We moved like ghosts.
Not the kind that floated, or moaned, or haunted hallways in old stories. The kind that survived something they weren't supposed to survive, and now walked quietly because any louder sound might invite the world to finish the job.
Boss's blood left a dark trail at first. Then the healer—an older goblin with stained fingers and a pouch full of bitter moss—stuffed the wound tight and tied it with vine cord until the bleeding slowed to a thick seep. Boss kept walking anyway, jaw clenched, good eye sharp with pain.
The tribe was smaller.
You could feel it in the gaps—spaces where there used to be bodies, empty trails where voices should have been. Even goblin chatter had a different shape now. Less stupid squabbling. More silence.
Mogrin stayed pressed against me until we found a place to stop.
He'd coughed so hard his throat bled. His eyes were dull with exhaustion, and he moved like his bones were full of wet sand. But he was alive. He breathed. He blinked when I spoke.
Alive.
That was enough.
Boss chose a temporary hollow deep under a weave of roots that formed a natural ceiling. No fire. No smoke. Scouts posted in the canopy. Trappers laid crude noise-lines—vines tied with bone chimes that would rattle if anything pushed through.
When the tribe finally halted, it wasn't because we were safe.
It was because we couldn't move anymore.
The night came quietly. Darkness pooled between tree trunks and turned the world into layers of shadow. The forest still smelled beautiful—wet moss, fern, river-water somewhere far away—but now it carried a new undertone like a stain that wouldn't wash out.
Burn.
Smoke.
Human.
No one slept properly. Goblins dozed in short bursts, jerking awake at every distant rustle. I leaned against a root with Mogrin beside me, his head dipping onto my shoulder when exhaustion finally won.
Boss sat apart, thought-heavy, with two guards nearby. Ear-Torn paced like a hungry dog that smelled weakness. Every few minutes his eyes would cut to me.
As if staring could make blame grow teeth.
I forced myself to stay calm. Calm was armor. In the office, calm stopped people from piling on. Here, it might stop someone from deciding I was worth testing.
I tried to think about the system instead. About something I could control.
When I let my eyes unfocus, the blue window drifted into view.
Name: VarkRace: GoblinLevel: 2EXP: 40/100
STR: 3AGI: 5VIT: 3WIL: 6
Unspent Points: 2
The numbers looked small, but my body felt… different.
Even sitting, I could feel strength coiled under my skin. Like the muscles had been tightened with new rope. When I flexed my fingers, the movement felt quicker, sharper. My senses were clearer. The world's edges seemed less blurry.
It wasn't just in my head. The level-up had changed me.
That thought should have comforted me.
Instead it made me nauseous.
Because the change had come from tearing a human's throat open.
My gaze drifted to my hands. The blood was gone now, washed away in the stream earlier, but I could still feel it. Hot. Slick. The way the human's eyes had stared into mine as his body emptied itself.
I swallowed hard.
Mogrin stirred beside me, coughing lightly in his sleep. I shifted my arm under his head to make it more comfortable. He made a small happy noise without waking.
My chest tightened again. Not with fear this time. With something warmer.
Responsibility.
Morning arrived pale and damp. Sunlight filtered weakly through the canopy, turning the mist into ghost-light. Birds called cautiously, as if the forest itself was checking whether it was safe to be loud again.
Boss called the tribe together.
Not everyone gathered. Some were too injured. Some were too numb. But most came, forming a rough circle around a patch of bare ground.
In the center lay bundles.
Bodies.
Wrapped in leaves and woven mats, tied with vine cord. You couldn't see the faces. But you could smell them—death had a sweetness that made my stomach twist.
The tribe didn't cry the way humans did. There was no wailing. No long speeches. Goblins mourned like they lived—short, sharp, practical.
Boss stood with one hand pressed to his bandaged side. His leaf cloak was darker at the edge where blood had dried.
He raised a hand.
The murmurs died.
Boss spoke in slow goblin-speech so even the youngest could understand.
"Dead go back," he said.
Two older goblins stepped forward—one a scavenger with careful hands, the other a trapper with resin-stained fingers. They untied the first bundle.
Inside was the scout who'd been pinned by an arrow during the purge. His neck was still bent slightly wrong, skin pale-green where blood had drained out. His eyes were closed.
