“No fucking way…”
I whip my head to look at Goblin A, my fist digging so deeply my cheekbones feel as if they’re about to shatter. A translucent square window hovers above its head, identical to the one I before.
Goblin
Scavenger
LVL 10
Status Effect: -
“Is that what I think it is?” I give my cheek a light slap. “Get a grip, Mei. You should recognize this. How many games have you played? You’re far from being a noob.” Come on, feet. Move. I need to got to the bottom of this.
I take a tentative inch forward. The words shrink, and I stop. I wouldn’t have caught the change if I wasn’t staring. I step back, then watch as they enlarge. I do this a number of times, then cross the distance between me and Goblin A.
“It doesn’t matter how far or near I am. The words seem to adjust accordingly, somehow staying perfectly eligible…” I clutch at the prickly cloth covering half my chest. “This is real. I’m not crazy. I’m really seeing a stat window.”
My arm chooses this moment to go limp. The fist pressed over my eye falls away, and with it, the game interface. “What? No! It was just here,” I stretch my arms up to grasp at the air above the goblin’s bald head.
There’s nothing here. Dear god, why can’t I seem to catch a break? My mind might be disturbed, but I’m not so far gone that I’d start seeing things.
I grab the air a couple more times to be doubly sure. I start to tremble when seconds tick by, the chance that I was seeing phantoms no longer seeming absurd.
“This isn’t right. I know what I saw, and it was a damned game interface. Why did it disappear? Did someone close it? Did I?” I snap out of my panicked haze when I feel a sharp pain. I look down, immediately unclenching my right fist. My nails pull back, leaving crescent shaped marks in my palm.
I hold up my gloved hand, turning it over to look at the stylised letter. “Did I only see it because of you?” I must look insane talking to an inanimate object, but something inside me seems to resonate with whatever this is. “Does the H stand for heaven? Or is it some kind of magical rune?” I wince as the last bit comes out as screech.
“Enemy!” the Orc bellows. “I hear enemy!”
I dive back into back into the spot beside Goblin A. I mimic its stance and let my face go slack, adopting its blank expression. And not a moment too soon, because the Orc arrives, swinging his club over his head.
Thank you, benevolent creator of this world, for making Orcs only slightly smarter than toddlers. I have one less thing to worry about.
“Stupid goblins, why you still stand here? I hear strange noise. Might be more humans! We go now and if lucky, we find real treasure to take to Borg!”
I’m starting to feel like part of a cult. Whenever he opens his mouth, it’s either to gush about Borg or insult everything that’s not an Orc. Goblin A and I stand in silence as he continues raving, the tusks in his jaw shuddering from the vibrations of each gravelly spat word.
Goblin A hasn’t reacted to what he’s said. Until I meet more goblins to confirm what constitutes as normal behaviour, I have to try not to attract the wrong kind of attention. This means acting like a vegetable and doing whatever Goblin A does.
Sound easy enough. But with these things, it’s easier said than done.
The Orc’s shadow falls over me. “What you staring at?” I force my eyes to remain fixed on the waistline of the Orc’s armoured loincloth, metal plates sewn into what seems like leather. “You think Grit is stupid?”
Who the heck is Grit?
I keep my mouth shut and continue my charade of a stone monument. A stiff wind blows past, and a chill rolls over my half naked body. I would be cold if not for the torrent of sweat running down my back. I feel little more than a cavewoman standing here in this cloth garb, my chest partially exposed to the elements. Or should I say caveman, since my chest is now a washboard?
I’m confused. The lack of weight between my legs doesn’t help. If I’m not female, I should be a male. Unless the goblin race doesn’t, um, reproduce that way. Meanwhile, I remain as still as possible under the Orc’s heavy and penetrating gaze.
“Bah,” The Orc turns away, apparently losing interest. Unfortunately, he isn’t done, merely switching to another target. “You. Give me answer. You think Grit stupid like goblins?”
Goblin A doesn’t speak. If it was pretending not being able to, now is a good time to drop the façade.
“No answer,” the Orc says. “So you think I wrong. You think here have no humans or treasure.” He grabs the goblin by the neck. For a terrifying moment, I wonder if he’s actually going to kill for no good reason. Again. And he could do it so easily, like trussing a chicken.
The silence is stifling and weighty. Time halts to an aching crawl. My gloved hand twitches as I take in small, silent puffs of breath to keep my nerves under control. Please don’t kill it, I plead the Orc silently. Indulge in mercy just this once.
“Bah,” the Orc grunts, and the hand clamped on Goblin A’s neck is tugged away.
My bunched muscles let out a collective sigh. Thank goodness.
