The stream ran cold over his hands, turning the water pink where it met the blood. Grub knelt in the shallows and scrubbed at his skin, the guard a few paces behind him, silent and watchful. His breathing stayed even. His face stayed set. Inside, he shook.

  A faint chime echoed in the silent night air. He paused and focused on the notification.

  [Level Up]

  You have reached Level 2.

  Stat Points available: 3

  His stomach lurched. The System had waited until the blood dried on his hands to reward him. He swallowed, blinked the notice away, and bent to the water again. The creek stung where it touched the scrapes across his knuckles. He rubbed until the last of the red spiraled downstream and stared at his reflection. A goblin stared back, eyes too bright in the moonlight, jaw locked tight. He shut his eyes, and the memory came back, jagged and sharp.

  The others had hated him. He knew this. They threw him angry glances, and hissed insults behind their teeth.

  “You crawl like a dog.” said one. “You shame us.” He ignored the angry voices from the other slaves most nights, but tonight, something was different. Their voices were harder, angrier. He felt a heaviness in the air. He glanced over at where the six slaves sat together, huddled in a group as far from him as they could manage. One of them, a burly brute with a crooked jaw, stood up and stared at him. “Better dead than licking their boots.” The others glared at Grub, murmuring agreement. Another stood up, and the two of them began moving toward him, slow and steady. Before Grub truly knew what was happening, they attacked.

  The first lunged forward with a jagged bone shard in his hand. His attack missed, but he barreled into Grub, knocking him to the ground. The Goblin fell on top of him, pinning him down with his weight. The breath flew from his chest. Nails raked, teeth snapped. Grubs fingers scrabbled blindly around on the floor until they closed on stone. He swung. The crack sang up his arm, causing him to lose his grip on the stone. The body went limp, slamming him harder into the dirt. Warm blood began to coat his face and chest as he lay under the corpse. He couldn’t push free. Couldn’t breathe.

  Another came, snarling, seizing his throat. Grub clawed at the ground again, searching. His rock was gone, clattered away out of reach. His fingers found only a pebble. Mana hissed. Instinct moved where thought hadn’t. The pebble vanished into an eye. The body fell limp across him, the clean hole where one of its eyes used to be staring him in the face.

  Grub focused on his breathing, trying to calm himself. If he had missed, he would be the one dragged into the forest for the beasts. He sucked in air, threw water over his face now until the chill cut through the tremor in his chest. When his hands were as clean as he could make them, he stood and nodded. The guard jerked his chin back toward the cave. Neither spoke on the short walk in.

  The four remaining slaves shrank away when he reentered the cage. They pressed together at the back wall, whispering. They had seen. Maybe not clearly, but enough. Grub settled near the bars, drew his knees up, and only then pulled the notice back into focus.

  [Level Up]

  You have reached Level 2.

  Stat Points available: 3

  He mentally acknowledged the words on the screen in front of him, and they pulsed gently before shifting.

  [Status]

  Name: Grub

  Race: Goblin (Juvenile)

  Level: 2

  Resource Pools:

  Health: 30/30

  Stamina: 20/20 (+2 / 10 min)

  Mana: 40/40 (+2 / 10 min)

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Stats:

  Strength: 2 | Constitution: 3 | Dexterity: 4 | Intelligence: 4 | Wisdom: 2 | Charisma: 0

  Stat Points Available: 3

  Skills:

  Quick Feet (Lv. 1)

  Climbing (Lv. 1)

  Stealth (Lv. 1)

  Dagger Proficiency (Minor) [Passive]

  Mana Manipulation [Passive]

  Earth Manipulation (Minor) [Passive]

  Identify (Lv. 1)

  Skinning (Lv. 1)

  Cooking (Lv. 1)

  First Aid (Lv. 2)

  Perks:

  Miscast

  Spells:

  Pebble Toss [Tier 1 – Lv. 1 – 65%]

  Stone Chip [Tier 1 – Lv. 1 – 1%]

  Stone Tap [Tier 1 – Lv. 1 – 1%]

  Grain Shift [Tier 1 – Lv. 1 – 6%]

  He stared at it. The System had taken his name. Now it gave him strength for killing. Cold, impartial, absolute.

  He remembered why he hadn’t touched Strength before. Because no matter how much he spent, he would never match the larger races. A goblin was still a goblin. But Strength meant stamina. Ten more steps before collapse. Ten more moments alive.

  He placed one point into Strength. Then one into Intelligence, one into Wisdom. The screen shifted again, and brought up his new Stat totals

  [Status]

  Resource Pools:

  Health: 30/30

  Stamina: 30/30 (+3 / 10 min)

  Mana: 50/50 (+3 / 10 min)

  Stats:

  Strength: 3 | Constitution: 3 | Dexterity: 4 | Intelligence: 5 | Wisdom: 3 | Charisma: 0

  Heat prickled through his body. His limbs drew tighter, leaner. Muscles more defined, though still small. He flexed his fingers. Still goblin. But not the same goblin he had been. “You think killing them makes you one of them,” one slave muttered hoarsely.

  Grub did not look over. “No.”

  “Then you’re their dog,” the tall one spat.

  “You fetch. You scrub. You wag.” Grub let it pass.

  “What is the alternative? Fighting back uselessly and being beaten bloody for it? Do you think you lot can escape? Run away into the forest?” He nodded to the dark beyond the cave mouth. “Alone. Hungry. Hunted.”

  “We would be free.”

  “If the beasts didn't kill you on the first night, the tribe would catch you on the next. I've been out there, alone, freezing in some horrible hole, hoping the wolves dont find me, starving and struggling. Here, I may be a slave, but the numbers keep the wolves away. The fire keeps me warm. The food tastes like shit, but it fills my belly, and I know I will eat each day,” Grub said. “I know which I prefer.”

