The night was thick with silence, broken only by the faint crackle of fire from the goblin camp below. Malric crouched atop the ravine, his hollow sockets fixed on the disorganized creatures milling about their crude village. The fires painted jagged shadows across the ground, flickering like living things as goblins bickered, sharpened weapons, or hunched over scraps of food. There were so many of them, and yet, none seemed aware of the predator lingering just beyond the light.

Malric’s gaze drifted toward the perimeter, where a handful of sentries patrolled in loose, lazy patterns. Their movements lacked purpose—heads turning too slowly, steps too casual. They were overconfident in their numbers, and such complacency would be their undoing.

His attention narrowed to one goblin, a lanky creature gripping a spear nearly twice its size. Its path carried it away from the main group, into the shadows at the camp’s edge. The goblin glanced over its shoulder every now and then, nervous but unaware of just how alone it had become.

“Perfect,” Malric thought.

The hunt began.

Malric moved like a shadow, his body low to the ground, his steps deliberate and silent. The rough terrain of the ravine posed no challenge to him—he could move through the thickets and uneven earth as though they were flat stone. His skeletal frame, reinforced with the boar’s dense bones, allowed him to glide through the underbrush without a whisper.

Ahead of him, the goblin slowed. Its unease grew as it stepped further into the dark, spear tip twitching left and right as if the weapon alone could ward off unseen dangers. The creature muttered something in its guttural tongue, sharp eyes darting around the trees.

Malric paused, pressing himself into the shadows. The goblin’s gaze swept past him, seeing nothing but darkness.

“It senses something,” Malric mused. “But fear alone won’t save it.”

The goblin took a hesitant step forward, then another. Its breathing quickened. Malric saw the subtle tremor in its hands and felt something stir within him—a dark thrill, a satisfaction in its helplessness.

Then he struck.

Malric lunged from the shadows, his claws flashing in the faint moonlight. The goblin let out a strangled yelp, but it was silenced before it could grow. Malric’s clawed fingers clamped over its throat, lifting the creature off its feet. Its spear clattered to the ground, forgotten, as the goblin’s limbs flailed weakly.

Malric tilted his head, studying its eyes—the wide, terrified look of prey understanding its fate. For a moment, he simply held it there, savoring the fear radiating from the creature. Then, with a swift motion, he crushed its neck.

The goblin’s body went limp.

Malric dragged the corpse deeper into the underbrush, far from the firelight. He hid it beneath a tangle of roots and dirt, ensuring no trace of the struggle remained. Satisfied, he knelt beside the body, his skeletal hand running over its bones. Goblin bones were light but tough, strengthened by years of survival in harsh conditions. They were... suitable.

“Not yet,” he thought, pulling himself upright. “There’s more work to do first.”

With a last glance at the concealed corpse, Malric returned to his perch on the ravine’s edge.

The goblin camp was quieter now.

At first, nothing had seemed amiss—no alarms, no cries of warning. But Malric could see the subtle changes. Sentries looked more alert, their patrols tightening near the edges of the camp. Every so often, one would pause, glancing nervously into the darkness, as though sensing an unseen presence.

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“They know something’s wrong,” Malric thought, his jaw clicking faintly. “They feel it.”

He observed them carefully, noting their movements. The goblins were not a cohesive force; they were disorganized, relying on noise and numbers to mask their fear. Even now, that fear was beginning to spread. Sentries shouted to one another, their voices sharp and anxious. One goblin pointed toward the treeline, but the others ignored it, their attention scattered.

Malric allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He was no mindless predator; he was deliberate, methodical. Fear was his weapon now, and he would wield it with precision.

He retreated further into the ravine, the thrill of the first strike still fresh. Sitting in the dark, he planned his next move. The goblins’ confidence had already begun to crack, but one strike was not enough to shatter them.

“I’ll take another,” he decided. “A sentry, perhaps two. By the time they realize how many they’ve lost, it’ll be too late.”

He flexed his claws, the dull ache of his previous injuries from the boar hunt a quiet reminder of his limits. The goblins were small and weak, but numbers could overwhelm even him if he wasn’t careful. The shaman—Malric’s gaze hardened at the memory—would need to be isolated. Whatever crude magic it possessed could pose a risk if left unchecked.

For now, patience.

Malric’s hollow sockets turned back toward the camp, the fires casting shadows that danced like specters. The goblins didn’t know it yet, but death was coming for them. Piece by piece, he would tear their tribe apart, and when the last of their fear-wracked cries faded into the night, he would claim what was his.

