The return journey was heavier than the departure. We were burdened not just by the physical weight of the two deer we had hunted from our own stores—a calculated offering, a tangible sign of our value—but by the crushing gravity of our promises. I had offered a tribe of beaten, fatalistic creatures a glimpse of divinity, a path to racial apotheosis. Now, I had to deliver. The line between prophet and charlatan is drawn in results, and my first sermon had been full of miracles I had yet to perform.
Elara and I moved as phantoms, our goblin illusions shimmering in the dappled light. The deer were slung between us on a makeshift pole, their combined weight a grueling testament to our commitment. Every step was a conscious effort, a reminder of the physical cost of this grand, strategic game. Elara, as always, was a silent pillar of endurance. I, on the other hand, felt every strained muscle, every aching joint. The Scholar's mind was writing checks the Scholar's body could barely cash.
You have to be realistic about these things. My new role was not one I had ever anticipated. I was no longer just a survivor, a leader, or even a strategist. I was becoming a priest. A conduit for the divine, esoteric knowledge of the System. And my new congregation was a pack of illiterate, bloodthirsty goblins who communicated in grunts and violence. It was, without a doubt, the most challenging teaching position I had ever held.
Our arrival at the Guttersnipes' miserable corner of the camp was met not with cheers, but with a sudden, tense silence. The ten goblins, who had been huddled around a smoldering fire gnawing on boar bones, froze. Their eyes, filled with a mixture of hope and deep-seated suspicion, fixed on us. They had allowed us to leave. They had taken the insane risk of trusting the snake-tongued strangers. The question hanging in the foul air was whether their faith had been rewarded or betrayed.
Then they saw the deer.
Two large, fat deer. More meat than they had probably seen in a month, offered freely, without a fight. It was a gesture so alien to their understanding of the world that it momentarily stunned them. In their society, food was power, a resource to be hoarded and fought over. To give it away was an act of madness, or of unimaginable strength.
Gnar, his one eye wide, approached us slowly. He looked from the deer to me, his gaze sharp, analytical. He was looking for the catch, the hidden price.
"We bring gifts," I grunted, my voice a familiar, clumsy rasp. "A sign of the pact. We eat together. We grow strong together."
The tension broke. The suspicion didn't vanish, but it was overshadowed by the undeniable, glorious reality of fresh venison. They fell upon the deer with the same savage efficiency they had shown with the boar, their knives flashing, their guttural barks now tinged with a genuine, almost giddy excitement.
We roasted the meat over their pathetic fire, the rich, savory smell a stark, luxurious contrast to the usual camp stench of filth and misery. For the first time, I saw something resembling camaraderie among them. They shared the meat without squabbling, each goblin receiving a fair portion under Gnar's watchful eye. They offered the choicest cuts to Elara and me, an act of deference that was both a sign of respect and a payment for services rendered.
When the meal was done, when their bellies were full and a rare, sleepy contentment had settled over them, I knew the time was right. The classroom was now in session.
"Gather," I commanded, my voice low but carrying a new weight of authority. They obeyed, huddling closer, their faces greasy and expectant in the flickering firelight.
"We spoke of the big change," I began, picking up the thread of our last conversation. "Of the path from goblin to Hobgoblin. I told you that the deep-meat was the fuel. Today, I will show you the fire."
I looked at them, at their blank, uncomprehending faces. I couldn't just tell them to access the System. That would be like telling a caveman to boot up a computer. I had to guide them, to give them a mental image, a key to unlock a door they didn't even know existed.
"Close your eyes," I instructed. Most of them just stared at me blankly. I sighed. "Darken your eyes! Like sleep!"
Slowly, hesitantly, they complied. A circle of ten goblins, sitting in the mud with their eyes squeezed shut. It was an absurd sight.
"The world is not just mud and meat," I said, my voice taking on a slow, hypnotic cadence. "There is a secret world, a world of truth, underneath. It is the bones of the world. The Great Eye that sees all. It sees your strength. It sees your weakness. It writes your true name in the air."
I was spouting mystical nonsense, but it was nonsense with a purpose. I was giving their concrete, literal minds an anchor point.