  They had no answer. He didn’t press. He closed his eyes and let exhaustion drag him under.

  The next day was the same for them. Snarls. Spilled buckets. Beatings. By midday their ribs bore spear-marks, their faces bruised and swollen. Grub kept on. He scrubbed the bloodstains from the stone where corpses had been dragged. Hauled water. Tied clean cloth. The tribe jeered less. Not at him. At them. That night, when the slaves returned to the cage bloody, he finally spoke. “You bled again.”

  The tall one glared at him. “We are not you.”

  “Is your resistance worth it? Do you want to be beaten again tomorrow? Will you fight back so uselessly until you're eventually beaten to death? Where do you see this ending?” Grub asked. “Or, do you want to stand, to live?”

  “We cannot stand. We are slaves.”

  “Then work,” Grub said. “Not for them. For you. Fetch water with me. Watch me bind wounds. Learn to tie cloth right. Clean so you don’t sicken. You’ll keep your strength. Tell me which is smarter.”

  They said nothing, but their silence stretched long.

  The next morning, they followed him. Sullen. Awkward. But they followed. They fetched water, tore cloth, scrubbed stone. They worked slow, clumsy, but they worked.

  The tribe laughed at them. "Slaves following a slave. What next?" one warrior jeered. But the laughter was thin, edged with unease. Dravak’s warriors did not stop it. That said enough. Grub could see Dravak staring at him from his stone chair, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  At day’s end, in the cage again, Grub looked at them. “You are not bleeding today.”

  One muttered bitterly, “We are lower than dirt.”

  “Maybe,” Grub said. “But you are not broken. Which matters more, your pride, or your health?”

  None answered. But none looked away.

  The next morning, the same scene unfolded. Around midday, Dravak had had enough. "Grub. Outside. Now." His voice carried easily through the cavern. The four slaves that had been following Grub stared at him nervously. Grub reassured them with a wave of his hand. "Continue your tasks. I will be back." He stood, picked up his bucket of filthy water, and made his way to the cave mouth, waiting for Dravak. The chief walked past the guards without so much as a glance, and Grub silently followed him out.

  They climbed the rise in silence. At the stream, sunlight caught the water in sharp, cold flashes. Dravak folded his arms and studied the smaller goblin.

  “Slaves do not lead,” he said at last. “They are tools. Tools do not gather other tools to work. Yet those four follow you. Why?”

  Grub kept his eyes on the current. “Because I told them truth. If they fight, they bleed. If they work, they don’t. They would rather keep their strength.”

  Dravak grunted. “And you set them to fetch water so your hands are free for wounds. Clever enough. But you also have them scrubbing filth. Why waste effort there instead of hauling wood or meat?”

  Grub’s voice sharpened, though he kept it steady. “Because filth spreads sickness. Sickness weakens warriors. A clean floor means fewer wounds rot, fewer warriors fall.”

  Dravak’s eyes narrowed. “Strange words. But I have seen warriors rise since you began. What else hides in that head of yours? Speak it.”

  Grub hesitated, fingers tightening around the bucket. His voice came out quieter. “The sick should not be with the rest. Not sleep beside them. Not eat from the same pots. Not handle wood or meat that others will use. They should be apart.”

  Dravak’s gaze sharpened. “Why? They have always slept and eaten among us. They are members of the tribe, same as any other. Why change now?”

  Grub drew in a slow breath. “Because sickness spreads as easily as breath. If the sick are kept apart, fewer will fall.”

  Dravak tilted his head, testing him. “And if they do not work? Who carries wood? Who hauls meat? Who fills water?”

  “I will,” Grub said, lifting his chin a fraction. “I will carry their share, on top of my own. The four will keep to their tasks, but the burden of my idea is mine to bear.”

  Dravak let the words hang in the air, weighing them as if he were measuring ground before a battle. Finally, he asked, “How long?”

  Grub wet his lips. “A week,” he said, though he thought of longer. “By then, some should stand again.”

  The chief’s silence stretched. Then he gave one short nod. “One week. They will sleep apart, eat apart, work not at all. You will tend them and carry their weight. At the end of seven days, if I see more strength in my tribe, it will continue. If not, you will find another way.”

  Grub bowed his head. “Understood.”

  By dusk, the sick were dragged to an alcove on the far side of the cavern. They muttered curses and spat on the stone as they were hauled, glaring at Grub as if this had been his doing. One tried to stand and shuffle back toward the fire, only for Dravak’s growl to rumble across the cavern.

  “Stay.”

  The warrior froze mid-step. Dravak rose from his stone seat, the shadows stretching tall behind him. His gaze swept the tribe. “No one shares food with them. No one shares bedfurs. They will eat apart. Sleep apart. Any goblin caught breaking this will answer to me.”

  The protests died quick. A few still muttered under their breath, but none moved again.

  The four slaves trailed after Grub, carrying buckets and cloth. They watched while he brought water to the sick, bound fresh strips over raw sores, and dragged fouled bedding away to be scrubbed. The air hung heavy with whispers. No jeers came tonight—only the uneasy murmur of goblins watching something they did not understand.

  Dravak leaned back on his stone seat, his eyes never leaving the alcove. His voice carried low, almost amused. “Strange ways. Strange results.”

  When the work was done and the fire burned low, Grub sank against the cage bars. He could still feel the glares from the alcove, but he also felt the silence of the tribe, heavier than the laughter had ever been. For the first time since the System stripped his name away, he let himself feel a spark close to hope.