“You too quiet. You really thinking Grit is stupid.”
“GEGE–” Goblin A is floored with a single punch.
I take it back. If having low intellect translates to zero impulse restraint and random bouts of violence, I’d rather Orcs be as smart as regular humans. I don’t need more guilt on my conscience.
“Baha, why you not making fun of Grit now?” The Orc named Grit switches from punches to kicks. He has a lazy gait to the swing of his knee as he aims at the downed figure. The goblin’s pitiful noises are muffled over the Orc’s coarse laughter.
I grit my teeth. I slip one hand behind my back, to the dagger held under a strip of cloth serving as a belt. My fingers scrape against the sheath. Move my hand a little more, and I can grab the handle, draw the blade as easily as breathing.
What then? Am I going to stab the Orc? But am I aiming to kill? Am I even capable of taking a life? A simple stab probably wouldn’t do much damage. It might set him on me and one swing later, I’ll be nothing but another number in his body count.
I drop my hand and bring it back to my side, shutting out Grit’s joyous laughter. Enough of these lucid daydreams. I won’t let my emotions get the better of me this time. I don’t want a repeat of the affair with Ying Ze and Sherlock. Even if it makes me feel like a pile of shit, I need to stay on the side-lines for now. As long as I don’t get myself killed, there should opportunities in the future.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Swallow the bitterness of the moment and enjoy the later sweetness. It’s a phrase Auntie Bao constantly preached. I never took it to heart, it felt stupid to put off what you could get now for later. I’ll do what I want, people are either with me or against me. Now look how that turned out…
“I hope you learn lesson. Orc better than goblin. Always!” Grit says, lightly panting as he stops his assault. “Bah, now my foot dirty.”
Goblin A is a bloody mess, dark bruises littering its body. But it’s alive. It’ll live to see another unfortunate day. The Orc turns away, hands planted on his hips. He stares off into the distance, resting his club on his shoulder. He tilts his head, ear to the sky. I do the same, straining my ears to catch whatever he might be hearing.
Clink clink. Metal.
Creaaaak. That should be wood.
Grit really did hear humans. But, how many would there be?
Badass Wizard had been in a party before he was left behind. With how dangerous it is out here, humans won’t be in the habit of travelling alone unless they’re suicidal. Which means I can count on whoever’s approaching to be in a decently sized group.
One orc, one goblin on the verge of death. This won’t end well for them.
“Wait,” I mutter. “I’m a goblin, too. They’ll attack me on sight.” The anticipation in my chest withers. “Maybe I can convince them to let me off.” Not the best of ideas, but hearing a goblin talk might stun them and buy me enough time to beg off getting my neck severed.
I recall the situation with the disappearing stat window. If I could make it happen again, I might be able to see the levels of the incoming enemy. I flex my gloved hand. With humans, I might be able to ask them about the interface. They should see it too, right?
I curl my fingers into position once more. I cup my loosely held fist over my eye. I stare through it, Goblin A in my direct line of sight. All the while my mind chants, please let this work!
Goblin
Scavenger
LVL 10
Status Effect: -
Yes. Yes! I’m not insane, this thing actually exists! Then, a second, smaller window pops up.
*HP LOW*
I blink. Once, twice, four times. “I think I might be stuck in a game,” I say. “Holy shit. It’s official. I need a nap.”
“BAAAAAAAAAH!”
I drop my hand and touch the dagger strapped behind my back. Is this a war cry to warn the humans the world of pain they’re about to be in?
“Stupid Guts have more treasure.” The Orc sounds madder than when he’d gotten a fireball to the face. “This not fair. Not fair!” Grit starts stomping around like an oversized child, craters forming in the ground as he pounds his feet in the dirt. “BAAAAAH!”
I look past him, at the blurry outlines in the distance. As they come closer, they turn solid, more corporeal. I quickly realize the new arrivals are not remotely humans.
“Bahaha!” The annoying laughter is eerily similar to Grit’s but comes with a heavier nasal noise. “Grit, you too noisy. And your face! So ugly! You get hurt by stupid humans?”
Four goblins surround a beefy looking orc dressed in full body armour. Dirty bronze glints menacingly under the sunlight. He’s looking at Grit, who looks fit to explode any second now.
“Shut up!” Grit roars. “Humans not strong enough to hurt Grit. I fight off strong monster.” He points to the Snagtooth carcass. If there was anyone here with a working brain, his lie wouldn’t hold water.
Luckily for him, the newcomer isn’t interested, or is incapable, of deciphering the truth. The second orc examines the area, brightening at what he sees. “So you find humans too. But where your treasure, Grit?” He slaps the top of the bulging sacks carried on the backs of his surrounding goblins. “Look mine. I follow what Borg say and kill humans for many good treasure.”
