Chapter 1: My Dream Was to Be a Goblin Warrior

Goruk's combat instructor had a good personality and rarely said harsh words.

"You." The instructor leaned on a wooden staff and called Goruk.

"Go back to the tribe. If you don't want to gather food, join the scouts. You'd probably end up as their leader."

If he had listened to his instructor, who had tasted the hardships of a warrior's life, things might have been different. But he didn't. It all started with one word he heard as a young goblin.

"Goruk, you're a genius."

I easily won a fight with a wooden club against an older tribe member. I was 8 months old, and it was the first time I was called a genius. I didn't realize it then. The goblin was just terrible at fighting.

At 12 months, I defeated an adult goblin with a wooden club. That boosted my confidence in my skills. No one in my small tribe knew how to properly wield a weapon. The closest was a worn-out warrior who had lost an eye and drifted into the tribe. That warrior taught combat skills to the tribe's younglings. I was among them.

"You're a genius."

I heard it for the second time at 12 months. The first time was from a clueless tribesman, but this time it was from a warrior who claimed to have given up glory for survival.

'I must be a genius,' I thought. I dreamed. To become a warrior. A warrior who would serve a chieftain uniting the scattered goblin clans. A warrior who would end the battles.

Around this time, a shaman's chant spread across the lands. So widely that it even reached my small tribe. The words were simple, but the melody was captivating, and the final verse stirred the heart.

A warrior to end this war! A warrior to bathe the land in twilight! We shall call him the Warrior of Twilight! The Warrior of the End! The End Warrior! The warrior to end the war!

The chant of the shaman ignited the hearts of young goblins. 'I will be that warrior,' I was no different.

At 18 months, believing no one in the tribe could match me, I left. I had no parents or siblings. I had a few friends, but my obsession with combat from a young age left me with few close companions. I grew up in that gap and left.

Thus began my wanderer's life. My skills weren't bad, and my attitude toward hard work wasn't bad either. But it took only two moons to realize I wasn't a genius. I was beaten by a nameless, so-called third-rate warrior.

"You're still green," I was told. I thought all I needed was a good teacher. I saved resources. I fought off wild beasts with my life on the line. I used the resources I earned to find training camps. In large tribes, there were a couple of combat training camps. I learned the ways of combat.

I wasn't unlucky. The teacher was honest and ethical. He told me to give up the weapon.

"No, I won't," I didn't give up.

"You're really hardworking. Very hardworking." Everyone who saw me said the same. They had to. Effort doesn't betray. My palms burst and my arm muscles trembled. I repeated countless times. I fit in well in places where similar goblins gathered. I was a distinguished hard worker.

As I wandered from training camp to training camp, saving resources, I turned 20 months. By the time I was over 25 months, I had gained enough experience and skill to make a name for myself as a warrior. Though it was just enough for goblins in a small tribe to recognize me after a few inquiries. Until then, there was a glimmer of hope. Hope that I would get better.

Thus, in the spring of 27 months, I realized my talent was insignificant. A quarrel I got into while passing by showed me that. In five moves, the club I held was flung away, and a hole was made in my stomach. I pressed my hand over the hole and asked.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

Twelve, he said. It was absurd. That was a real genius.

"Sorry, it was my first real fight," the young goblin said. Not a noble or even a commoner, but a scavenger's child. He had been holding a weapon for only six months.

"I was too harsh. Here's something for your treatment," the young goblin's teacher threw a pouch of herbs.

It wasn't a life-threatening injury. No internal organs were damaged, and the stab wasn't deep. But I took the pouch.

From age 8 months to now, for 16 months, I wielded the club until my palms burst. But I lost to a 12-month-old goblin who had trained for only six months. It would be a lie to say I wasn't depressed. But I didn't live with gloomy emotions. There was no reason to live so dark and dreary.

'At least my limbs are intact.' I knew I wasn't a genius, but that didn't mean I should give up. So I continued my life as a warrior. I spent roughly ten months as a wanderer. Though I couldn't become an outstanding warrior or swordsman, I could become a seasoned fighter.

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I quit wandering and joined the tribal army. It was the best option for me. I couldn't go back to foraging now. A third-rate warrior from a wanderer's background, a fitting description.

"Do you think the army is a joke? Do you think they'll take just anyone?" someone mocked me.

"Hang in there," someone patted my shoulder. I was sometimes recognized, sometimes left behind. Thus at thirty months.

The Scrawny Tooth Clan, Birch Battalion. 3rd Squad, 2nd Company, 5th Troop, 1st Division. The so-called 3251st Division was where I belonged. I was directly under the division leader, holding the rank of Sub-Chief, in charge of ten goblins.

Bang, bang, bang. The sentry banged the metal, waking up the entire barrack.

"...What a filthy dream."

Muttering as I woke up, I grumbled.

"What kind of dream?" the subordinate next to me, getting out of a makeshift bed made of layered leaves, shoved his feet into crude sandals and asked. His attitude was laid-back, but his skills were better than mine.

"My life."

"That's ominous, ugh. Oh, a bug." Finding a bug in his sandal, the subordinate took it off, shook it out, and then put it back on. After that, he spat on the bug on the floor and stepped on it.

