A Goblin Problem
---
Ren set the first fire just past noon.
He didn't start with the camp. He wasn't suicidal.
Instead, he found a brittle patch of dead brush half a hill away—far enough to distract, close enough to seem natural. He pulled a handful of straw from an old shepherd's shack, wrapped it around a sparkstone he'd kept from the guild, and struck flint until the dry grass caught.
It didn't take long for smoke to rise.
A few minutes later, goblin shrieks rang out. They noticed.
He crept along the ridge above their camp, low to the ground, hidden behind scorched shrubs. The camp stirred—three goblins ran uphill toward the smoke, yelling in broken Common. Another two went to check the perimeter. That left seven near the cages.
Still too many.
He needed more chaos.
---
He unstrapped his flask.
Inside was water—mostly. Last night at the inn, the bartender had wiped the counter with a thick oil rag. Ren had pocketed it. Poured some of that grease into his flask to mix with what little water remained.
Now, he soaked a strip of cloth in it, tied it around one of his throwing knives, struck another spark, and waited until it caught.
Then he threw it.
The bottle flew wide, hitting one of the tents near the edge of the camp. It burst into flames with a loud whoosh.
The goblins panicked.
One shrieked something in their own tongue. Two tried to stamp out the fire with their feet. Another ran for a bucket of filthy water and dropped it halfway.
In the confusion, Ren slid down the hill and ran.
Straight toward the boy.
---
Darrel was half-unconscious. Rope around his chest and arms. No gag.
Ren knelt, cut the rope with his second knife, and hissed, "Can you walk?"
The boy blinked at him. Bloodied nose. Bruises across his neck.
Ren grabbed his collar. "Can you move?"
The boy nodded.
"Then follow."
He didn't wait.
Ren pulled him to his feet and ducked into the smoke. One goblin saw them. Screamed. Pointed.
Too late.
They were already running.
---
Back uphill, back into the trees, into the smoke trail he'd set himself.
The goblins chased. At least four. Screaming now. Wild and angry.
Ren didn't stop.
They reached the ridge. The boy stumbled. Ren caught him and kept dragging.
Then he heard it—hooves.
Not sheep. Not deer.
Wolves.
The goblins weren't alone.
They'd tamed something.
He turned, just in time to see one leap from the black brush. Grey fur. Yellow eyes. A crude iron bit tied to its mouth.
A riding beast.
---
Ren shoved the boy to the ground and raised his spear.
The wolf jumped.
He sidestepped, twisted, and drove the spear up into its belly as it flew past.
It howled. Twitched. Died mid-skid.
The rider—a goblin barely taller than Ren's chest—rolled on landing and shrieked. He pulled a jagged blade from his belt.
Ren didn't hesitate.
He stepped in and kicked the goblin in the stomach. It flew backward, slammed into a burnt trunk, and didn't get up.
Another wolf came.
Ren wasn't ready.
But before it leapt, a sharp whistle cut the air.
Then an arrow.
Straight through its neck.
It collapsed mid-step.
Behind him, boots approached.
---
Four men in leather gear stepped out from the trees. One held a bow. Another carried a spiked mace. The third wore a guild sash.
The fourth was smoking a long pipe.
"Thought I smelled burning goblin," the pipe man said.
Ren didn't speak.
He kept his spear up.
"Relax," the man continued. "We're not with them."
The one with the sash stepped forward. "Bronze rank?"
Ren nodded.
"Nice work," he said, glancing at the injured boy. "You're lucky we were passing through."
"Not luck," Ren said. "Fire. I set it."
The man whistled. "Smart."
The pipe man looked at him. "You alone?"
Ren nodded.
He grinned. "Damn."
---
They escorted him and the boy back to the farm.
Farmer Darran dropped to his knees when he saw his son.
Didn't cry. Just held him, rough and shaking.
"Two silver," he said, digging in his pouch. "And one more for the bastard's spear."
Ren declined the extra.
"You earned it," the man insisted.
