If anything, the goblin smelled worse dead than it did alive. If it was bad before it was absolutely putrid now.
It had taken a while for Derrick to notice the scent. At first, he had just sat there, listlessly glancing at the light blue wall across from him, dead to the world. After a while, little things started to flit in and out of his mind, like the smell, or the fact that his arm had stopped bleeding. He turned to regard it and was treated to the jarring sight of scabbed over flesh and flaky, dried blood.
“Shouldn’t I wash these wounds?”, he thought blearily. He turned away from the mess that he had caused and instantly felt as if some of his energy had returned to him. For right now, at least, Derrick needed to gather his thoughts, and he had no desire to remain here, near his victim, any longer. Slowly, Derrick pulled himself off the ground, careful not to direct his eyes towards the fresh body. Stalking across the living room, Derrick made his way to the bathroom, seemingly intent on some new objective.
If he was going to wash out all the blood and gunk around his injuries then he would need to find a cloth. He remembered that usually a collection of different dishcloths could be found around the house, most of which originated from under the bathroom sink. It didn't take him long to find one. The goblin had left the bathroom untouched, at least, and he selected a dry blue one under the sink that seemed to be clean, as far as he could tell.
The sink itself already was filled to the brim with water. It was a simple enough task to dab the rag in the water and begin to wipe away at his arm. A simple task that was more complicated in execution. Derrick grimaced as he felt some of the matter around his arm pull off, new blood rushing to flow out of the fragile wounds.
Switching his grip on the towel, Derrick changed tactics. Instead of swiping his wounds with the rag, he dabbed, attempting to clean out his wounds without opening them all over again. First, he dabbed at his arm, then at the claw marks that were on his chest, and then finally at his most shallow wounds, on his stomach. His wounds ached and twinged throughout the process, but mostly, he was able to clean out most of the dirt and debris without making himself bleed again. Still, enough blood-soaked from his agitated wounds that the blue rag became stained a purplish red.
Finally done with washing his wounds, Derrick took a breath. He felt much better after being sure that his injuries were clean, but his own thoughts reminded him that to properly heal, he needed to accomplish one more task. Moving away from the bathroom, Derrick carefully avoided the living room on his way upstairs, to one of the storage closets, where he knew that the medical supplies were kept. Thankfully, his family didn’t often need to use them, there was still a full roll of gauze included with the kit when Derrick checked it.
Back in the bathroom, Derrick took his time bandaging himself up, making sure that he had managed to get all of his injuries. By the time that he was done he had already gone through half of the roll.
After he finished Derrick didn’t move on immediately. Instead, he fussed around his bandages, making sure that all of them were tight and sturdy, and that he wouldn’t be bleeding anywhere. Then he checked them again. More than he needed to, in fact. He finished and let out a sigh. “What am I doing?” Even to himself, Derrick sounded rather weary. How he wished that he could just wake up to find out that this had all been a very bad dream.
Derrick walked mechanically out of the bathroom, through the kitchen and into the living room. He remembered where the body was, and so he knew where to look to not see it, or to only see the least of it. He licked his lips and felt the sweat the building upon the back of his arm. Derrick’s collar suddenly felt hot. He moved his arm to adjust it, but that didn’t help him. It still seemed to burn his neck. Derrick resolved to change shirts as soon as possible. This one has been cut up in his fight anyway.
Derrick rubbed his fingers against one another, and finally, reluctantly, pulled his head to what lay beside him.
Looking at the devastation that was the goblin’s remains, Derrick did not throw up again. Instead, he merely looked at them with a gaze full of vague disbelief, a sleeping wakefulness that seemed to rise from his toes to his legs, and from there to his torso. Derrick felt his legs sway, almost drifting away, but he did not fall.
The rotting odor of putrescence finally reached his nose, making him recoil, bringing consciousness to his movements. He looked at the body again, blinking.
He had done this.
He could see the marks where he had dug the lamp in, again and again, the bruises and broken flesh where his heavy blows had fallen. He could see the murder weapon, the iron lamp pole, discarded and coated in the ichor of the scene. He could see the aftermath, the two pools of vomit that had erupted from him when he realized exactly what he had done to the goblin.
