When he opened his eyes again, the world felt… smaller.
The sky was too low, stretched tight across a horizon that seemed both familiar and alien. Grass scratched against his face in an irritating way, each blade unnaturally sharp, like needles. He tried to rise, but his limbs didn't respond as he expected. His hands—clawed, green, twisted—fumbled against the dirt.
A groan escaped his throat, low and guttural, and it sounded… wrong. Alien. Not his voice, not even close. He snapped his fingers experimentally. No sound. Tried to stand, and fell sideways.
Panic flared.
Where am I?
Not the dungeon. Not the raid. Not even the respawn field he knew. The world looked like a beginner's area — rolling hills, small forests, a dirt path leading to a village. Too peaceful. Too empty.
And then the first wave of comprehension hit him like a dagger: he wasn't human anymore.
His reflection in a small puddle confirmed it. Beady yellow eyes. Crooked teeth. Skin mottled green like rotten leaves. Limbs too short, body small, grotesque. A goblin. A nameless mob.
He froze.
No inventory. No player commands. No skills menu. Nothing. The HUD he had relied on for every calculation, every battle, every exploit… gone. Stripped from him like a thief in the night.
What… what did they do to me?
Memories flickered in his mind, fragments of his previous life flashing like broken code: the raid, the betrayal, the stolen Godheart. Every image now burned with a new layer of horror.
He wasn't a player. He wasn't even a "named NPC" that the system recognized. He was disposable. A creature meant to be farmed for experience, killed for loot, discarded without a thought.
Anger flared, sharp and immediate.
No… this isn't happening. This can't be happening. They can't…
A sudden noise broke his panic. Footsteps. Laughter. A group of low-level players wandered down the path. They wore mismatched gear, simple swords and tattered armor, the kind of players who would have laughed at his guild's raid reports.
He hesitated, blinking rapidly. The horror sank deeper. One of them raised a sword. A careless, joyful swing—
And he felt the sharp pain, bright and immediate. His vision flared, the world spinning. Health plummeted. Red digits flashed, numbers he didn't understand yet:
> You have been slain.
Unique Skill Activated — Infinite Resurrection.
He hit the ground. Darkness. A strange, electric cold spread through his mind, sharpening his thoughts despite the agony.
Again…
And then he woke.
Not in the dungeon. Not in a safe zone. Here. Still a goblin. Still weak. Still disposable. But… something had changed. His vision cleared. His limbs felt lighter. He flexed his claws experimentally. Data pulsed faintly under his skin. A spark. A tremor of power he couldn't yet name.
He remembered the words whispered during the void:
> Each death makes you stronger.
His chest heaved, and fury replaced despair. His voice came out as a guttural rasp.
They thought they could erase me. They thought they could make me nothing. Make me weak. Make me mortal again.
No.
This time, he didn't just stand. He ran. Faster than any goblin should. Faster than instinct allowed. The players didn't even notice until he was close enough to leap. A swipe of his claws. A flash of red.
And then, instinctively, he watched the numbers appear — his stats rising ever so slightly. Strength. Agility. Health.
Curiosity flared next. Experimentation. He ran again, tested their defenses, learned their weaknesses. Each swing, each hit, each failed attempt shaped him. He could feel himself changing, adapting. The world began to bend around him as he learned its rules again.
And above it all, buried under panic and awe, something darker whispered in his mind:
They will pay.
The players, the guild, the system itself. All of them.
He sank low, crouched in the tall grass, watching the villagers pass by. They laughed. They were unaware. They didn't even know they had witnessed the birth of something the system had never anticipated: a mob that was learning, evolving, remembering.
He flexed his claws again, feeling the weight of the first kill, the taste of stolen experience.
Let them come for me.
He would show them what it meant to betray the strongest player alive.
The beginner's village stretched before him, a hunting ground, a testing field, and a stage for the revenge that had just begun.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the horror and the fury, a new clarity formed:
I am no longer a player. I am something… else.
Something the system would never control.
And from the shadows, the first spark of a plan began to take shape.
The Age of the Nameless Mob had begun.
The villagers' laughter faded into the distance as he crouched, muscles tensed, claws scraping the dirt. He felt the hum of his body, unfamiliar yet electric. Every nerve screamed, urging him to run, strike, survive. His first death had been a taste — bitter, shocking, but alive with potential.
He experimented. One foot forward, then another. His stride was awkward, limbs too short, but instinct guided him. He leapt onto a small rock, landing lightly despite his malformed body. Agility rising… strength rising… numbers flickered faintly in his mind's eye. The system was testing him, even if it didn't realize it.
Curiosity twisted into strategy. The players weren't expecting him to act — he noticed the way they moved, their patterns, their pauses. One raised a sword, another called out, oblivious to the danger at their side. This world was built for them to dominate — but he was no longer the prey.
He stalked. Silent. Watching. Learning. The hum of power beneath his skin made him giddy in a way he hadn't felt since his days at the top of the leaderboard. Every instinct he had once relied on as a player returned, sharpened, filtered through this grotesque new shell.
Another swing. Another kill. Another spark of growth. Each resurrection had carved away his fear, leaving only the core of something sharper, colder, unrelenting.
And then it came — the first real moment of clarity:
If the world sees me as nothing… I will make them see me as everything.
He paused on the hill, watching the low-level adventurers scatter in panic. Their shouts echoed off the distant hills, their fear tangible. That fear — raw, honest — felt better than victory in the guild raids. He realized it was intoxicating. The hunted's desperation, the uncertainty, the helplessness… he craved it.
For the first time since waking as a goblin, a grin spread across his twisted face. Beady yellow eyes glinted, reflecting the late afternoon sun. He had been stripped of everything: his body, his name, his achievements. But something deeper had survived. Something that could not be taken, something stronger than any sword or spell.
The system, the players, the guild… they all underestimated me.
He leapt from the hill, landing among the scattered adventurers. Chaos erupted. The air filled with shouts, swinging weapons, and desperate magic. Each attack that struck him — missed or glancing — only made him sharper, faster, stronger. Pain became data. Death became fuel.
By the time the last adventurer fell, trembling, staring at the grotesque figure that had slaughtered their companions, he felt it fully: the first taste of what he could become. Not a player. Not a hero. Not even a monster in the traditional sense.
Something else.
He tore through the dirt, dragging the fallen player's data into himself, feeling the surge of skill and knowledge enter his consciousness. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but undeniable. Another small step in a long, inevitable evolution.
He paused to consider the horizon. Villages, forests, and roads stretched endlessly before him. Every town a potential hunting ground. Every player a resource to be absorbed, tested, broken. The idea sent a shiver of anticipation through his body.
And deep within, beneath all rage and fury, a plan began to form — meticulous, patient, unstoppable. This was not merely survival. Not merely revenge. It was domination.
The Age of the Nameless Mob was not going to be subtle. It was going to be total.
He crouched low, scanning the forest beyond the village, sensing movement, calculating risk. Somewhere, his betrayers were still alive, still ruling their guilds, still laughing at their victories.
Soon… very soon… they will understand what it truly means to betray the strongest.
And with that thought, he vanished into the undergrowth, leaving only whispers of fear behind him. The wind carried them lightly, unnoticed by anyone… except him.
The first day of his new existence had ended. But the real hunt — the one that would mark him as something the system could never control — was only beginning.