A low, throaty "Ummm~" drifted from inside the master's hut, soft and liquid, followed by the rhythmic creak of the bedframe—slow at first, then steady, insistent, like a heartbeat made of wood.
Skarn stood motionless outside, his small frame barely reaching halfway up the door.
His sharp goblin ears twitched forward, drinking in every sound, while his long nose flared at the warm, unmistakable musk already seeping through the cracks. Through a knothole worn smooth by years being used to tie a rope, he could see just enough.
His Master remained hidden behind the door's thick frame, but Madam was fully visible in the lamplight—back arched, thighs parted, skin gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat.
The sight struck him like a hammer.
His clawed hand, almost without conscious thought, slid down to the straining length already jutting obscenely from his narrow hips. Too large, too thick for his wiry body, it looked borrowed from some other creature entirely—dark, veined, pulsing in his grip.
"Umm~ Yeah~"
Her voice curled around the words, lazy with pleasure, and something inside Skarn snapped taut.
His fingers tightened. The motion quickened—short, urgent strokes that matched the cadence leaking from the hut. Heat coiled low in his belly, sharp and bright. His breath came in shallow huffs through flared nostrils.
He barely registered the moment it broke. A sudden, shuddering release spilled across the weathered wood of the door—thick ropes that gleamed wetly for an instant before sinking into the grain.
Almost at once the air thickened with his scent: raw, animal, sharply different from anything human—earthy, iron-tanged, feral.
Skarn stayed rooted there, chest heaving, hand still wrapped around slowly softening flesh, listening as the creaking inside the hut rolled on, undisturbed.
But as the last tremor faded, clarity crashed in like cold water.
Haah… Again.
Just how cursed this body really is for lust.
The thought arrived half groan, half resignation. He exhaled through his nose, sharp and defeated, then turned away.
Small bare feet padded across the packed dirt toward the tiny structure his master had allotted him: a low hut no larger than a chicken coop, its walls of mud and thatch barely taller than he was. For Skarn though, it was spacious enough.
He ducked inside. The familiar smell of dry straw and old earth greeted him. He lowered himself onto the rough mattress of hay and straw, lying flat on his back. Overhead the mud ceiling stared down, cracked and uneven, faintly silvered wherever moonlight found a gap in the thatch.
The moans still drifted across the yard. They reached him clearer than they should—his long goblin ears caught every breathy rise and fall, every creak of the distant bedframe.
Beneath the thin blanket his cock twitched again, insistent, greedy, as though it had not spent itself against the master's door only minutes earlier.
A low, frustrated groan escaped his throat.
"Just calm down, man."
The words came out ragged, heavy with exhaustion that had settled deep into his narrow bones. He dragged a clawed hand across his face, pressing the heel against closed eyes as if he could block out both the sound and the heat still coiling low in his gut.
At first, when his human consciousness slammed into this new body, Skarn had reeled in disbelief.
Of all the possible vessels, fate—or whatever cruel mechanism governed transmigration—had dropped him into the frailest, most despised form any world offered: a goblin. The weakest race. The universal drudge.
And then days blurred into weeks of bitter realization. In this world Goblins weren't just weakest race.
They hauled, fetched, scrubbed, endured: beasts of burden with pointed ears and crooked spines, bought and sold like livestock.
And he unfortunately had become just one of them. Eventually he too was bartered away, coin changing hands until he stood, shivering and collared, before the grunting master who now owned him.
And still the body betrayed him.
It wasn't mere arousal; it was something deeper, more relentless—a furnace stoked by this particular goblin flesh, as though lust had been carved into the very marrow.
Skarn had never asked for it. He would have preferred strength, cunning, any gift but this one: an insatiable, animal drive that answered to nothing and no one.
He dragged a forearm across his brow, wiping away the faint sheen of sweat that had gathered there despite the cooling night.
Another soft moan floated across the yard from the master's hut—distant, dreamy, indifferent—and beneath the thin blanket his length gave another helpless twitch.
Skarn exhaled, long and ragged.
He closed his eyes, willing the fire in his blood to gutter out. The moonlight that slipped through gaps in the thatch painted faint silver bars across his green skin, across the crooked fingers clenched at his sides, across the ridiculous, outsized organ still straining against fabric far too rough for comfort.
No relief waited anywhere.
No willing body, no secret corner, no kindness that would ever bend toward an ugly little goblin like him.
But just as the familiar despair began to settle deeper into his bones, the night cracked open.
A soft, crystalline ding sliced through the haze of his thoughts—clean, impossible, like a bell struck in a dream.
Then came the voice: calm, mechanical, achingly familiar from every web novel he had once devoured in secret hours.
[Congratulations on awakening the Invisible Breeding God System.]
The name landed strangely—absurd, almost comical—yet before Skarn could even shape a scoff, his mind was no longer his own.
Information poured in.
Not gently. Not gradually.
It crashed like a mountain stream breaking through cracked stone: cold, relentless, glittering. Names, rules, abilities, restrictions, promises—each fragment sharp enough to cut, yet they fused seamlessly into the fabric of his consciousness.
His breath caught; his small hands flexed against the straw as though trying to anchor himself against the flood.
When it finally ebbed, when the last shimmering thread settled behind his eyes, silence returned—thicker now, heavier.
Skarn lay rigid on the prickling mattress, green skin prickling with sudden sweat despite the night's chill. His long ears twitched once, twice, listening for some echo of what had just happened inside his skull.
Then—
"What the hell is this?"
The words slipped out, low and rough, barely louder than a whisper. They stayed trapped within the close mud walls of his tiny hut, dying against the thatch overhead.
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