Seeing that, I got up and gathered my gear. A ragged tunic with a crude knife embedded near the heart, simple arm guards, and worn-out sandals. I wore inner rags made of layered thick cloth. Over that, I wore a crude leather vest. The vest was made of several layers of leather, but it wasn't very sturdy. A well-honed blade could slice through it easily. Arm guards reinforced with oiled wood were slightly better than others.

"I heard the previous Sub-Chief had a similar dream before he died," I mumbled, recalling the rumor.

"Are you going to die today?" the subordinate laughed, so I tapped the back of his head.

"Not dying. Don't jinx it."

Getting up, I poured water into a pot and threw in a few pieces of dried meat. Then I added some edible roots and boiled it. It was breakfast.

"Is there a battle plan today?" the subordinate asked, and I shook my head.

"Don't know."

I was just a low-ranking Sub-Chief. Above me were four Sub-Chiefs and a division leader. Even the division leader probably didn't know. I wasn't an outstanding warrior nor a noble, staying a Sub-Chief and squad leader, but my experience in the field surpassed even some company leaders. Knowing this, my subordinates respected me.

"So, what did you dream of being when you were a youngling?" the subordinate casually asked, approaching.

"A warrior."

"...Would you hit me if I laughed?"

"I won't."

"Pfft."

"So you laugh, huh? This cheeky brat." I kicked the subordinate's butt.

"Still, a warrior, huh." What is a warrior? One who changes the tide of battle. A monster who single-handedly faces a thousand. A hero who slays hundreds of enemies. Moreover, our division, named after a great warrior, was called the Birch Battalion. Birch's army, named after Sir Birch. Saying you wanted to be a warrior was quite bold.

"Dreams are meant to be grand." I said, nonchalantly grabbing a bucket.

Today, I was on water-fetching duty. Unlike other squads, my squad shared all chores equally. Even as Sub-Chief, I only received and relayed orders. Hence, usually, the best spearman or swordsman took the role. In that sense, I was a bit special. My combat skills were inferior to my squad members. But I could unite those who were often ostracized by other squads.

Other squads referred to my squad as the 'problematic squad' of the 3251st Division. I was the leader of that problematic squad.

"I'll help you," my subordinate offered, picking up a bucket too.

"Then shut up and follow me."

"Got it." The subordinate laughed. I didn't care much about my subordinates' personal lives. So I didn't ask. My subordinates liked this attitude. I didn't ask about their pasts or pry into their present. I didn't demand anything special. Perhaps that's why all my subordinates followed me.

While filling the buckets at the river, the subordinate splashed water at me and asked, "Why did you want to be a warrior?"

I splashed back, grinning. "I wanted to be good at fighting, and I thought it would be nice to become a warrior while I was at it."

"You've got a youngling's heart." The subordinate laughed again, trying to dodge the water.

"Shut that mouth before I drown you."

"Is that why you practiced combat moves morning and evening?"

"Effort doesn't betray."

I had countless calluses on my palms from swinging the club.

"So now, too?"

Do I still want to be a warrior? Is that even possible? I knew better than anyone it wasn't. But I didn't give up. I just endured and moved forward. I wasn't ignorant of reality. But dreams remained silent in reality, and I, who was silent, just became a soldier living off combat.

"Done filling? Let's go."

"Let's go."

Our trivial conversation ended. We returned to the barrack with the water. Whether it was a skirmish with a rival tribe or an attack on a newly formed bandit group targeting supplies. I didn't know what we'd do, but.

"The air is heavy." The air on the battlefield was always like that. But today, it felt heavier.

The waiting time was long. With nothing particular to do, I thought about swinging my club, but took a nap instead. There were days when you just didn't want to do anything.

"It's hard to do as before."

I had put in relentless effort. This was the result. A third-rate warrior Sub-Chief.

When the sun was two spans past the sky's zenith, the division leader shouted.

"3251st Division, assemble."

It was a battle. Division members gathered, forming a part of the army. My squad was no different. A cold tension wrapped around me. I grabbed the talisman necklace I got as a wanderer and tucked it into my clothes.

"They said this could save my life?"

It was nonsense, but soldiers going to the battlefield easily believed in such things. Although, if asked if I believed in it, I would likely say no. I just remembered the old goblin's eyes and her desperate tone when she gave it to me.

'Nothing to lose.'

All I got for fighting with my life on the line was this talisman. Half of it was luck, killing the beast. If things went wrong, I would have been the one to die. Despite the tough monster extermination. It was a small tribe with no resources to pay. They just grabbed my trouser leg, begging me to deal with the monster as I passed by.

'Ridiculous.' Risking my life out of sympathy was madness. But I didn't regret it. That's what a warrior is. Dreams remained silent and torn apart by reality, but traces were left.

I wanted to be a warrior. I wanted to be a war hero. But now, just a soldier.

Waaaah! A roar erupted. I also shouted, veins bulging in my neck. The enemy tribe surged forward. The setting sun cast a long twilight. Breaking through the twilight light, both armies charged. I charged as well.

"Let's fight while keeping our lives!" My always smiling subordinate shouted, rushing ahead first. Soon, the spears and clubs of enemies and allies began tearing through each other's flesh and blood. Today's battle was hand-to-hand combat.