"Then give it to him." He nodded to the boy.
The man looked at his son, blinked, then laughed—loud and broken.
"All right. You're a strange one."
---
At the guild that night, Ren didn't say much.
He dropped the bloodied quest notice on the counter and waited.
The receptionist scanned it, nodded, and wrote something down in her log.
"Confirmed," she said. "Two silver."
Ren took it and turned to go.
"Hey," she called after him.
He paused.
She tossed him a small coin. Different from the rest. Bronze, with a strange crest.
"What's this?"
"Ranking chip. First monster rescue. You'll need it for promotion."
He pocketed it.
No smile. No reaction.
Just walked out.
The Price of Sleep
---
Ren didn't sleep in the inn that night.
He had enough silver now. He could've rented a private room, maybe even a hot bath. But he didn't.
Instead, he walked out of town. Past the outer walls. Past the wheat fields. All the way to the orchard near the base of the old ridge. A spot the locals used for midnight drinking and secret rendezvous.
Tonight, it was just him.
He set his bedroll beneath the lowest branch of a pear tree and lay down.
The sky above was clear. Cold wind. Faint stars.
He closed his eyes.
And let it happen.
---
He always knew the rules, even if he never understood them.
One nap. One gain. That was how it worked.
The longer the sleep, the stronger the result.
But it was never his choice. Not the skill. Not the shape. Not even the time it took to manifest. And worst of all, not even the memory of what he had gained.
He could only discover it after waking. Through instinct. Through feel. Through trial.
And so, he slept.
---
When he woke, it was morning.
The sun was sharp and gold.
His body ached in new places.
He stood slowly. Checked his arms, his chest. No marks. No glow. Just the usual exhaustion that came with a change.
He walked to the edge of the field and picked up a rock. Flat, round, solid.
He tossed it.
It stopped in mid-air.
Not floated—stopped.
Then spun, fast. Faster than anything he could control.
He opened his hand.
The stone flew back into it, perfect and silent.
A retrieval skill.
"Throwbind" — the word filled his mind like a whisper.
He tested it again.
Threw a stick into the air. Called it back.
No incantation. No mana drain he could feel. Just... intent.
And speed.
A hunter's trick, he realized. Meant for daggers, maybe axes. Things thrown mid-fight that needed to return faster than feet could fetch.
It wasn't flashy. Wasn't strong.
But it was his.
And it was real.
---
By noon, he returned to town.
The market square was louder today. A merchant from the north had set up three new stalls—rugs, spices, and rare tinctures. He ignored them.
Instead, he went straight to the guild.
The same receptionist glanced up and said, "You're early."
Ren didn't answer.
She handed him a slip.
"Two new quests posted. Neither clean."
He scanned the sheet.
Both were goblin-related. One spoke of missing livestock. The other of bandits in goblin masks stealing from supply carts.
Ren pointed to the second.
She raised an eyebrow. "That's less pay."
"Still goblins?"
"Maybe."
"Then I'll take it."
---
He left the guild and stopped by the blacksmith's stall.
The man, old and broad, recognized him now.
"You again. Didn't break the last one, did you?"
Ren showed the tip of his spear.
Slightly bent.
The smith grunted. "You'll need a whetstone and a heat fix."
"I'll trade you," Ren said. "This—"
He pulled the goblin's jagged blade from his belt.
"Crude, but iron."
The smith took it. Weighed it. Nodded.
"Fine. Sit."
He patched the spear while Ren watched the square from the edge of the stall.
Children ran past. A bard played too loud by the fountain. A pair of armored men argued over map routes.
And in the far corner, the boy from the farm stood alone.
Watching.
---
Ren walked over.
Darrel didn't flinch.
"You didn't leave?" Ren asked.
The boy shook his head.
"Father wants to stay. Said the farm's cursed now."
"Do you believe that?"
"No. I think goblins are just goblins."
Ren liked that answer.
The boy stared at his spear.
"Will you kill more?"
