Ren stood still, the cold night wind whistling around him. The scene before him was an error—a glitch in the matrix of his memory. The Whispering Stream, his promised sanctuary, his only safe harbor in this hellish world, was dead.
In its place, there was only a scar.
A wide, winding riverbed of cracked earth and dead stone. And from that wounded land, a faint, sickly glow seeped out. A slow pulse of purple light, like the heartbeat of something dying.
No.
The thought hit like a dull blow.
That's not possible. The stream is fed by a mountain spring. It can't just dry up. Unless… unless the source itself died.
He moved down the small hill, his new feet carrying him with a confidence he didn't feel. With every step, the anomaly became more real. The map in his head—his only advantage, his sacred relic from the old world—was wrong.
Not a minor change.
A fundamental rewrite of the terrain.
The wolf.
His mind connected the dots with a cold, terrifying click.
That purple mark on its leg. Same color.
Coincidence? Impossible. In game design, nothing is coincidence. A repeated visual cue across unrelated elements meant one thing: connection.
The wolf had been here.
It walked this poisoned ground.
And it was marked.
The fear in his gut sharpened into something colder.
Curiosity.
The kind that drove players to click glowing objects they knew were traps.
If his game knowledge wasn't reliable anymore, then he needed new data.
And the source of that data pulsed right in front of him.
He reached the edge of the dry riverbed.
The air was wrong.
Heavier.
Silence hung unnaturally, like sound itself avoided the purple glow. No insects. No wind in the leaves. Everything felt muted. Distant.
His heart pounded as he stepped into the scar.
The ground beneath his feet was brittle. Cracked like glass. The fissures themselves emitted the glow.
He crouched, his taller frame making him feel exposed. He examined one of the cracks.
The light wasn't from crystals.
It came from the earth itself.
A seep.
A miasma rising from something deep below.
He extended his hand. Obsidian claws hovering over the glow.
Idiot. Don't touch that. The wolf got marked by it. It's… wrong.
But the player in him won.
The explorer.
The one who always clicked.
He pressed the tip of his claw into the cracked earth.
No system window appeared.
No [Poisoned].
No [Corrupted].
But he felt it.
Emptiness.
Not cold. Not exactly.
Absence.
Like touching something that didn't drain heat—but existence itself. A void that pulled at the life in the air, the mana in the world, the water that used to flow here.
He jerked his hand back, a shiver running through his body.
This isn't drought.
It's drain.
Something is feeding on this land.
He stood, scanning the riverbed.
The glow stretched onward. South. Deeper into the forest.
Whatever was causing this—
The heart of it lay that way.
A sound snapped the silence.
A branch breaking.
Close. Too close.
Ren froze. Dropped low instantly. His body moved before thought. He turned his head, ears twitching, locking onto the source.
Behind him.
The forest.
He dove, rolling into the shadow of a large rock at the edge of the dead stream.
Heart hammering.
He wasn't a goblin anymore. His green-gray skin still blended with moss and stone—but he was bigger now. Easier to spot.
He peeked over the rock.
And saw them.
Two figures.
Moving through the trees with practiced efficiency.
Players.
One tall and broad, clad in steel plate armor catching the last light of dusk. A Warrior.
The other lean, leather-clad, longbow in hand. An Archer.
They weren't running.
They were hunting.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
They weren't here for him. Not yet. Probably just farming mobs or doing a gathering quest.
But if they saw him—
A "Half-Goblin Pariah."
A creature that didn't exist in the game database.
To them, he wasn't a monster.
He was a Unique.
A trophy.
A walking jackpot of EXP and potential loot.
They'd kill him instantly.
The Archer stopped. Raised a hand.
The Warrior froze beside him.
The Archer pointed.
Not at Ren.
At the riverbed.
"See that, Gorath?" the Archer said, his voice clear in the dead air. "The ground… it's glowing."
The Warrior stepped closer. "By the gods… what is that? New event quest?"
"Don't know. Nothing on the forums. Let's check it out. Carefully."
Ren held his breath.
They were coming.
Straight toward him.
The rock wasn't enough. From the right angle, they'd see him.
Two options.
Run.
Break cover. Sprint into the forest. Follow the dead river path.
No.
Too noisy. Too exposed.
The Archer would drop him in seconds.
Stay.
Hide.
Pray.
Also death. Player curiosity wasn't optional. They'd check every inch.
There was a third option.
A player option.
If you can't win… use the environment.
Ren scanned frantically.
Rock. Riverbed. Purple cracks. Darkness.
His eyes locked onto a dense thorn bush across the river.
Far. Twenty meters.
Unreachable without being seen.
Unless—
He didn't need to run there.
He looked back at the rock.
Two meters tall.
Wide base.
But…
Unstable.
Perched on the sloped edge of the bank.
A stupid plan.
Reckless.
Desperate.
Strength: 7. Agility: 8.
He wasn't weak anymore.
The players were closer now. Thirty meters. Descending cautiously.
"The air feels off," the Archer said.
"Stay sharp," Gorath replied, hand on his sword.
Ren didn't wait.
He pressed his back against the rock.
Ignored the pain in his half-healed wounds.
Bent his legs.
Pushed.
Nothing.
He gritted his teeth. Panic rising.
Pushed again.
Harder.
Every ounce of strength.
A grinding sound.
Dirt shifted.
Stone scraped.
The rock tilted.
One inch.
"You hear that?" Gorath snapped.
They turned.
Right at him.
Ren roared—half human, half beast—and shoved with everything he had.
The rock gave.
Slow at first.
Then it tipped.
Fell.
CRASH.
It slammed into the riverbed below. Dust and debris exploded outward.
For a split second—
Their vision was blocked.
Ren moved.
Not away.
Along the bank.
Inside the shadow of the dust cloud.
Then dove into the thorn bush.
Pain exploded.
Needles piercing his skin.
[-1 HP]
[-1 HP]
[-1 HP]
He didn't react.
Curled tight. Made himself small.
Still.
Silent.
"What the hell was that?!" the Archer shouted, bow drawn.
"A landslide," Gorath said, tense. "Ground's unstable here. Watch your step."
They waited.
One minute.
An eternity.
Ren didn't breathe.
Thorns dug deeper.
Pain kept him focused.
Finally—
"Probably just natural," Gorath said. "Let's move. I want a closer look at that purple glow."
Footsteps.
Closer.
Five meters.
Ren could smell them. Oil. Leather. Steel.
He shut his eyes.
Waiting for the arrow.
The blade.
Nothing came.
They passed.
Kept going.
Down into the riverbed.
Toward the fallen rock.
Ren stayed still.
Seconds stretched.
Then—
Silence.
He was alive.
For now.
Curled in darkness, bleeding from dozens of small cuts, Ren opened his eyes.
Through a gap in the thorns, he watched the two players illuminated by the sick purple glow.
The map was wrong.
The water was gone.
Players were here.
Only one thing was certain.
That pulsing, cold scar stretching into the dark.
And he knew—deep, undeniable—
If he wanted to survive,
He had to follow the poison
to its source.