I slowly come to, feeling like I’ve been buried under a mountain. My mind is foggy, thoughts sluggish, like I’ve been lost in a deep sleep for years. There’s a persistent ringing in my ears—no, not ringing. Dings. They start softly, barely audible at first, and each sound sends a dull throb through my skull. Yet, somehow, they're familiar.

Ding!

Ding!

Then something more—words. They filter through the haze, distant, like they're being whispered from far away.

[Ding! Devoured Enriched Flesh. Gained 0.01 SP.]

What the hell? The rest of the message is hard to focus on, my thoughts still thick, tangled like cobwebs. I try to piece things together, but the fog keeps pulling me back. I begin to regain some sense of my body—my existence—and that’s when I notice the warm, wet sensation in my mouth.

I blink, my vision sharpening from a blur of dull colors into something more distinct. I’m slumped over, but there’s something underneath me, something cold and unmoving. I shift slightly, and that’s when I see it.

The ground is littered with bodies.

No... corpses.

I force my eyes to focus on the scene around me. These aren’t human bodies—they’re small, twisted, green-skinned things. Goblins. The word clicks into place, and my stomach lurches as I recognize their distinct features—the sharp, pointed noses, large bat-like ears, and beady, black eyes. Their faces are frozen in grotesque expressions of pain or terror, mouths twisted into jagged sneers or slack, lifeless grimaces.

I glance down at myself, and the realization crashes into me. I’m sitting in the middle of a crater, surrounded by goblin corpses piled high, like I’ve been dumped in a pit of discarded bodies. Their limbs are bent at unnatural angles, bones poking through skin, some with heads bashed in, others missing limbs entirely. The air reeks of blood and rot, a pungent stench that clings to everything.

My eyes widen in horror as I realize I’m holding something—something soft, green, and limp. A goblin’s arm.

And then I feel it. The wet, squelching sensation in my mouth... I’m chewing. Slowly, mechanically, tearing flesh from the goblin’s arm and swallowing it. My stomach twists in revulsion, and I gag, trying to spit it out, but my body doesn’t listen. My hands move on their own, shoving more of the meat into my mouth. My jaw grinds down, teeth sinking into the sinew and gristle, tearing away pieces of meat.

The taste is awful—metallic and sour, mixed with the putrid stench of blood and decay. Every bite feels wrong, disgusting, like gnawing on spoiled, raw meat. It sticks to my tongue, slimy and thick, sliding down my throat like a foul sludge. I want to stop, want to scream in disgust, but my body doesn’t care. My hands keep feeding, and I keep chewing, driven by some relentless, insatiable hunger.

It’s not moral revulsion that churns my stomach—it’s the sheer nastiness of it. Eating something so revolting... the texture, the smell, the taste. It’s enough to make me want to vomit, but my body pushes through it like this is the only food it’s ever known.

I throw the arm aside, a sickening thud as it hits the ground. My hands finally stop, and I stare down at the remnants of the goblin arm, gnawed to the bone. Bile rises in my throat, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the blood and viscera smeared across my face like war paint.

I look around again, the haze in my mind clearing just enough for me to take in the full scope of the horror. Dozens—maybe even hundreds—of goblin corpses surround me, piled high, twisted and broken. Their bodies are riddled with wounds—some with chunks missing from their torsos, others with their heads caved in. Blood coats the ground in thick pools, and the air is thick with the metallic stench of it. I’m drenched in it, too—dark, sticky blood clings to my clothes, my skin.

I need to move. Now.

I push myself up, my legs shaky and stiff, still struggling under the weight of whatever just happened. My head throbs, the ringing still there, but distant now. My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline kicking in as I realize how exposed I am. I’ve made too much noise, too much destruction. The bodies, the crater, the blood—it's like a beacon, drawing attention to me. I don’t know what kind of world this is, but if goblins exist, there’s no telling what else might be out there.

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I need to get the hell out of here.

/////////

I take off through the forest, stumbling at first as my legs struggle to keep up with my mind. Everything feels clumsy, disconnected, like I’m fighting against my own body. My feet catch on roots, and I trip over fallen branches, my lungs burning with each breath. But as I push through, something starts to shift. My body adjusts, falling into a rhythm, and the disorientation fades bit by bit.

The forest is dense, thick with towering trees that block out most of the light. Their massive trunks loom like pillars of some ancient ruin, and the ground is littered with fallen leaves and debris. The air smells damp, earthy, mixed with the scent of moss and decaying wood. As I run, the leaves crunch underfoot, the undergrowth rustling as I tear through it.