His hunt was far from over.

Malric crouched in the shadows, his frame as still as the dead he embodied. The goblin corpses—meager, wretched things—lay sprawled before him, limbs splayed like broken marionettes. Their foul stench rose with the cold air, a sickly mix of blood and sweat, yet to him, it was not repulsive. It was useful.

He dragged a bony hand through the mess, pulling apart sinew and snapping brittle bones free from flesh. It was delicate work, done with patient precision. Malric's fingers pried and bent, extracting long forearm bones, slender ribs, and fragments of small skulls with mechanical efficiency. Goblin bones were crude but sufficient—lacking the raw power of beasts, yet lighter, more malleable.

“Far from ideal,” he mused, holding up a femur that still bore a ragged wound from his earlier ambush. A thin crack split its length, weakening it further. He discarded it with disdain. “But I must work with what I have.”

His gaze fell on his own frame. His current ribs, warped and blackened from rot and old damage, were a disgrace to his ever-growing form. The faint ache of imbalance clawed at his awareness. Too much weight had gathered across his upper torso after integrating the boar’s denser bones, and now each step felt slightly off-center. Annoying. Inefficient.

“This will not do.”

Malric pulled the goblin corpses closer, dragging them with scraping noises that the wind eagerly stole. Reinforcements would be necessary, but the opportunity presented more—an adjustment to better suit his methods. He began with the ribs.

The process was slow, ritualistic. Malric disassembled himself one part at a time, breaking and replacing bone with the reverence of a craftsman refining his work. His current ribs splintered under his grip as he tore them from his torso, casting them aside like brittle refuse. It was a strange sensation, not pain—he lacked the flesh or nerves to feel such trivialities—but a deep awareness of his body’s imbalance.

“Useless,” he thought as the cracked remnants clattered to the ground. They had served him well enough in earlier days, but now, as he picked through the goblin ribs, Malric saw only flaws. Weaknesses. Yet goblins, for all their inferiority, were built to move fast. Their bones were thin but flexible, meant for creatures who scrambled through forests and tunnels like rats. Perfect for fortifying what once failed him.

He slotted the first rib into place. It snapped softly, locking into his skeletal frame as if it belonged there all along. One by one, the replacements followed. Each new addition formed a tighter lattice than before, overlapping where necessary, reinforcing where his old ribs had gapped and splintered. When it was done, he rose to his feet and stretched.

His torso shifted, stronger, sturdier—but lighter. Malric ran a clawed hand across his chest, testing the structure. “Better,” he whispered, satisfaction curling like smoke in his thoughts. “And soon, much more.”

The arms were next. Malric had considered the idea for some time now. His fights had shown him his limits—one set of limbs confined him to predictable movements, predictable strikes. What he lacked in flesh he could make up for in innovation.

The goblins’ forearm bones were weak, yet nimble, and could serve as a foundation. He broke them apart cleanly, grinding the ends until they were flat and ready to connect. Carving into his own shoulders, Malric loosened space between his scapulae and began the careful task of grafting the additional limbs. It took patience to anchor them properly, melding new joints where his anatomy had not allowed for them before. A crude imitation of the horrors one might find deep in nightmare forests, but he cared little for appearances. Function mattered more.

The first limb settled into place beneath his left arm. It twitched as his will fed through the newly forged joint, fingers clenching and releasing in unsteady spasms before gaining full control. The second followed, settling beneath his right arm with greater ease.

He tested them. Flexed them. The new arms moved slightly awkward at first, but soon they obeyed his commands like the rest of his form. His skeletal silhouette had grown more monstrous, yet in the shadows, he could still fold himself tightly into the shape of a man if needed. A twisted man, but a man nonetheless.

“Versatile,” Malric thought, raising his new lower arms. One claw scraped against the other in quiet glee. “More limbs, more reach, more opportunity.”

The wind whispered through the forest as Malric stood amidst the aftermath of his work. The goblin corpses lay in ruin, torn and hollowed, their remains desecrated into tools for his evolution. He turned his gaze downward, inspecting his rebuilt form.

His torso gleamed faintly in the moonlight, its lattice of goblin ribs tighter, stronger, yet lighter than before. The weight had been rebalanced—his movements would be more fluid, more deliberate. His new arms hung at his sides, flexing experimentally, their range of motion perfectly aligned to strike or grasp when needed.

Malric curled all four hands into fists, the quiet click of bone on bone echoing softly.