The forest didn't swallow sound the way I expected.
It held it.
Every footstep sank into wet leaves with a soft suction. Every breath fogged in the green-shadow air. Every small noise—twig snap, moth wingbeat, distant birdcall—hung for a second longer than it should, like the trees were listening.
Or judging.
The goblins moved in a loose, impatient pack. Not marching. Not organized. Just… flowing, like a stream of sharp elbows and hunched shoulders. Two of them dragged the wounded goblin by his armpits, his legs leaving twin trenches in the mud. Another carried a bundle of meat wrapped in leaves, the blood seeping through in dark streaks. Someone else had my rock now, because apparently ownership was whoever grabbed first.
Mogrin stayed glued to my side like he'd decided I was his personal shelter.
Every time I looked at him, he looked back with wide eyes and the kind of fierce loyalty you usually only saw in kids and dogs.
"Vark," he whispered, as if saying my name kept the world from biting him. "You… big-think."
"I'm standing here breathing," I muttered. "That's not thinking."
Mogrin nodded anyway, serious as a priest. "Big-think keep us live."
That phrase again. Like a charm.
Ahead, the scarred older goblin—Ear-Torn, my brain labeled him—glanced back and sneered when he saw Mogrin clinging to me.
"Mogrin," he barked. "Stop stick. You make weak."
Mogrin flinched but didn't move. "No. Vark good."
Ear-Torn spat into the mud. "Vark weird."
A couple goblins snickered. The sound wasn't friendly. It was the same kind of laughter I'd heard in office kitchens when someone spilled coffee and everyone pretended not to see. It wasn't about humor. It was about hierarchy.
The path they followed wasn't a real path. It was a memory of one—flattened leaves, broken fern stalks, a few bent branches at head height. Signs only someone raised in this place would understand.
I tried to keep my breathing steady. My hands throbbed where quills had pierced them, each heartbeat pushing pain through my palms. Blood had dried under my nails in dark flakes. The smell clung to me, metallic and thick.
It didn't make me sick anymore.
That was the part that scared me.
We moved deeper under the canopy until the light changed. The moth-glow faded behind us, replaced by a dim, mossy illumination that seemed to seep up from the ground. The trees grew closer together. Roots rose like walls. The air became warmer, heavier, and full of smoke that wasn't quite smoke.
A settlement emerged between the roots.
Calling it a "village" felt generous. It was more like a nest built by creatures that understood shelter but didn't have time for comfort.
Huts made of woven branches and thick leaves clung to the base of giant trees. Some were half-dug into the dirt beneath roots, like burrows with roofs. Ropes of vine hung between trunks with bundles attached—bones, pouches, dried meat. A few crude watch platforms were lashed high in the lower branches, swaying slightly as goblins moved on them.
The whole place smelled like damp wood, sweat, and something sour that might have been fermented fruit or rot.
Goblins paused what they were doing as we arrived. Heads turned. Noses lifted. Eyes narrowed.
Attention hit me like a physical thing.
I'd been stared at in offices before, but that had been the slow, passive stare of boredom. This was predatory. Measuring.
Some goblins held tools—sharpened sticks, stone knives, bone hooks. Others carried bundles of moss and mushrooms. A few wore scraps of leather armor that looked like they'd been cut from larger creatures and tied on with rope.
They all looked at me like I was a new problem.
Ear-Torn pushed forward, voice loud. "Fight at meat-place," he announced in half-words. "Wolves come. Two wolf dead. Goblins dead."
A ripple went through the crowd. Murmurs. Clicks of tongue. Short, sharp goblin speech like birds squabbling.
"Needlewolf?""Two?""Who kill?""Where meat?"
Ear-Torn jabbed a finger at me. "Vark kill. Vark smash. Vark weird."
That last word landed like a stone.
"Vark weird." The phrase spread quickly. A few goblins laughed. A few leaned closer to sniff.
I fought the urge to step back. Stepping back felt like weakness. In every world, stepping back invited more pressure.
Mogrin puffed up beside me. "Vark not weird! Vark big-think!"
That got another round of snickers.
A goblin with a wide jaw and a heavy brow shoved through the crowd, shouldering smaller goblins aside. He was taller than most, his arms thick, his skin a darker green. His chest was crisscrossed with scars, and he wore a belt made from braided hair—human hair, I realized with a chill.
His eyes landed on me like hooks.
This one wasn't just rude. He was built to enforce.
He grinned, showing chipped teeth. "Weird-head," he said slowly, savoring it. Then he poked my chest with one thick finger. Hard. "Weird-head talk clean. Like metal-men."