The trees blur past me, their branches swaying overhead, casting flickering shadows on the forest floor. Shafts of sunlight break through in places, illuminating patches of the ground in a pale, golden light, while the rest remains cloaked in shadow. Occasionally, I catch glimpses of small creatures darting between the bushes—animals, birds, things that belong to this forest. But none of them matter right now. I’m focused on getting as far away from that crater as possible.

The more I run, the more control I gain. My legs move faster, stronger, leaping over obstacles and dodging the gnarled roots that crisscross the ground. My arms stop flailing wildly and fall into a smooth, controlled motion, helping to drive me forward. My eyes pick out details in the landscape—the patterns of the roots, the clusters of vines hanging low, the uneven patches of earth—allowing me to adjust my steps without thinking. I leap over a fallen tree, barely breaking stride, my body adapting to the terrain like it’s second nature.

The forest is alive with sounds—the rustle of leaves in the wind, the chirping of birds, the distant hum of insects—but it all fades into the background as I focus on running. The rhythm of my breath, the pounding of my feet on the ground, the sensation of the cool air rushing past my face—it’s all that matters right now.

I spot a dark shape ahead—a cave, partially hidden behind a cluster of rocks. It’s not exactly well-concealed, but it’s the best option I’ve got. I’ve been running for what feels like miles, and I can’t keep this up forever. The cave offers shelter, a place to rest, at least for a moment.

I slow my pace, cautious now as I approach the entrance. Old instincts start to kick in—habits I thought I’d left behind. My eyes scan the area, calculating the terrain, checking for signs of life or traps. Memories flash, unbidden. Times when I had to scout locations like this... but not here. Not in this world. Another place, another life. A battlefield that’s still too clear in my mind, but I push the thoughts away before they can fully form.

My gaze drops to the ground, and I spot something—footprints, small and scattered near the cave entrance. I kneel down to get a better look, inspecting the prints more closely. The edges are soft, weathered slightly by wind and the natural elements, but they’re still clear enough to tell they’re not too old. Maybe six to nine hours, judging by how the edges have lost their crispness.

The prints belong to something small—too small to be human. Goblins, most likely. The footprints are irregular, with three long toes and claw marks at the tips, much like the ones I saw back in the crater. They’re shallow and widely spaced, suggesting a light, skittering gait, distinct from any human or animal I’ve encountered. A few steps in different directions suggest more than one had passed through here, and the thought churns my stomach. Could this be where those goblins came from? The ones back in the crater? It seems likely. Maybe this cave is—or was—their home.

I scan the surrounding area again, my instincts on high alert, but there are no signs of wide, fresh activity—no bustling movement or fresh debris that would suggest recent gatherings. The goblins that left those prints might be long gone or... dead. After what happened in that crater, it’s possible I wiped out their entire tribe, or at least a large part of it. If any remain, they’re probably few in number, scattered or hiding.

It's starting to get dark. The forest is growing quieter by the minute, shadows stretching longer with each passing second. Despite the risk, I decide it’s worth taking my chances. Even if there are a few goblins left inside, given their child-like size, I’m confident I could take out twenty of them barehanded if I had to.

Still, I’m not about to go in unarmed. I glance around and spot a thick, fallen branch lying just off the path. It’s about the length of my arm, solid enough to use as a club, but still light enough to swing with force. Perfect.

I drag the branch over and start working on the end, using a sharp rock to shave it down into a crude point. The wood splinters slightly as I work, but after some effort, it’s sharp enough to stab if I need to. Thick enough to swing like a bat, but now with a pointed end for piercing just in case. It’s not much, but it’ll do for now.

I heft the makeshift weapon in my hand, testing the weight. Satisfied, I turn my attention back to the cave entrance, where the darkness promises both shelter and danger. My heart quickens, and every instinct screams at me to be prepared. I tense, scanning the cave entrance again. There’s no sign of movement now, but there’s a chance more of them could be inside. I need to be careful. It’s dark inside, the interior barely visible beyond the mouth of the cave. I step closer, my breath steadying as I prepare to enter, every instinct screaming at me to stay alert.

Approaching the cave entrance, I take careful steps, my senses on high alert. Always check the corners, always anticipate the worst. The words echo in my head, old advice, old rules, like muscle memory guiding me. I’ve done this countless times before—venturing into dangerous places without proper recon on what lies inside.

Feels like old times.