“What you have not treasure,” Grit says. “That just human trash!”
I glance over at the four goblins. They’re dressed like I am, their skinny frames draped with thin cloth garments. Like Goblin A some have weapons hanging from their hips, while others hold none. The ones without weapons are burdened with heavier looking sacks.
These new goblins are similar to each in certain ways, and like people, they have enough variances in their appearance for me to differentiate them. However, their one shared trait is the blank expressions plastered across their faces.
Zombie goblins. I shudder.
“Bahaha, Grit funny. When treasure not his, he say it trash.”
“Guts is stupid one that take human trash and say it treasure!”
I tune out the imbecilic comedy routine and help Goblin A to its feet. It sways dangerously. My hand on its shoulder is the sole thing preventing it from falling back on its face. I can’t possibly hold it up forever, so I remove the weapon looped at its waist and press the handle into its twitching green hands.
The large square blade is tarnished and chipped. It resembles a moth bitten rectangle more than a treacherous killing object. Once the goblin grip is firm, I plant the pointed end of the glaive in the ground. I watch the tip curved like a hook slide into the ground and hear myself swallow.
Despite the terrible condition it’s in, the glaive is sharp enough to pierce the densely packed soil without Goblin A exerting strength. Weight and gravity are its only ingredients.
When Goblin A manages to keep itself upright for more than ten seconds, I give it a small push. It takes a couple of shaky steps. I smile and clap a hand on its shoulder. With this, its bastardized walking stick is complete. It’s a victorious moment shadowed by the escalating argument between the orcs.
“BAH,” Grit spits out an unidentifiable lump of meat. “Human food gross. Told you is trash! Why you still bring back to Borg?”
Guts clumsily reties the neck of the open sack, sealing scents I’m starting to whiff out. A couple of them smell like spices. “This why Grit more useless than goblins. Borg told orcs to get human food. This why we attack village last time, stupid. Borg want food for castle humans!”
Grit fires back something unintelligible, a mashup of a bark and a growl.
“You say again,” the other orc nudges his goblins aside. He drops his sack and reaches behind his back. Grit’s club is utterly laughable compared to the gigantic axe pointing at him. “You say again and I kill you!”
“Bahaha! You think you strong?”
“Bah, of course stronger than you!”
This won’t end well. I wonder if Grit stands a chance, though it’s fairly unlikely seeing how he’s outclassed in both armour and weapon. And that confidence. Where in the world is it coming from?
I decide to check their stats, executing an action with my hand that’s becoming increasingly familiar. First, Grit.
Orc
Scavenger
LVL 10
Status Effect: -
I tilt my head at the underlined word. Why is it orc and not Grit? And second line, the one which says Scavenger. I remember seeing it in Goblin A’s stat window, too. Does it mean goblins and orcs are categorized together?
“More questions to think about,” I mutter. “I guess it won’t be hard to keep myself occupied.” And now, let’s see Guts’ inner guts.
Orc
Scavenger
LVL 12
Status Effect: -
I put down my hand and glance at Grit still trading glares with the other orc. Outclassed and out-levelled. He better step down before he hurts himself.
“You, stupid!” Grit yells in my direction. “Who stronger?” He jabs a finger at Guts. “Him?” When I stay silent, he grins and jabs it at himself. “So Grit stronger, right?”
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.
“GEGEGE!”
“Bahaha!” Grit cheers. “This goblin smart!” I grimace at the scratchiness in my throat. Screeching like that feels nasty, like trying to cough up phlegm.
Guts’ glares grows fierce, his face starting to be overcome with redness. His axe trembles, reflecting dancing spots of light onto the grass. Grit continues to laugh, “So Guts really weaker than me! Bahaha!”
I lean over to pat Goblin A’s back and whisper, “This is what it means to kill with a borrowed knife.”
Just before my subtle provocation can yield results, a wall of sound akin to a hundred bellowing horns smashes into me. I drop to my knees. I cradle my head with my hands, back bowed.
The sound disappears as swiftly as it descends, but the aftereffects, a muddled head and dizziness, linger even after it leaves. I gently touch my ears. Are they bleeding?
“Stupid goblins,” a grip on my shoulder follows the panic call, dragging me to my feet. “Quick up!” I barely manage to catch myself from falling when the hand releases me. I stumble and tumble into another goblin and toppling us over.
The fuzzy image that forms above me is of Grit’s grim face. “Bah, no time to play anymore.” He pulls us to our feet. “We need go now. Borg calling!”