He had killed it.
But he had done more than that. Killing something doesn’t require you to break its face in, to fracture it’s skull into a million pieces, to spatter its brain matter upon the floor-
He went to throw up again, but he hadn’t eaten since the fight. There was nothing left in his stomach. He curled over and felt himself dry heave, a wave of nausea working its way down his spine as he gaped and expelled air, half expecting another round of sickness to vomit upon the floor in front of him. But there was nothing, and a few minutes later, the dry heaving stopped.
Derrick remained curled up, panting, for a long silence, before he finally stopped. It was longer still before he chanced another glance at the body in front of him.
But when he did look, he couldn’t wrench his eyes away. Instead, he simply remained, focusing on the corpse, silent and motionless as his mind worked.
“Nothing deserves to die like this,” Derrick realized, looking upon what he had made of his foe. “Not like this.”
Not that the goblin hadn’t justified Derrick’s actions, despite the treatment that its body had received. The goblin had broken into his house, stolen his food, and tried to kill him. It had every single intention of doing just that, of ripping his flesh apart and feasting upon his guts, and it would have if Derrick hadn’t killed it first.
But even if the goblin would have killed him without a single care, now, looking over its corpse, Derrick didn't feel like the goblin deserved its death. Instead, all he could see was the way that its body lay, sunken, upon the floor, and all he could think of was that he was a murderer.
The thought resounded in Derrick’s head, over and over. He had murdered that goblin, it had died by his hands. Derrick felt dirty, a low, swelling corruption that filled him with a deep foreboding shame. In his mind, Derrick could see the life that had just a couple hours ago danced within the goblin’s eyes, a light that Derrick had extinguished. Even if it was a goblin, it was still alive.
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He shivered, looking at the corpse, feeling a wretchedness rise up within him. For a system that was so gamelike, this was decidedly too real. He hated that he and the goblin had fought. Hated that he had needed to kill the goblin to live and that he had lost himself in fear so deeply to do all of this.
And yet, a dark part of him whispered that he would do it again.
For even as Derrick felt the guilt that lay within him, and felt the disgust that ran rampant as he observed his own actions, he had killed the goblin in front of him because he wanted to survive.
And within Derrick, all of the guilt and the shame paled in front of his desire to survive. To Derrick, nothing was more important, even though the method that he had used to achieve his survival disgusted him.
He would do everything in his power to stay alive.
This wasn’t going to be his last fight, Derrick knew, even though he wished it were otherwise. The goblins and the wolves, someday Derrick would have to fight them again. More than them, assuming that he ever wanted to get out of this place, then he would also need to fight, or run from whatever other monsters lurked between here and . . . wherever he decided to go. There would be times when he wouldn’t be able to run away when he would have to fight for his life. To kill to be able to survive.
Derrick didn’t want to kill, but he didn’t want to die more. And if he would have to kill things anyway . . . Derrick paused, feeling queasy, unable to voice his thoughts within his mind. He knew that his idea was most likely the smartest thing to do, but it was terrible, and he felt terrible just thinking about it-
Derrick looked down at the goblin’s corpse. Then he pictured himself lying on the floor, dead, his skull shattered, and his brains leaking onto the floorboards, staining them a disgusting purplish color. And suddenly, the idea that he had didn’t seem quite so bad after all.
If he killed more than he would level up. He would grow stronger. Attacking the monsters directly would be suicide, but if he picked off a few stragglers, it would be much easier to survive.
The very thought of it made Derrick feel sick. Sick with himself. Sick that he was thinking about killing things just so that he could grow more powerful.
But could he survive without it?
That goblin had been strong. It had barely cared about the knife wound in its side, and its claws had easily ripped his skin apart. If that was the strength of a single goblin, then Derrick did not even want to think about how he would fare against the dozens of them that were outside, or the dozens of wolves, for that matter.
Derrick didn’t know how strong leveling up made him, but he needed all the strength he could get.
And if that meant killing- Derrick shivered, a tingling nervousness making its way down his back.