"You must look," I continued. "Not with your meat-eyes. But with your inside-eye. Your will. Your clever-head. Look into the darkness behind your eyes and call for your true name. Ask the Great Eye to show you your shape. Ask it, 'What am I?'"
I fell silent, letting them struggle. For a long minute, nothing happened. I could feel their frustration, a restless, confused energy. One of them peeked. I shot him a glare, and he quickly shut his eyes again.
Then, Pip, the smallest, the runt, let out a sharp, terrified gasp. His eyes flew open, wide with shock.
"Ghost-writing!" he shrieked, pointing at the empty air in front of his face. "I see ghost-writing! In my eye!"
Gnar cuffed him, but without any real force. "Quiet, runt! What did you see?"
"Numbers!" Pip whimpered, his voice trembling with awe. "It says… Pip. It says… arm-strength… four. Clever-head… five."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the group. It was real. The runt had seen it. His success, his genuine shock, was the proof of concept they needed. A new, fierce concentration settled over the others. They squeezed their eyes shut, their ugly faces contorted with effort.
One by one, they began to cry out.
"I see it! It says my tough-skin is six!"
"Mine says my sneaky-foot is seven!"
Gnar was the last. He was struggling, his powerful will a barrier as much as a tool. He was too grounded, too cynical.
"Stop trying to see," I said to him quietly. "Just… listen. The truth is already there. You just have to let it speak."
He grunted, his brow furrowed. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and then a low growl rumbled in his chest. His eye snapped open, and it was filled with a profound, world-altering shock. He had seen it. He had seen the machinery of his own soul.
I gave them a few minutes to process the revelation, to poke and prod at this new, invisible reality. Then, I called for their attention again. The lesson was only half over.
"What you see is your soul-shape," I explained, building on my new mythology. "The numbers are your truth. To become Hobgoblin, you must change your numbers. You must make them bigger."
I walked over to the remains of the deer carcass. "This," I said, kicking a pile of bones, "was just meat. It filled your belly. But the Gristle-Boar… that was deep-meat. It had a strong soul. When you ate it, you ate its strength. You fed your numbers."
I activated my own System view, focusing on Gnar.
[Target: Gnar, Goblin Scrounger (Level 3)]
[Biomass Assimilated: 321 / 1000]
"Gnar," I said. "The Great Eye sees you. It says you have eaten three hundred and twenty-one parts of deep-meat. To begin the big change, you must eat one thousand."
The number, so specific, so concrete, landed with the force of a physical blow. It made the goal real. Tangible. Achievable.
"And you must make your numbers grow," I continued. "Your arm-strength number must be ten. Your tough-skin number must be ten. And your clever-head number must be eight. When you have the deep-meat, and you have the numbers, you can command the big change. You can become Hobgoblin."
I had given them the keys to the kingdom. I had translated the esoteric language of the System into a simple, brutal religion of self-improvement. Eat. Kill. Get strong. Grow your numbers. Evolve. It was a gospel perfectly suited to their nature.
Gnar stared at me, his one eye burning with an intensity that was almost frightening. The ambition I had seen in him before was now focused, honed, given a clear and defined target. He was no longer just a resentful outcast. He was a player who had just learned the rules of the game.
"More," he growled, the single word a prayer, a demand, a declaration of intent. "We need more deep-meat. We need bigger numbers."
He turned to his crew. The ten goblins were no longer a miserable, downtrodden pack. Their eyes glittered with a new, hungry light. They had been given a purpose beyond mere survival. They had been given a quest for power.
"The hunt is not over," Gnar roared, his voice filled with a new, resonant authority. He was no longer just their leader. He was their high priest, the first convert to the new religion of the Great Eye. "We do not hunt for food anymore. We hunt for strength! We hunt for numbers! We hunt for the big change!"
A chorus of savage, guttural cries answered him. It was a sound unlike any I had heard from them before. It was not the sound of misery or anger. It was the sound of a war-cry. The sound of a tribe reborn.
Gnar turned to me, his one eye locking onto mine. There was no suspicion left. Only a burning, fanatical loyalty.
"You," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble. "You are the Prophet of the Great Eye. You will guide us. You will show us the path."