John kept walking through the muddy, chaotic streets of the goblin village, still wiping flecks of drying blood from his armor and trying to shake off the sting in his bitten hand.
The bite throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that made him wince every few steps, but the victory high from his first real kills still buzzed warmly in his chest.
He had done something heroic, or at least morally justified, and the rush of using his Threads skill so effectively left him feeling powerful.
The village continued its endless cycle of noise and filth around him—goblins arguing, fighting, fucking, trading shineys, and laughing in raspy voices. Smoke from cookfires mixed with the heavy musk of unwashed bodies and the sharp tang of fresh blood from somewhere nearby. It was raw, primal, and strangely alive in a way that made his skin tingle.
He turned a corner past a cluster of leaning huts and froze.
There, lumbering down the widest path like he owned the entire valley, was the biggest, meanest-looking goblin John had ever seen. This wasn't one of the slender, femboyish types that made up most of the village. This creature looked more orc than goblin, towering at least seven feet tall, built like a walking slab of muscle and fat, with a massive gut that strained against his crude war berserker armor. The armor itself was a patchwork of scavenged metal plates, spiked pauldrons, and thick leather straps studded with bones and teeth. In one meaty fist he carried a giant spiked club that looked like it could flatten a horse in a single swing. The goblin king's face was a brutish mask of scars and yellowed tusks, small red eyes gleaming with casual cruelty beneath a heavy brow.
John's heart raced with excitement. This had to be the chief. The big boss. The strongest goblin in the village.
As he watched, a smaller goblin, skinny and nervous-looking, accidentally bumped into the king's leg while scurrying past with an armful of shineys.
The little one didn't even have time to apologize.
The king's face twisted in instant rage. With a bellow that shook nearby huts, he swung the massive spiked club in a wide, lazy arc.
The weapon connected with a sickening wet crunch, turning the smaller goblin into nothing but a red smear of pulp, bone fragments, and flattened meat across the muddy ground. Blood sprayed in a wide fan, splattering nearby goblins who simply laughed or shrugged and went back to their business. The king grunted, kicked the remains aside like trash, and kept walking without a second glance.
John's grin widened, slow and wicked. This was classic prison rules.
Kill the strongest person you see and you end up becoming the ruler. Hehehehehe… Perfect. He could take this fat bastard down, claim the village, become the new king, and start building his overlord empire right here. No more small-time mercenary act. This was his moment.
He broke into a run, black curls bouncing as he charged forward. "WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING, YOU FUCKING OAF!" he roared, voice carrying across the street with all the bravado he could muster.
The goblin king stopped dead. The entire village seemed to hold its breath for a split second. Slowly, the massive brute turned around, red eyes narrowing into slits of pure, seething fury. Veins bulged across his thick neck and forehead. His tusks gleamed as his lips pulled back in a snarl that revealed rows of jagged teeth. "What… did you just call me, little shit?"
John skidded to a halt a respectful distance away, heart hammering now that he was actually facing the monster up close.
The chief was enormous, broad shoulders, tree-trunk arms, and that spiked club looked even deadlier from this angle. John frantically opened his mental inventory window, blue light flickering briefly in his vision. Nothing. No weapons. No armor upgrades. Just the clothes on his back and his Threads skill. Shit. But he could win… right? He had superpowers. Tenacity. Physical Demon. Threads. This was his isekai protagonist moment. He just had to play it smart.
The chief didn't wait for an answer. With a ground-shaking roar he charged, club raised high. The fight exploded into motion faster than John could process.
The first swing came like a meteor.
John barely dodged, threads whipping out instinctively to try and slice the king's arm. The ultra-sharp silk cut deep into the brute's forearm, drawing a spray of hot blood, but the chief barely seemed to notice. He bellowed and swung again, the spiked club whistling through the air. John rolled desperately, the weapon cratering the ground where he had stood, sending mud and rocks flying. He countered with more threads, aiming for the eyes and throat, but the king swatted them aside with his free hand like annoying flies, the thick skin and muscle absorbing the cuts.
"You think you can challenge me, outsider?!" the king roared, voice like grinding boulders.
He lunged forward with surprising speed for his size, shoulder-checking John hard enough to crack ribs.
Pain exploded through John's chest as he flew backward, slamming into a wooden hut. The structure shuddered but held. John gasped, blood trickling from his mouth, but Tenacity was already kicking in. His mind sharpened despite the agony, tactical awareness flooding him as the fight dragged on.
He pushed off the wall and unleashed a barrage of threads, wrapping them around the chief's legs in an attempt to trip him.
The silk held for half a second before the brute simply flexed and snapped them. The counter-swing caught John across the shoulder, spikes tearing through armor and flesh alike.
Blood sprayed. John screamed, the pain pushing Physical Demon into overdrive. Strength surged through his limbs, regeneration kicking in as he became a blur of green and silver.
He closed the distance, fists enhanced by raw power, hammering blows into the king's gut. Each punch landed with meaty thuds that made the fat jiggle, but the chief only laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through John's bones. A backhand the size of a dinner plate sent John spinning through the air. He crashed through the first building—a flimsy storage hut—wood splintering around him in a shower of splinters and dust. Pain flared, but he rolled to his feet, threads lashing out wildly to slice tendons and arteries.
The king roared and charged again, club swinging in wide, devastating arcs. John dodged and weaved, using the environment, leaping over barrels, sliding under swinging signs, threads anchoring him to rooftops for quick repositioning. He landed a lucky slash across the chief's face, opening a deep gash over one eye that blinded him with blood. The brute howled in rage and swung blindly. The club clipped John's side, cracking more ribs and sending him tumbling through the second building, a sleeping hut filled with startled goblins who scattered screaming.
John emerged coughing dust and blood, vision blurring, but his body was adapting, muscles burning with unnatural power. He wrapped threads around the chief's club arm, yanking hard to unbalance him. For a moment it worked—the king stumbled.
John pressed the advantage, leaping onto the brute's back and driving threaded fists into his thick neck. Blood flowed. The king reached back, grabbed John by the leg, and slammed him into the ground like a ragdoll before hurling him through the third building. Walls exploded outward in a spray of wood, thatch, and screaming villagers.
Agony consumed John's world, but Tenacity kept his mind razor-sharp even as Physical Demon poured strength into his broken body.
He staggered up, threads forming a desperate shield as the king barreled through the wreckage of the fourth building, reducing it to kindling around them both. The final swing was inevitable. The massive spiked club connected with John's torso in a devastating impact that lifted him clean off his feet. Bones shattered. The world became a spinning blur of pain, blood, and destruction as he flew backward through the air.
He smashed through the remains of the fourth building in a shower of debris, body tumbling end over end before slamming hard into the thick trunk of an old tree at the edge of the village clearing.
The impact rattled his teeth and drove the air from his lungs in a wet gasp. He slid down the bark, leaving a trail of blood, and crumpled to the ground in a broken, gasping heap.
Every breath sent fresh knives of pain through his cracked ribs. Blood filled his mouth. His vision swam with dark spots.
The goblin king stood in the distance, chest heaving, club dripping with blood and gore, roaring triumphantly as the village watched in stunned silence.
John lay against the tree, body screaming, but a small, stubborn spark of defiance still burned in his eyes. This fight wasn't over. Not yet. Not if he had anything to say about it.
The new life had just delivered its first real test, and it had rocked him harder than anything since the original Truck-kun.
But somewhere deep down, beneath the pain and the blood, John Haisha,now Gob the would-be overlord, gritted his teeth and promised himself he would get stronger.
Much stronger.
Because in this world, only the strongest got to fuck all the goblins, rule the villages, and eventually conquer everything. And he was just getting started.