Controlling an undead was harder than Grix expected.
The zombie goblin stood in the darkness of the disposal pit, swaying like a drunk. Its milky eyes stared at nothing, waiting for commands that Grix's infant mind struggled to articulate clearly.
Walk forward.
The undead took one step, then collapsed face-first into the rotting pile of corpses.
Grix groaned in frustration. His head throbbed—a dull, persistent ache that pulsed behind his eyes. Maintaining the connection to his undead servant drained something from him. Not physical energy, but something deeper. Something he instinctively understood as mana.
He'd read enough isekai stories to know the basics. Magic required mana. Necromancy, being a complex and powerful magic, probably required a lot of it. And his infant goblin body had pathetically little.
Get up.
The zombie twitched, arms flailing uselessly. After several attempts, it managed to push itself onto its knees, then stand again. Progress, but painfully slow.
Grix spent the next hour experimenting with simple commands. Walk. Stop. Turn. Pick up that rock. Each action was clumsy, delayed, like controlling a puppet with tangled strings.
But he was learning. The mental connection grew stronger with practice. He could feel the undead's limited awareness—not thoughts, but sensations. Where its body was in space. What it touched. What it saw through those dead eyes.
This is incredible, Grix thought, watching his creation stumble through basic movements. I'm actually doing magic. Real magic.
A sound echoed from deeper in the cave. Footsteps. Someone was coming.
Panic seized him. If another goblin found him here with an undead—
Hide!
Grix commanded the zombie to collapse back into the pile of corpses. It obeyed instantly, going limp among the other bodies. Grix scrambled behind a rock formation, pressing his small body into the shadows.
An adult goblin appeared, dragging a dead rat by its tail. The goblin—one of Gruk's hunters—tossed the rat carelessly into the pit and turned to leave, muttering something about "useless vermin."
Grix held his breath until the footsteps faded. Only then did he exhale, his tiny heart hammering.
That was close. Too close.
He realized the danger of what he was doing. Necromancy might be his greatest advantage, but it was also a death sentence if discovered too early. The goblins were superstitious, fearful of things they didn't understand. If they found out he could raise the dead, they'd either try to kill him or—worse—bring him to Gruk.
And Gruk would definitely kill him. The hobgoblin chief tolerated no threats to his authority.
I need to be smarter about this. More careful.
Grix released his control over the zombie goblin. The connection severed like a cut string, and the corpse went truly dead again, slumping into the pile. The headache immediately lessened, though exhaustion washed over him.
He crawled back to the main cave area where the other goblin younglings slept in a communal pile. As he settled into the mass of small, warm bodies, his mind raced with plans.
I need more practice. Need to understand the limits of my power. How many undead can I control? How long can I maintain them? What happens if they're destroyed?
But most importantly, he needed to survive long enough to get answers.
Morning came with the usual chaos. Adult goblins fought over food scraps from yesterday's raid. Younglings scrambled for whatever fell to the ground. Grix managed to snatch a piece of dried meat—he tried not to think about what kind—and retreated to a quiet corner to eat.
As he chewed the tough, gamey meat, he observed the tribe with new eyes. These weren't just monsters. They were a resource. Every goblin that died was potential fuel for his growing undead army.
I'm thinking like a necromancer already, he realized with dark amusement. Seeing people as future corpses.
"Grix! Small-weak Grix!" a voice snarled.
He looked up to see Zik, one of the older younglings. At six months old, Zik was twice Grix's size and loved to bully the smaller goblins. Three other younglings flanked him, grinning with yellowed teeth.
"You take Zik's food spot," the bully growled, cracking his knuckles. "Zik smash."
Grix's first instinct was to run. His body was small, weak, no match for Zik in a physical fight. But running would only make him a perpetual target.
Think. Use your advantages.
"Zik stupid," Grix said slowly, the words awkward in his developing vocal cords. "This no Zik spot. This Grix spot."
Zik's eyes widened in shock. None of the smaller younglings ever talked back. Then his face twisted in rage.
"Grix die now!"
The larger goblin lunged forward, claws extended. Grix tried to dodge but wasn't fast enough. Zik's fist caught him in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, pain exploding through his small body.
Zik and his friends laughed, kicking dirt at him. "Small-weak Grix learn now. Zik strongest youngling!"
Through the pain and humiliation, Grix felt something else. Anger. Cold, calculating anger.
You just made the list, Zik. When you die—and you will die, because goblins always die—you'll be my servant. My slave. My puppet.