The scavenger placed a small bead on his chest—one of Boss's carved wooden beads, split from the necklace he wore. A gift. A mark.
The trapper took a stone knife and made three shallow cuts across the scout's forearm, then smeared damp moss into the cuts.
Not to heal.
To seed.
The meaning hit me slowly as I watched. Moss was life here. Moss fed bugs. Bugs fed frogs. Frogs fed snakes. Everything fed everything.
Dead didn't disappear.
Dead became foundation.
The scavenger then took the scout's gear—feather tokens, bone chimes—and removed them carefully. Those would not go to the ground. Those would return to the tribe.
Nothing wasted.
Boss spoke again. "We give forest body," he said. "We keep tools. We keep teeth. We keep memory."
Memory. Not sentimental memory—useful memory. The kind that stayed alive in objects and habits and warnings.
They carried the scout's body to the base of a massive tree where roots formed a natural cradle. They laid him into it, tucked him deep, covered him with moss, then pressed damp earth over the top until only a mound remained.
A burial.
But not in a graveyard. In the living belly of the forest.
The next bundle was opened.
The trapper whose guts had spilled during the purge. His abdomen had been tied with vine cord to keep him "whole" for the ritual, but even wrapped, you could smell the blood that had soaked into him.
The scavenger placed another wooden bead on his chest.
The trapper made the same three cuts.
Moss smeared into them.
Then into the roots.
One by one, the dead were returned.
No prayers. No "he was a good goblin." No lies.
Just the quiet, brutal truth that the forest took and the tribe tried to endure.
Mogrin stood beside me, eyes glossy. His hands clenched and unclenched. When the smallest bundle was opened—one of the young goblins crushed under a boot—Mogrin made a tiny sound that might have been a sob swallowed back.
I leaned closer and whispered, "Look away if you want."
Mogrin shook his head hard. "No," he whispered. "Mogrin remember."
That was goblin mourning.
Remember, so you don't die the same way.
When the last bundle was covered, Boss stood silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Now live."
The circle loosened. Goblins drifted away, returning to tasks because tasks were the only thing that kept fear from filling the body completely.
But the circle didn't break completely.
A different tension remained, coiled like a trap line.
Boss's good eye shifted toward me.
Ear-Torn stepped forward immediately, like he'd been waiting for this moment all night.
"Boss," Ear-Torn said loudly. "Weird-head."
Murmurs rippled again. Hungry grief searching for a place to bite.
Boss didn't respond yet.
Ear-Torn pressed on, voice sharp. "Metal-men follow Vark and Mogrin. Purge come. Many die."
His finger jabbed toward me. "Vark bring bad. Vark talk clean. Vark smell wrong."
Some goblins nodded. Some looked away. No one wanted to be the first to disagree with the loudest mouth.
Ear-Torn's gaze flicked to Mogrin with contempt. "Mogrin touch shiny like baby. Vark let him. Vark is curse."
The word curse spread quickly. It was a simple explanation. A story that made pain feel like it had a shape.
I felt my jaw tighten.
My body wanted to move. My goblin instincts wanted to bare teeth.
My human brain—what was left of it—remembered office politics and knew this wasn't about truth. It was about control. Fear needed a scapegoat, and Ear-Torn wanted to be the one who pointed.
Boss finally spoke. "What you want?" he asked Ear-Torn, voice flat.
Ear-Torn puffed up. "Exile," he said, spitting the word like it tasted good. "Send weird-head away. Send curse away."
Murmurs rose. Some goblins snarled agreement. Others hesitated, eyes flicking to me, then away. Pragmatism and superstition wrestling in their faces.
A scavenger goblin muttered, "Vark kill wolves… Vark make pit… Vark help."
Ear-Torn rounded on him. "Help bring bad!"
Another goblin hissed, "No Vark, no metal-men."
A trapper whispered, "Metal-men come anyway… but…"
The debate started. Not polite. Not structured. Goblins didn't do meetings. They did noise.
"Exile!""Keep! Need clever!""Curse!""Meat need!""Boss decide!"
Boss let it churn for a moment, watching. Letting the tribe show its true hunger.
Then he raised his hand.
Silence fell fast.
Boss's good eye locked on me. "Vark," he said. "You speak."
Every face turned.
