Arthur tightened his grip on the knife as he stepped beneath the treeline. The forest pressed in around him, alive with whispers of insects and shifting leaves. To his nerves, it felt like more than a forest — a dungeon disguised in roots and shadows. Every rustle was a hidden enemy. Every stretch of darkness, a corridor he might not return from.
His chest pounded, not only with fear, but with the dull, simmering rage that never left him. Rage at the laughter. Rage at weakness. Rage at himself. Tonight would be different. Tonight he would test his power. Tonight he would claim his first servant.
The rules pulsed in his blood, written deeper than language: Defeat. Bind. Command. The path to dominion. But only over the weak. Wolves, trolls, spirits — too strong. To fight them now would mean death. That left only one choice.
Target Selected: Goblin.Rank: Vermin-tier.Threat: Low.Reward: First Summoning.
The words weren't written in the air, but his mind carved them into reality all the same. His thoughts bent the world into a quest log, cold and clinical:
Quest Received: First Binding.Objective: Defeat and enslave a goblin.Reward: Unlock Power of Dominion.
Arthur swallowed, scanning the undergrowth. Goblins moved in packs — too dangerous. He needed one that had wandered alone. A straggler. A mistake of fate.
Minutes stretched, each one heavy enough to crush him. Then, at last, he heard it: a guttural snarl, the snap of a twig. Yellow eyes glowed in the moonlight. A goblin stumbled into view, wiry frame hunched, claws twitching. Hungry. Alone.
The goblin hissed. It crouched low, predator ready to strike.
Arthur's mind broke the moment into pieces: Enemy: Goblin (Lvl 1).Player: Arthur (Lvl 0).Knife Equipped.Condition to Win: Survive. Kill. Bind.
"Come on, then," he muttered. His voice trembled, but the words steadied him.
The goblin lunged.
The goblin lunged with a shrill cry, its yellow eyes burning like embers. Claws tore through the air — and Arthur's sleeve — with a dry sound of shredding fabric. He stumbled back, heart hammering, the dagger trembling in his sweaty hand.
The monster spun on its heels, agile as a wild animal, and attacked again. Arthur tried to parry with his arm, but the impact knocked him off his feet. The ground met him with brutal force: stones dug into his back, dirt filled his mouth. The air fled from his lungs as if it had been ripped out.
The goblin dropped onto him, light yet ferocious, its putrid breath hot on his face. Claws scraped his chest, leaving fiery trails. Arthur screamed, not from pain, but from panic — a primal, desperate sound. He tried to push it away, but the goblin was faster, more savage.
Then came instinct.
His knee shot up with force, hitting the creature's abdomen. A hollow sound echoed, followed by a squeal. The goblin writhed, staggering for a second — enough. Arthur rolled to the side, his body on fire, and raised the dagger with both hands.
With a roar that was a mix of rage and fear, he plunged the blade into the goblin's ribs — not deep enough to kill, but to wound. He felt the resistance of the flesh, the warmth of blood gushing over his fingers. The creature thrashed, scratching, biting at the air, but Arthur didn't let go. He pushed deeper, muscles trembling, eyes wide.
The goblin tried to get up, but Arthur held it down with the weight of his own body. The blade twisted inside the wound, and the creature's cry turned into a weak hiss. Finally, it stopped. A spasm. A final tremor. Silence.
But not death.
Arthur lay there, panting, his body slick with sweat and blood. Each breath was a victory. Every heartbeat, a reminder that he was still alive. The goblin lay beneath him, still breathing, too weak to fight, but alive enough to feel the fear.
But the memory struck him — boys in the barn, their mocking laughter, the word coward hurled like a blade. He clenched the knife harder. No turning back. Not tonight.
"I win!" he screamed — half rage, half terror.
Arthur looked into the creature's eyes — and saw something beyond pain. He saw the opening. The gap. The moment when strength bends to will.
He didn't need to kill. He needed to dominate.
Arthur remained still for a moment, his body still on alert, as if he expected another attack. But the goblin lay there, wounded, defeated — and alive. Arthur's breath came in short bursts, the dagger still firm in his hand. He had won. But the true test was yet to come.
His palms sweated. His throat locked dry. He almost turned back.
Arthur's arms trembled. His chest burned. Cuts stung across his skin, shallow but sharp. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to laugh. He hadn't killed.
And then it came.
The air thickened. A pressure pressed inward, seeping into his veins. The goblin's body twitched — not with life, but with submission. Light bled faintly from the wound, and Arthur felt it: chains unseen wrapping around the creature's spirit, binding it to him.
It hurt. Like hot iron poured into his blood. His vision blurred. His body shook with equal parts power and nausea. For a moment he thought he might break. But he didn't. He endured.
And when the pressure settled, he knew. The goblin was his. Broken, yet bound.
Arthur shoved the body aside and rose to his knees, chest heaving, hands slick with gore. But something in his eyes had changed — the fire was there now, undeniable.
He had done it. His first step. His first servant.
The laughter from the barn echoed again in memory. But this time it did not cut him. This time it fed him.