Pain.
That was the first sensation that clawed through the fog of unconsciousness—a sharp, relentless pain that seemed to radiate from every fiber of my being.
My eyelids felt like heavy lead, but I forced them open, squinting against the harsh torchlight that stabbed into my skull like burning needles.
Where was I?
The world slowly came into focus, revealing the iron bars that held me like a wild beast. My hands—no, these weren't my hands.
They were small, crooked things with yellowed claws instead of nails. Greenish skin stretched taut over knobbly knuckles, and when I tried to move my fingers, they moved with an alien stiffness that sent ice through my veins.
"By the gods…" I whispered, but even my voice was wrong—high-pitched, hoarse, nothing like the commanding tone I remembered.
Remember? The thought struck me like a bolt of lightning.
Memories that weren't mine—or were they?—began to seep through the cracks of my consciousness. A towering figure in shining armor, standing atop a pile of fallen foes. The weight of a legendary spear in calloused hands. The roar of troops falling before my might.
I am… I am the Spearmaster.
The realization hit me with the force of a cavalry charge. Marcus Thornfield, Spearmaster of the Northern Kingdoms, terror of the battlefield, slayer of dragons. I had led legions, toppled kingdoms, etched my name into the fabric of legend itself. And now…
I stared at my current form with growing horror. A goblin. Not just any goblin, but a pitiful specimen weak even by their pitiful standards. My ribs were visible through paper-thin skin, covered in festering sores and old scars. My legs were barely thicker than twigs, and when I tried to stand, they shook like autumn leaves.
"Fresh meat finally awakens," a hoarse voice cut through my spinning thoughts.
I turned toward the voice and saw another cage adjacent to mine. Within crouched what might have once been an orc warrior, but slavery had reduced him to a hollow-eyed shell. Chains bound his large wrists, and old whip marks crisscrossed his back like a map of suffering.
"Don't get too comfortable, boy," the orc continued, his voice devoid of hope. "Buyers care little for goblin stock unless it's for the fighting ring or… worse."
The fighting ring. The words triggered something in my fragmented memory. I recalled stories of underground arenas where monsters and slaves were forced to fight for the entertainment of the nobles. Death was the only retirement plan.
Beyond the orc's cage, I could see dozens more. Humans, elves, dwarves, beast-folk—all reduced to merchandise waiting to be sold. The air smelled of unwashed bodies, fear, and despair. Guards in leather armor patrolled the cages, their hands never far from their weapons.
One of them noticed my movement and approached with predatory interest. He was a burly human with dead eyes and a cruel smile that spoke of years spent crushing souls.
"Look what we have here," he taunted, jabbing me through the bars with a wooden club. "The little green rat has finally decided to join the living. You were unconscious for three days, caterpillar. I thought you might die on us."
The club slammed into my shoulder, sending a fresh wave of agony through my battered body. In a previous life, such an attack would have been met with swift and brutal retaliation. The Spearmaster would have snapped the fool's arm before he could blink.
But I was no longer the Spearmaster. I was weak, trapped, at the mercy of those who saw me as nothing more than coins to be counted.
"Cat got your tongue?" The guard's grin widened as he prepared for another blow.
Something shifted inside me at that moment. The pain, the humiliation, the crushing weight of my circumstances—all crystallized into a single ember of determination that burned in my chest.
Memories of my past life flooded back with startling clarity. Every battle fought, every enemy vanquished, every impossible victory achieved through skill, cunning, and sheer force of will.
I was reincarnated…into the body of the weakest of monsters.
The irony was almost comical. The greatest warrior of an age, reduced to this pathetic form. But the frailty of the body did not diminish the strength of the mind. I had risen from nothing once before—a farm boy who became a legend. If fate had decided to give me a second chance, even in this degraded state, then I would seize it with both clawed hands.
The guard's club came down again, but this time I was ready. I had no strength to fight back, not yet, but I could endure. I had endured worse in my first ascent to power. Pain was just another enemy to be conquered.
I stared into the guard's eyes as the blow landed, refusing to cry out, refusing to break. Something in my gaze must have unsettled him because he stepped back slightly, uncertainty flashing across his rugged features.
"Tough little bastard, huh?" he muttered, but the cruel enthusiasm had drained from his voice.
As he moved away, I slumped back against the cage wall, conserving my strength. Around me, the slave market continued its grim business, but I was no longer truly a part of it. My mind was already working, cataloging weaknesses, identifying opportunities, planning.
The Spearmaster was dead, that was true. But from his ashes, something new would rise. These shackles would not hold me forever. This frail body would grow stronger. These captors would learn to fear the monster they had so carelessly caged.
I closed my eyes and began to remember—not just the glory, but the path that had led to it. Every technique mastered, every strategy learned, every hard-won victory that had built the legend. It was all still there, locked deep within my reborn consciousness.
Let them see the weak goblin, I thought, a cold smile playing on my lips. Soon enough, they would learn the truth.
The first step on any journey is always the hardest. But I had taken it before, and I would take it again. This time, I will go even higher.