My throat went dry.
Speaking "clean" had already made me a target. Speaking now could seal my fate.
I forced my words simple, goblin-shaped.
"Metal-men see Mogrin," I said. "Mogrin touch shiny. Not Vark plan. Vark pull Mogrin back. Vark known it bad."
Ear-Torn snorted. "Lie."
I ignored him. "Vark kill metal-men so Mogrin live," I continued. "Vark make pit so worg go. Vark help boar kill. Vark… want tribe live."
That last sentence came out rougher than I meant. Too full.
A murmur ran through the circle.
Boss didn't react.
He looked at Mogrin. "Mogrin," he said. "You speak."
Mogrin froze.
He wasn't used to being asked. He was used to being told.
His mouth opened. Closed. He swallowed hard, eyes darting to me, then to Boss, then to the gathered tribe.
For a second I thought he'd shrink back.
Then Mogrin stepped forward.
His legs shook, but he kept moving until he stood beside me in the center of the circle, small body squared like he was trying to be bigger.
"Mogrin…" he started, voice thin.
Ear-Torn smirked.
Mogrin's face tightened.
Then he spoke again, louder.
"Mogrin touch shiny," he admitted. "Mogrin stupid."
A ripple of surprise ran through the tribe. Goblins didn't like admitting weakness out loud.
Mogrin kept going anyway, voice shaking but stubborn.
"Metal-men see Mogrin. Metal-men chase. Vark save Mogrin. Vark kill metal-men. Vark carry Mogrin when smoke hurt. Vark choose Mogrin."
His ears flattened as he forced words out around emotion. "Vark not curse. Vark big-think. Big-think keep us live."
The phrase landed like a stone dropped into water.
Big-think keep us live.
A few goblins shifted uncomfortably.
Ear-Torn's sneer faltered.
Mogrin looked around at them all, eyes bright with tears he refused to let fall.
"If exile Vark," Mogrin said, voice breaking slightly, "then exile Mogrin too. Mogrin go with Vark."
A hush fell.
That was brave. Stupid brave. The kind that got you killed in this world.
But it was also loyalty, the one currency goblins respected even when they didn't understand it.
Boss stared at Mogrin for a long moment.
Then Boss looked back at me.
His good eye narrowed.
"Vark," Boss said slowly, "you make trouble. Fast."
My stomach sank.
Boss raised a hand before the murmurs could rise again.
"But," Boss continued, voice firm, "you also make tribe live. Fast."
The "but" held the tribe like a hook through the jaw.
Boss shifted his weight, pain tightening his face. "We keep Vark," he said. "Because we need clever. We need eyes. We need trap."
Ear-Torn started to protest, but Boss snapped, "Enough."
Ear-Torn shut, but his eyes burned.
Boss's gaze swept the tribe. "We move," he said. "Metal-men know smell here. We go to water."
Water.
The lake.
The bountiful place scouts had whispered about before, where fish were thick and reeds grew tall and the air smelled rich.
But also…
Bogkin.
I'd heard the word in murmurs. A warning. A promise. Something earthy and old.
Boss pointed at the scouts. "Lead."
Scouts nodded, already moving.
Boss's gaze returned to me one last time. "Vark," he said. "If you bring bad again… Boss cut."
He drew a finger across his throat in the same simple gesture as before.
My spine chilled.
I nodded anyway. "Yes."
Because what else could I do?
We traveled for two days.
Not straight—nothing in this forest was straight—but steadily, guided by scouts who knew how to read moss direction and wind and the taste of water in the air.
The tribe moved like a wounded animal. Quiet. Alert. Smaller than before.
We crossed streams and ridges. We skirted a mushroom-choked dead zone where the air smelled sour and spores glittered in the light. We glimpsed a stoneback tortoise near a creek—an unmoving boulder with slow breath—and the scouts guided us wide around it as if it were sacred or dangerous or both.
At night we slept in shifts under root ceilings. No fire. Raw meat and bitter moss.
Boss's wound slowed him, but he refused to be carried. Every time someone offered, he bared teeth and walked harder.
Mogrin recovered slowly. His cough lessened. His steps steadied. But he stayed close to me, eyes sharper now, less naive in the way that mattered. Trauma had carved new rules into him.
