves. Just one small goblin. Victory here would be an affirmation of his oath. It would be the first spark of the fire he wanted to ignite within himself.
"Okay, Devon," he whispered, his heart pounding, not with fear, but with fiery anticipation. "Like in the game. Strike quickly. Don't give it a chance."
Casting aside all doubt, he gripped his spear tighter and charged. He burst out from behind the tree, his still-stiff legs doing their best to run across the rust-colored moss. "Hyaaa!" an awkward shout escaped his lips as he advanced, aiming the steel tip of his spear directly at the green creature's chest.
What happened next was nothing like in the game.
The goblin, which had seemed busy picking at something on the ground, moved with startling speed. It didn't jump away. It simply ducked to the side, letting Devon's spear miss its shoulder by mere inches. The movement was so fluid and efficient, as if the ground itself was part of its body. Before Devon could regain his balance, the goblin had spun around behind him.
"Grak, grak, grak!"
A hoarse, mocking laugh sounded right behind his ear. Devon turned around in a panic, swinging his spear awkwardly. But the goblin was already gone. It had leaped onto a thick tree root, crouching like a frog, and baring its yellow, sharp teeth in a hateful grin. The creature was far more agile and nimble than Devon had ever imagined.
The goblin didn't attack immediately. It toyed with Devon. It darted from shadow to shadow, its movements jerky and unpredictable. It would throw pebbles at Devon's head, then cackle with glee as Devon flinched. It would make strange clicking and whistling noises from various directions, causing Devon to spin around, confused, and increasingly frustrated. Every time Devon lunged, the goblin would dodge with ease, its small black eyes gleaming with cunning and cruel intelligence.
Devon, who moments ago had felt like a hero beginning his training, now felt like a fool. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead, mixing with dirt and dried blood. His lungs burned, and his bruised ribs screamed in protest with every frantic movement he made.
Overwhelmed, he made a mistake. In a wild swing fueled by anger, he lost his footing for a moment. That was when the goblin struck. It darted in from the side, low to the ground. Its crude stone dagger flashed, grazing Devon's thigh. A hot, sharp pain made him cry out. The wound wasn't deep, but it was enough to make him stagger. That was when the goblin kicked his ankle with its scrawny but strong foot.
Devon's balance was completely lost. He fell to his knees with a thud, and his spear—the symbol of his newfound hope—slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground with a pathetic sound. He was unarmed. He was injured. He was kneeling before a level-one enemy.
The goblin's laughter stopped. Its grin twisted into an expression of savage hunger. It approached slowly, its stone dagger raised. The cold, familiar terror, the terror he had felt when chased by the wolves, returned with full force, extinguishing all remaining embers of his confidence. He was going to die. Killed by this ridiculous little monster.
As the goblin lunged for the final strike, something inside Devon snapped. Not his resolve. Not his hope. Something far deeper. A thin veneer of civilization, of Devon the reader, the observer, was torn away, and all that remained was the most primal, most ferocious instinct for survival.
He didn't think. He simply reacted. Just as the dagger came down, he lunged forward, not away. He slammed into the goblin's scrawny body with his shoulder, ignoring the pain that exploded in his ribs. The impact sent them both tumbling onto the forest floor. The stone dagger flew from the goblin's grasp.
In a blind frenzy, Devon managed to grab hold of the goblin. He could feel its wiry, thin muscles wriggling beneath his grip. The creature bit his arm, its sharp teeth piercing his skin. Devon roared, not with pain, but with pure, unadulterated rage.
With his free right hand, he punched the goblin in the face. A wet, sickening 'crack' sounded. He punched again. And again. He no longer saw a face. He no longer saw a living creature. All he saw was a threat that had to be eliminated. He clawed, tearing at the rough green skin. He crushed it with everything his trembling bare hands could muster. Rage and fear became one in a horrific explosion of violence. He didn't stop until the wriggling beneath him ceased altogether.
Silence descended. The only sound was Devon's ragged, desperate gasping. He pushed himself away from the broken, shapeless body. He stared at his hands. Covered in blood and foul green fluid. His fingernails were broken and bleeding. This wasn't a victory. This was something disgusting.
Shakily, he staggered to his feet. He picked up his spear, using it to support his broken body. Every muscle felt like jelly, and the adrenaline that had flooded him began to recede, leaving behind an overwhelming ache, nausea, and a cold sense of shame. He stumbled away, aimlessly, just getting away from the scene of the slaughter.
He eventually reached the bank of a nearby stream, perhaps the same one that had given him food and hope. He collapsed, his back against a damp tree trunk. He stared at the flowing water, then back at his blood-soaked hands.
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't as easy as it was in the isekai anime or the games he had played. In a game, defeating a goblin earned you points, maybe a few copper coins. It was a clean step forward. Here... here, victory felt like defeat. It felt like the dirt beneath his fingernails and the smell of blood in his nostrils. There was no level up. No new skill appearing before him. All there was was a new wound, a new trauma, and the horrifying realization that to survive here, he might have to become a monster worse than the ones he fought.
He lowered his head, and for the first time since burning the photos of his friends, he didn't cry with sadness or fear. He cried with self-loathing. His first lesson in becoming strong had ended. And he realized with horror that the price of strength in this world might be his very humanity.