"If they need killing."
Silence.
Then the boy said, "You saved me."
Ren didn't reply.
Darrel reached into his tunic and pulled something out—a small wooden disc. Rough edges. A crude carving of a crescent moon.
"I made it," he said. "From the old tree behind the barn. Thought you could have it."
Ren stared at it.
He didn't move.
"Take it," the boy insisted. "So you remember."
"Remember what?"
"That I'm still alive."
---
He took it.
Didn't speak.
Just tied the wooden disc to his belt and turned away.
And for the first time since he'd arrived in this world...
He felt something anchor him.
Something weightless and small.
But real.
The First Hunt with Purpose
---
The supply route ran through a thicket east of town.
Not a real forest. Just a stretch of overgrown land too rocky to farm, too narrow to build through. Caravans passed through it because it cut the travel time between Harrow's Rest and the southern villages by half a day.
But bandits knew that too.
Ren arrived before noon.
The road was quiet. Dusty. No wagons yet.
He crouched near a bend in the path, half-concealed behind a patch of bramble, and waited.
His spear was ready. Throwbind tingled beneath his fingers like a loaded spring.
He hadn't told the guild, but he wasn't here to guard any wagons.
He was here to bait the trap.
---
It took two hours.
They came in pairs—small silhouettes in mismatched armor, crude weapons in hand. Painted masks over their faces, the kind peasants might craft during festivals. Goblin-shaped, but off.
Wrong.
Too tall. Too careful.
He waited.
The first pair passed him, whispering to one another in a tongue that sounded rehearsed.
The second pair lagged behind.
He moved.
No shout. No warning.
Ren lunged from the bushes, struck the last one square in the back of the knee.
The man collapsed with a grunt—human, not goblin.
The second spun around, swinging a chipped axe. Ren ducked under it, drove his shoulder forward, and knocked the man into the dust.
The rest came running.
Four total now. No real formation. No discipline.
Just thugs in cheap masks.
Ren didn't speak.
He let the spear fly.
---
Throwbind worked better than he expected.
The spear flew from his hand, pierced one man's thigh, and spun back before the body hit the ground.
He caught it mid-air, reversed his grip, and jabbed it into the side of the one charging from the left.
Painful. Not fatal.
Another one raised a blade and rushed him with a scream.
Ren sidestepped and smashed the butt of the spear into the man's ribs.
Breathless collapse.
The last tried to run.
Ren didn't chase.
He threw again.
The weapon curved through the air like a hawk diving, hit the man square in the back.
The body twitched. Fell. Didn't rise.
---
Silence.
Five bodies in the dust.
None of them goblins.
Ren walked over and yanked the masks off one by one.
Farm boys. Deserters. Not a single goblin among them.
Just men pretending to be monsters.
He searched their packs.
Cheap rations. A few coins. One had a severed goblin ear tucked inside a satchel—used to claim bounties, maybe.
He took only what mattered.
A short black dagger, steel—not iron. Better crafted than the others.
He tucked it into his belt and left the rest.
The forest could have them.
---
He returned to Harrow's Rest by dusk.
The guild was quieter now. Lamps lit. Fire crackling in the hearth.
The same receptionist looked up, sighed.
"Back again."
He dropped the masks on the counter.
She counted them without speaking, then pushed a small pouch forward.
"Fifteen silvers. That's generous."
"I'm not here for the money."
She stared.
"What, then?"
He pointed to the board behind her.
There were two new slips. One was crossed out. The other—
"Cave in the west," she said. "Old mine. Something's been pulling sheep into it."
He nodded.
"I'll take that one."
---
As he left the guild, the wooden moon on his belt swung in time with his steps.
The sky above the town was deep violet now.
Still, he didn't sleep.
There were too many names unspoken.
Too many monsters pretending to be men.
And too many memories that still hadn't found their weight.
But he was learning.
Learning how to kill.
How to earn.
How to sleep.
And how to wake stronger than the day before.