My name is Dr. James Klein, and I'm not that kind of doctor.
I'm an archaeologist studying ancient tribal societies across the globe, examining their settlements, rituals, and the traces of their daily lives left buried beneath the soil. My work focuses on peoples like the San of southern Africa, known for their rock art and hunter-gatherer traditions; the Maori of New Zealand, whose early settlements and carvings reveal rich cultural practices; and the Yanomami of the Amazon, whose ancestral villages and artifacts tell stories of life in dense rainforest environments.
How do you get into such a niche field, you ask? By getting shoved into it by your boss, that's how.
I wanted to study ancient civilizations and maybe even find Atlantis one day, not dig up stone bowls ancient tribes used to eat out of.
But no~ my boss wanted me to focus on this niche field instead, which meant spending my time in arid deserts or dense, humid rainforests.
It all started when I was just an intern at the museum, ordered to assist with research on anything tribal-related. Nobody wanted the assignment. It was pretty typical, just a bunch of half-naked people playing with sticks, stones, fire, and pigments. Nothing amazing about it, which is why everyone and their mothers foisted it onto me, the intern who couldn't say no.
Over the years, after completing my graduate studies and fieldwork, I gradually became recognized as a specialist in tribal topics. For some ridiculous reason, people actually started calling me the "resident expert" on the subject.
Now, I get to trek through jungles for a living, staring at stupid carved bones that someone dug up and thinks are worth money.
"This is a gold pendant from the Tairona people," I said, barely hiding my skepticism. "Worth about $2,500 on the collectors' market."
"$2,500?!" the client exclaimed, eyes lighting up as if he'd just struck gold.
Well, he did, but that's beside the point.
I'm currently at the site in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta because this dipshit wanted to make money, and my boss was more than happy to send little old me to look at it.
I appraised a few more artifacts, including ornaments, figurines, statuettes, nose rings, ear spools, and the like, before finishing up my trip and heading back to civilization.
The next thing I knew, something bit my calf. I looked down and saw a Bothrops asper, a venomous snake native to the area that can kill in hours. Not exactly the kind of souvenir you want.
I kicked it to the side before rummaging in my bag for the antivenom. These snakes are pretty common around here, and any professional archaeologist is always ready for emergencies in such remote places.
Unfortunately, I couldn't find it. I knew I packed the damn kit when I left, but it simply wasn't there.
I checked for my phone, but that was missing as well. As a matter of fact, this wasn't even my fucking bag.
Great. Just fucking great. I was going to die in some random-ass mountainous jungle in the middle of nowhere with a bum leg.
I sat down and started feeling the effects of the venom. The pain spread up my leg as it swelled. Breathing became harder, my thoughts slower.
I tried to think about the life I had lived and realized I was just a pushover. No relationships because I was always traveling. The money wasn't bad, but not enough to retire unless I kept working for decades more.
I had nothing. I was no one. Just the guy with a somewhat exciting job, dying on a mountain and wondering if anyone would even care.
Well, my boss would probably care now that he'll have to find someone as equally easy to push around as me.
For hours, while the venom worked through my system, I didn't move. Nothing fixed itself. The mountains didn't care. The snake didn't care. The bag didn't care.
Hell, at some point, even I stopped caring. So, I just waited.
And then I wasn't waiting anymore as darkness took me.
The next thing I knew, I was in a brightly lit cavern surrounded by moss, mushrooms, and plants. The ceiling was quite high and covered with some kind of glowing moss that illuminated the cavern.
The ground was littered with ferns and mushrooms of many colors, shapes, and sizes, some as big as houses. There was even an opening that looked like a door, with windows on what would be the second and third floors.
"Those are actual houses," an aged voice said from beside me.
When I turned, I saw an old man wearing a white lab coat, slacks, and glasses, his short gray hair neatly combed.
"Welcome, James, to my domain. I am the God of Spores, and I have summoned you for a request," the old man said.
I tried to speak, but my voice didn't come out. I looked down and realized I didn't have a body. I looked like a ghost.
"You are," he said, "a ghost, I mean."
I nodded in understanding. Having spent hours slowly dying changes your perspective somewhat. At least it allows you to be more rational.
"That's a great outlook. Though a rather grim end. Nevertheless, I have need of your services."
You have need of an archaeologist?
"A hero, lad. I need a hero."
Well, you certainly came to the wrong person. I'm not Indiana Jones. I tried learning with a whip, but I smacked myself in the face one too many times.
"I need you to get rid of your chieftain and replace them for me. Once you're finished, you will be rewarded when you head to Subterra. Make sure to go only after you complete your quest; otherwise, I cannot guarantee your safety."
You're talking a whole lot of nonsense there old man. I'm an archeologist. I don't go around assassinating people.
"You'll do fine. Fate is with you, lad," the old man said, waving his hand and sending me back into the darkness.
When I came to, I was surrounded by small green babies with pointed ears. I couldn't understand anything, and I could barely move, which reminded me of my death.
Suddenly, a noise came from the lit portion of the cave as a massive green creature appeared in my line of sight. It was garbed in shell-like armor, with a crown of bones on its head and a spear strapped to its back. It looked menacing and suspiciously familiar.
That's a goblin, isn't it? I'm a goblin, aren't I? That fucking old man is messing with me, I swear to God.
My rant was suddenly cut short when the massive goblin looked at me. It felt like my entire body was being squeezed just from being stared at the wrong way. A few tense seconds later, the goblin retreated back out of the cave.
I sighed in relief, though I couldn't help feeling the weight of my new life. I was a goblin now, living as the people I had spent my career studying. I suppose I could likely survive given my knowledge, but who truly knows. Either way, I was screwed until I killed the chieftain.
The next few months passed agonizingly as I grew from a baby to a full-fledged adult in just half a year. During that time, I did my best to blend in with the locals, who were even less advanced than the tribal peoples I had studied. These idiots hadn't even invented fire yet and seemed to relish eating raw meat.
I joined in as well, and to be perfectly honest, it wasn't that bad. Raw meat was surprisingly tasty, at least by a goblin's palate.
Somewhere during my growth phase as a goblin, they began referring to me as Drizzik the Thinker. I was named Drizzik, so that wasn't a mystery, but what's this about being "the Thinker"? I do more than sit and think, thank you very much.
"Thinking hard again, Thinker?" one of the soldiers mocked.
"Go fuck yourself," I shouted back.
"Do you think I should go again?" he replied. "Maybe you're right, thanks, Thinker," he added as he headed off to the cave.
I shook my head and refocused on my weapon, the halberd, a staple for any infantry, prized for its power and reach.
"Drizzik, I'm having trouble with my piglet. It doesn't want to eat," a goblin asked.
"The fuck would I know? Give it back to its mother if you're too stupid to feed it yourself."
"It needs to keep feeding from its mother? Thanks, Drizzik," the goblin said as he walked away.
What a bunch of savages.
The tribe had recently sent out over a hundred thousand goblins on a hunt for warthogs. The raid was considered a resounding success, with only a few thousand of them left alive, along with about a thousand piglets and the massive warthog carcasses that could feed their old numbers for years.
Now roughly five thousand remained, but given their rapid birth rates, it wouldn't take long, just a few decades, for their numbers to rebound.
If there was anything the goblins were good at, it was breeding. I, of course, did neither. It was below me.
Looking at the current circumstances, in a few decades they would likely move south to hunt the basilisks in the swamps, terrifying creatures that none of us had any business challenging. But the suicidal chieftain didn't care.
So, to save my own life, I need to grow stronger and improve my equipment while hiding among them until that day comes.
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