My spine stiffened.
"Don't call me that," I said before I could stop myself.
Silence.
Not total silence. The village still breathed and creaked and rustled. But the goblins closest to me stopped laughing.
The big goblin's grin widened, delighted.
"Ooo," he crooned. "Weird-head angry."
He poked me again.
My hands clenched. Pain flared in my palms where quills had stabbed. I saw blood, saw teeth, felt the memory of the rock caving in skull—
Mogrin grabbed my arm with both hands. "Vark," he hissed, voice thin. "No. No fight here."
The big goblin leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "Weird-head listen to little scout. Ha."
Ear-Torn snapped, "Grub, stop. Boss see first." He spat the name like it was an order.
Grub. Good. A name I could hate.
Grub clicked his tongue, disappointed, and stepped back, but his eyes stayed on me like he'd marked me for later.
"Boss," Mogrin whispered, eyes darting. "Boss big. Boss smart. Boss decide."
We were pushed forward through the village. Goblins parted grudgingly, making a narrow lane. I caught glimpses as we moved—tribe life in flashes.
A group of goblins crouched near a shallow pit full of muddy water, washing blood off tools with quick, efficient movements. Another cluster worked around a pile of bones, scraping and sorting, murmuring to each other. A few goblins carried bundles to a platform where a skinny goblin with quick hands tied and retied knots, checking lashings like his life depended on rope being correct.
Everywhere, movement had purpose.
Not "civilization," not in the human sense. But survival had its own structure.
We reached a larger root hollow where two huts had been built facing each other, creating a crude "hall" between them. At the far end, on a raised slab of stone, sat the tribe's leader.
Boss.
He was smaller than I expected.
Not weak—just lean, compact, like an old fighter who'd survived by not getting hit. His skin was a muted green-gray, his ears nicked with old wounds. One eye was milky white, blind. The other was sharp and still. He wore a cloak made from stitched leaves and strips of hide, and around his neck hung a necklace of carved wooden beads that looked… deliberate. Like someone had cared enough to make them uniform.
He watched us approach with a stillness that made the rest of the chaotic village feel like noise.
Ear-Torn knelt, thumping a fist to the ground. Others copied him, some reluctantly.
I hesitated.
Mogrin hissed, "Kneel."
I knelt. Mud soaked my knees immediately.
Boss's good eye traveled over me. Lingering on my hands. The puncture wounds. The dried blood. The way I held myself.
Then his gaze flicked to Mogrin.
"Mogrin," Boss said. His voice was low, rough, but not stupid. "You alive."
Mogrin nodded hard. "Yes, Boss. Vark save Mogrin."
Boss's gaze returned to me. "Vark."
Hearing my name from him felt different than hearing it from Ear-Torn. Less accusation. More… evaluation.
"You kill Needlewolf," Boss said.
I swallowed. "Yes."
A murmur rippled behind me. Goblins whispering: clean talk. full words.
Boss didn't react to the whispers. "How many?"
I hesitated. My mind flashed the blue windows.
Two. Maybe three if the last one counted. But the last kill had been… shared, sort of. The spear goblin had slammed it, I'd finished it…
The system had only pinged when I killed. So the ones I got notices for were mine. That meant—
"Three," I said carefully.
Boss's good eye narrowed slightly. "Three. Level one."
That made my stomach drop.
He knew my level? He could see it?
Before I could ask, something shimmered at the edge of my vision.
A faint, translucent outline. Like a pane of glass sliding into place.
Text appeared. Clean. Blue.
Not loud this time. Not a "ding." Just… present, like it had always been there and I'd finally looked at the right angle.
Name: VarkRace: GoblinLevel: 1EXP: 15/50
Below it, four lines:
STR: 2AGI: 4VIT: 2WIL: 5
I blinked hard.
The window didn't vanish.
My breath caught.
A system. Not a hallucination. Not a fever dream. Something layered over reality like… like software.
My mind tried to grab it the way it grabbed spreadsheets. If there is a system, there are rules. If there are rules, there are patterns. If there are patterns—
"Vark," Boss said again, voice sharper.
I realized I'd been staring into space.
"Sorry," I said automatically, then winced because apology sounded too human.
A few goblins snickered again.
Boss's eye narrowed further. "Talk clean," he said. "Think too much."
Grub's voice came from behind me, loud and pleased. "Weird-head."
Boss didn't look back. "Quiet, Grub."
Grub grunted, but shut up.