If that meant killing, then he would just have to do it. To just end their life, to feel their lifeblood drain away. To look into their eyes as they lay, dying on the floor. Derrick exhaled a shaky breath, looking for purchase. His mind divulged the familiar haunting image of the man being torn limb from limb by the wolves.
These were monsters. Monsters. They would kill him without a second thought, and would probably kill anyone else unfortunate enough to cross their path. He had to remember that. Derrick looked at the body of the goblin in front of him and swallowed his doubts in an anxious gulp.
It was him or them. Right now, that was all that he could afford to think about.
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The first order of business after that was the notifications left behind by the fight. He was intuitively aware that there were notifications to be opened, almost the same way that he was aware of how much stamina that he had left, or how damaged his health was. It was weird, and Derrick had never particularly noticed it before the fight, but there it was, something in the back of his mind parroting out the information as accurately as when he checked his status himself. It was undoubtedly some consequence of whatever it was that had happened to the world almost a week ago, and he had no more clues for that than he did for this, so he let it be.
As Derrick willed his notifications into being, they appeared in front of him, all of them. Both those that he had missed during his hectic battle and those that were fresher.
Congratulations! You have defeated a Level 3 Grunt Goblin!
Notice: Monsters do not possess progression. As such, their level counters display only a calculated strength value based on species and age.
Congratulations! You have become Level 2! You have received 5 stat points!
The notifications mostly followed in line with what Derrick had expected, given his intense bought. He had managed to gather a useful group of new stats and skills and had leveled up as he assumed that he would, given that he was Level 1, which everyone who has ever played an RPG knows is low and thus easy to increase.
It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. There was a part of the notice that worried Derrick, the part that indicated the goblin that he had slain as a grunt goblin. What did that mean? Could there be separate types of goblins? And most importantly, how much stronger were those other goblins compared to this one?
Derrick was very glad that he had leveled up. He had a feeling that he would need it. If any stronger goblin than this one had come to his house tonight . . . Derrick Shuddered, trying to focus his attention on less grim avenues of thought.
As according to the notice, leveling up gave Derrick 5 status points, which he experimented with, and as he thought given their name, they were able to increase any status by up to five or more, depending on the number of status points available to him. Luckily enough, there also was a confirmation message, or Derrick would have found himself five points smarter and with no more points to show for his experiment.
Derrick saved the points, for now, resolving to mull over the decision in front of him properly. He knew that whatever that decision was, he would have to make it quickly. He did not have the luxury to take his time with his choice, not when danger leered so closely around the corner.
With his status checked, his wounds bandaged, and his resolve resolved, Derrick was left with one more than he needed to consider.
What the heck was he going to do with this body?
It was a confounding problem. The horrible stench that the body gave off would not only smell really bad, it would also most likely attract the things interested in a decaying goblin corpse. Or in other words the wolves. Derrick had no illusions that whatever bound them in an alliance would keep the wolves from feasting on free food when they found it.
And Derrick did not know what exactly went on between the wolves and the goblins, but he had seen enough from his window to know that wherever the wolves went, the goblins accompanied them. If a crowd of wolves was drawn to the rotting smell . . .
Only one option readily presented itself to Derrick, that he had to run away.
Your Wisdom has increased by 1
Derrick sent a frown toward the untimely notification, and then looked at the walls of his house sadly, sighing. He hated the idea of abandoning his own house, but what other choice did he have. What else could he do? Wait until morning and drag a body away from his home in broad daylight, where the monsters could plainly see him? Drag it away, now, in the night, where a wolf out of his sight could ambush him and tear him to shreds?
Both options were horrible and would leave him defenseless as he dragged away from the heavy and disgusting mass of meat that the goblin had become.
The memories, that were tied to this place . . . They were precious to Derrick and his heart wrenched and boiled at the thought of leaving them here, to the monsters. But his memories, the childish games that he had played with his sister when they were kids, the stoic image of his father humming while he sat behind the grill in the humid summer heat, would all mean nothing if he died.
It hurt, somewhere deep in his heart to run away like this, but something within Derrick had already solidified his decision. Maybe it was from before, from watching that man die and doing nothing, running away, but he had already decided nonetheless. His life was more important than this place.
It was time to let his home go.