He didn't touch "shiny" anymore without looking at me first.
On the second evening, we crested a root ridge and the forest opened.
Not into a clearing.
Into a mirror.
A lake spread wide below, dark water reflecting the canopy and the pale sky beyond. Mist curled over its surface like breath. Reeds and broad-leaf plants crowded the edges, thick and alive. Birds wheeled overhead, and the air smelled… rich.
Fish. Wet earth. Growth.
Food.
The tribe stopped as if struck.
Goblins stared, mouths slightly open.
A scavenger whispered, "Big water…"
A trapper murmured, "Many life…"
Boss's good eye narrowed, scanning the shoreline.
Then he grunted once.
"Good," he said.
The tribe exhaled as one.
Relief didn't make them safe, but it made them human-shaped for a moment—small bodies loosening, shoulders dropping, fear easing.
Then a scout hissed softly and pointed.
Across the lake, near a cluster of reeds, something moved.
Not a goblin.
Not a human.
A tall silhouette, half hidden—earthy, broad, with a shape that didn't fit the forest's usual lines. It moved slowly, watching. Then it sank back into reeds and vanished.
Bogkin.
No encounter. Just a reminder.
This place belonged to others too.
Boss ordered the new settlement built in the trees—not on the shore.
Three enormous trees stood close together near the lake, their crowns interwoven, forming a natural fortress of branches and shade.
The scouts called them the Three Crowns.
Boss pointed upward. "There," he said. "We build. Water below. Eyes above."
Trappers climbed and began lashing branches into platforms. Scavengers hauled supplies up. Goblins moved with purpose again—building, weaving, binding. Rebuilding.
Watching them, I felt something inside me loosen.
This was… a fresh start.
Not clean. Not free of danger. But a direction.
That night, while the tribe worked and the lake whispered below, I finally took a moment alone at the edge of a platform.
Mogrin sat nearby, chewing dried boar meat, slingshot across his lap like a companion.
I opened my status window.
Level 2. EXP 40/100.Unspent Points: 2.
My eyes lingered on the attributes.
STR 3. AGI 5. VIT 3. WIL 6.
I could feel the difference already—faster reactions, clearer mind under stress. But speed wouldn't help if I got caught. Endurance mattered. And whatever WIL was—instinct, resistance, something like mental toughness—it had kept me from breaking completely in the smoke.
I made my choice.
One point to VIT.
One point to WIL.
The numbers ticked up.
VIT: 4WIL: 7
A wave of warmth rolled through my chest and stomach, subtle but real, like my body had tightened its grip on life. My breathing felt deeper. The ache in my shoulder dulled slightly.
Then a new window slid into place, quieter than the others, as if it respected the moment.
Title Earned: Forest SurvivorEffect: Slightly increases survival instincts and reduces panic under sudden threat.
It wasn't flashy.
It wasn't power.
It was a whisper of steadiness.
And it fit.
I exhaled slowly, staring out over the lake's dark mirror.
Mogrin glanced over. "Vark see blue words?" he whispered.
"Yes," I said.
Mogrin beamed, then hesitated. His face softened. "Vark… Mogrin sorry. For shiny pouch."
I looked at him.
A naive scout who'd almost gotten us all killed, who'd then stood in front of the tribe and offered exile beside me.
"Don't do it again," I said.
Mogrin nodded hard. "No. Mogrin listen now."
He patted the slingshot. "Mogrin get strong. With Vark."
I stared at the water, at the Three Crowns rising above it, at the faint reeds where the Bogkin silhouette had disappeared.
The forest wasn't done with us. Humans would come again. Worgs would remember. The lake might hide new dangers. The Bogkin might not tolerate goblins building in their shadow forever.
But for the first time since waking in mud with blood in my mouth, I felt something like direction instead of pure reaction.
I wasn't Patrick anymore.
I wasn't just surviving minute to minute.
I had a tribe—flawed, biting, frightened, but mine to protect if I chose that burden.
And I was choosing it.
I rested a hand on the rough bark of the platform, feeling the Three Crowns steady beneath my palm.
"I live here now," I whispered—quiet enough that only the lake heard.
Then I turned back toward the goblins rebuilding above the water, toward Mogrin's eager eyes, toward the work waiting in the branches.
And I started planning how to get stronger.