Boss leaned forward slightly. "You born wrong?" he asked bluntly. "Hit head?"
The crowd made amused noises.
Mogrin shifted beside me, shoulders tense.
I chose my words carefully. Conflict was poison. But silence would be worse.
"I… woke up during fight," I said. "My head… not right."
That got chuckles.
Boss tilted his head. "Not right is normal," he said dryly, and for a second the humor was real. A few goblins laughed in surprise, like Boss had allowed it.
Then his expression hardened again.
"You kill wolf," he said. "That is good."
Mogrin nodded so hard his headband slipped. "Good! Vark good!"
Boss raised a hand and Mogrin froze instantly.
"You kill wolf," Boss repeated. "That also bring trouble."
The village murmured agreement.
Boss's gaze shifted past me to the bundle of meat being carried in. "Meat."
Ear-Torn grinned. "We bring. Wolves dead, goblins dead. Meat still."
Boss nodded. "Scavengers," he called.
Three goblins emerged from the side—thin, quick, eyes always darting. They carried bags made from stitched hide and woven fiber. One had a bone awl tucked behind his ear. Another had fingers stained dark from resin or blood.
They moved like professionals.
They went straight to the meat bundle, inspecting it, sniffing, poking, then dividing it with practiced efficiency. One cut away gristly pieces and set them aside. Another pulled out organs and stuffed them into a separate pouch.
No hesitation. No squeamishness.
Food was currency. Food was survival.
As they worked, Boss pointed to them. "Scavengers," he said to me as if explaining a simple truth. "Find. Take. Bring."
I nodded slowly. My eyes flicked back to my status window. It still hovered faintly.
Boss's gaze followed mine. "You see?" he asked.
I hesitated. "Yes."
Murmurs again. A few goblins leaned closer, curious. Others looked away with superstition, like acknowledging it too directly might invite bad luck.
Boss grunted. "All see. All have." He tapped his chest once. "Forest give. Dungeon give. We live with."
Dungeon.
That word echoed in my head.
Not a game dungeon. Not a "floor" in the way my old brain wanted to label it. Just… a place with rules deeper than any city.
Boss motioned upward.
From the lower branches, a goblin dropped down lightly, landing with barely a sound. He was wiry, his eyes sharp, and he wore strips of bark armor tied around his arms and shins. A bundle of feathers and small bones dangled from his belt—trophies, or tools, or both.
"Scouts," Boss said. "See far. Smell far. Hear far."
The scout gave me a quick once-over, eyes lingering on my hands, then looked away like I wasn't worth his time.
Boss gestured to the watch platforms. "Scouts keep us not dead."
That line got respectful murmurs. Scouts mattered.
Then Boss pointed toward the knot-tying goblin I'd seen earlier.
A couple goblins dragged a wooden frame into the open. It looked like a crude tripod made of sticks and rope. Another goblin followed carrying a bundle of sharpened stakes and vine cord.
"Trappers," Boss said. "Make forest bite."
The trapper goblin grinned, showing teeth stained dark. "Forest bite good," he said proudly.
He demonstrated quickly, hands moving fast, tying a loop, setting tension, placing stakes. In less than a minute he had a snare set that could yank something's leg up and slam it into a tree root hard enough to break bone.
I watched, fascinated despite myself.
My old job had been planning logistics. Routes. Bottlenecks. Predictable movement.
Traps were… logistics for violence.
Boss saw my attention. "You like?" he asked, voice flat.
I realized he was testing me.
I chose honesty, because lying in front of someone like him felt suicidal.
"Yes," I said. Then, because I couldn't stop myself: "It's efficient."
A few goblins laughed at the strange word.
Boss's lip twitched, almost amused again. "Eff… what?"
"Good," I corrected quickly. "Trap good."
Boss nodded once, satisfied.
Grub stepped forward again, unable to resist. "Boss," he said, voice thick with smugness. "Weird-head talk like metal-men. Weird-head bring metal-men."
A hush fell. Superstition. Fear.
Boss's good eye cut to Grub. "You want talk?" he said quietly.
Grub grinned wider, thinking he'd won. "Yes."
Boss didn't raise his voice. Didn't move much. But the air changed.
"You go hunt alone tonight," Boss said. "Bring meat. If you strong."
Grub's grin faltered.
A few goblins snickered, enjoying the turn.
Grub's eyes flicked to the dark forest beyond the huts. Even he knew what "alone" meant out there.
He forced a laugh. "Boss joke."
Boss stared at him.
Grub swallowed and stepped back.