The thought should have horrified him. He was planning to desecrate a sapient being's corpse, enslave their soul to his will. But Grix felt nothing except grim satisfaction.
I'm changing, he realized. This world is changing me.
Whether that was good or bad, he couldn't say. But it was necessary. Weakness meant death. Mercy meant death. In this brutal existence, only the ruthless survived.
The days blurred together. Grix continued his secret experiments in the disposal pit at night, practicing with rat corpses and the occasional dead goblin. His control improved steadily. He could now maintain one undead for up to an hour before exhaustion forced him to release it.
He also discovered he could sense death itself. When a goblin was injured, close to dying, Grix felt it—a cold tingling at the base of his skull. The weaker the life force, the stronger the sensation.
It was useful information. He started keeping track of which goblins were likely to die soon, planning which corpses would be most useful for his purposes.
Two weeks after his fight with Zik, opportunity came.
The tribe went on a raid against a small farmstead. Grix was still too young to participate, but he watched from the cave entrance as the war party departed. Twenty adult goblins, armed with crude spears and clubs, led by Gruk himself.
They returned at sunset. Fifteen survived.
Five dead goblins were dragged back for the meat. Among them was Rok, one of the larger warriors who'd challenged Gruk for leadership last month. The hobgoblin had killed him personally during the raid, claiming Rok had "fought poorly" and "deserved death."
More likely, Gruk had taken the opportunity to eliminate a rival.
That night, Grix crept to the disposal pit. Rok's body had been stripped of anything valuable and tossed aside. The goblin warrior had been formidable in life—nearly as large as a hobgoblin, with thick muscles and scars from countless battles.
Perfect.
Grix placed his hands on Rok's cold chest. He'd done this enough times now to know the process. Find the death echo. Grasp it. Pull it back from the void. Command it to serve.
But Rok's corpse resisted.
The death echo was stronger, more complex than the simple younglings and animals he'd raised before. It didn't want to return. It fought against his will, slipping through his mental grasp like water.
Grix gritted his teeth, pouring more mana into the spell. Sweat dripped down his face. His head felt like it was splitting open.
RISE, DAMN YOU!
Something snapped. The resistance broke. Dark energy flooded into Rok's corpse with such force that the body convulsed violently.
The dead warrior's eyes opened—not milky white like the others, but glowing with a faint green phosphorescence. Rok sat up smoothly, no jerky movements, no clumsiness.
Then he turned to Grix and spoke.
"Master," the undead rumbled, his voice a hollow echo of what it had been in life.
Grix stumbled backward in shock. None of his previous undead had spoken. They'd been mindless puppets, capable only of following simple commands.
But Rok—undead Rok—retained something. Not full intelligence, but fragments. Muscle memory. Combat instincts. Enough awareness to communicate.
I created something different, Grix realized, his heart racing. Not just a zombie. Something more.
He focused on the mental connection. It was stronger than before, more defined. He could sense Rok's capabilities—the warrior's combat skills, his strength, his absolute loyalty to his new master.
"Stand," Grix commanded.
Rok rose to his full height, towering over the infant goblin. In life, he would have crushed Grix without hesitation. In death, he would die again before allowing his master to be harmed.
"Can you fight?" Grix asked.
"Yes, Master."
"Can you think?"
A pause. "Simple thoughts, Master. Serve you. Protect you. Kill for you."
Grix's mind raced with possibilities. If he could create undead that retained their skills and abilities, that could follow complex orders, then his power was far greater than he'd imagined.
But the cost was significant. Maintaining Rok drained his mana rapidly. He could feel it—a constant pull on his reserves. At this rate, he could only keep the undead warrior active for minutes, not hours.
I need more mana. Need to grow stronger.
"Return to the pile," Grix ordered. "Pretend to be dead. When I call, you come. Understand?"
"Yes, Master."
Rok laid back down among the corpses, going still and silent. To any casual observer, he was just another dead goblin.
Grix released the active connection but maintained a thin thread, a link that would let him reactivate his servant instantly if needed.
As he crawled back to the sleeping area, exhausted but exhilarated, Grix allowed himself a small smile.
One undead warrior. Not much, but it's a start.
He thought of Zik, still bullying the younger goblins. Of Gruk, ruling through fear and violence. Of this entire brutal world that saw him as nothing but exp fodder.
Just wait. Keep underestimating the small, weak goblin.
His fingers traced patterns in the dirt—symbols of death, of power, of transformation.
I'll show you all what happens when the dead refuse to stay buried.