The message was clear: Boss tolerated cruelty when it served the tribe. He did not tolerate challenges to his authority.
Boss's gaze returned to me. "Vark," he said. "You stay."
My chest loosened slightly. Relief tried to rise.
Boss held up a finger. "You stay… for now."
There it was.
The hook in the kindness.
"You work," Boss continued. "You listen. You not make trouble. You not make moth come again."
"I didn't—" I started, then stopped. Arguing was useless.
"I will," I said instead.
Boss nodded.
"Where I sleep?" I asked, then instantly regretted it because the sentence sounded too structured.
Grub snorted.
Boss gestured vaguely toward a cluster of small huts. "There. With young."
Young. Great. Kid hut.
Mogrin brightened. "Mogrin there! Vark there! Good!"
Boss waved him off. "Mogrin… stop stick," he repeated. "You scout. You watch. You not die."
Mogrin straightened like he'd been handed a medal. "Yes, Boss!"
As we were dismissed, goblins resumed moving like the moment had never happened. Meat was carried away. The wounded goblin was dragged toward a hut where an older goblin with stained hands waited—healer, maybe, or just someone good at keeping bodies breathing.
Mogrin pulled me toward the huts, chattering half-words.
"Boss not kill you," he said happily. "Good. Vark stay. Vark big-think. We… we make good."
"Maybe," I said.
Mogrin frowned, confused by caution. "Why maybe?"
Because the tribe didn't accept me. Boss didn't trust me. Grub wanted to break me just to prove he could.
And because my status window was still hovering faintly in my vision, as if waiting for me to acknowledge it.
When we reached the small huts, Mogrin shoved aside a hanging mat of woven leaves and ducked inside. The interior smelled like damp straw and goblin bodies. Not pleasant, but warmer than outside.
A couple young goblins stared at me with wide eyes, then immediately looked away as if eye contact might get them in trouble.
Mogrin plopped down and patted a spot beside him. "Sit."
I sat, knees aching. My hands throbbed worse now that adrenaline was fading.
Mogrin leaned close. "Vark see blue words?" he whispered.
I hesitated. "Yes."
Mogrin's eyes sparkled. "Mogrin also see! Mogrin level one! Mogrin EXP small."
He looked so proud it almost made me laugh.
"You understand it?" I asked.
Mogrin blinked. "Understand… little. Boss say: kill, get strong. Eat, get strong. Live, get strong."
That was… not wrong.
I focused on my own window again, forcing myself not to panic at the unreality of it.
Name: VarkRace: GoblinLevel: 1EXP: 15/50
Attributes:
STR: 2AGI: 4VIT: 2WIL: 5
The attributes were tiny numbers. Two. Four. Two. Five.
My mind tried to compare. What is average goblin STR? Is WIL like mana? Resistance? Instinct?
I realized I was doing it again—turning terror into analysis because analysis felt like control.
Mogrin poked my arm. "Vark," he whispered urgently. "You hurt."
I looked down. My palms were dotted with small puncture wounds, some still bleeding.
"Yeah," I said. "Quills."
Mogrin made a sympathetic noise and rummaged in his pouch. He pulled out a wad of moss wrapped in leaf, pressed it to my hand.
It was cool. Damp. It stung a little.
"You… thank," I started, then stopped because that sounded too human too.
Mogrin beamed anyway. "Mogrin help. Vark help Mogrin. Good."
The kindness hit harder than any insult.
I didn't know these creatures. They weren't human. They weren't… my people.
But Mogrin had looked at me during that fight like I was hope.
And hope was a dangerous thing to waste.
Outside the hut, a shout rose.
A scout's voice, sharp and urgent.
The village shifted instantly. Footsteps hurried. Goblin chatter spiked.
Mogrin bolted upright. "Scout call!"
I pushed up and stumbled outside with him.
Goblins gathered near the root hall where Boss sat. The scout from earlier had returned, chest heaving, eyes wide.
Boss's good eye fixed on him. "Speak."
The scout pointed toward the outer forest, ears angled forward. "Metal-men smell," he said in clipped goblin speech. "Close. Two… three… maybe more. On wind."
A hush fell so hard I could hear my own breathing.
Boss's jaw tightened.
Grub's eyes gleamed with ugly excitement.
Mogrin's fingers curled around my sleeve again, trembling.
And somewhere inside me, under the fear, my mind started doing what it always did.
Counting.
Planning.
Looking for the first domino.
Because the forest had teeth.
And so did the tribe.
And now, the metal-men were near.