Arthur stood over the bear's massive corpse, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The forest had gone silent once more, except for the rasping pant of the goblins clustered around him. Steam rose from the carcass, the air thick with iron and musk, but Arthur's focus had already shifted inward.
Then it came.
The familiar shimmer spread like frost through his veins—cold at first, then burning, as though liquid fire had been poured into his marrow. A faint vibration clawed into his skull, and the world dimmed, forcing his eyes shut. When he opened them, the translucent screen hovered before him, clear and merciless.
LEVEL UP
Arthur — Level 2 XP: 0/300
Choose a Skill:
Womb Hastening – Speeds up the birthing process of goblin offspring."Time bends for flesh; the brood will never linger in the womb."
Growth Surge – Goblins mature at twice the normal rate, reaching fighting age in days instead of weeks."Your spawn will grow sharp and strong, skipping the weakness of youth."
Brood Multiplier – Each birth produces an additional goblin beyond what would normally emerge."The farm spills over; abundance is born in your shadow."
Arthur's hand twitched in the air, as if brushing over unseen glyphs. His jaw clenched. He could already see it: Merlin, sweat-soaked, swollen and shivering in the hay, her body stretched to bear his creatures. A vessel, a farm. Weeks wasted between each litter meant delay, meant weakness.
His gaze lingered longest on the first option. Womb Hastening.
Arthur's lips pulled into a smile that was sharp, bitter, almost cruel.
"Efficiency first," he whispered. "If she's going to be useful, then she won't waste my time."
The moment his choice solidified, a ripple pulsed outward. Not sound, not sight—something deeper, as though the earth itself throbbed once in response. His goblins stiffened, ears twitching, eyes darting to the trees. They hissed softly, sniffing at the unseen current in the air.
Arthur ignored their unease. He adjusted his grip on the blood-slick axe hanging from his belt, then turned, striding back toward the hamlet. His boots sank into the dirt with each step, but inside, he felt lighter, his veins still alive with the echo of power.
That night, the stables groaned with the weight of the change. The air was hot and stifling, thick with straw dust and the smell of old blood. Merlin lay curled against the filthy floor, her face pale, sweat dripping from her chin as she clutched at her swollen belly.
"It's… faster, Arthur," she gasped, voice trembling between awe and terror. Her nails dug into her thighs as her back arched. "It's coming—too fast—it's—"
The goblin pressed to her side growled low, its sharp teeth bared as though it could smell what stirred inside her. Its claws scraped circles on the straw, restless, waiting.
Merlin's body convulsed. What should have taken another week clawed through her in hours—her womb twisting, tightening, forcing the spawn to the surface. Her cries filled the stable, ragged and raw, as though the very walls were listening.
Arthur stood in the shadows of the entrance, arms crossed. His eyes reflected the dim lantern light, cold, unblinking. There was no pity in his stare, no warmth. Only calculation, only the quiet satisfaction of a plan accelerating.
By dawn, Merlin lay sprawled in the straw, her skin slick with sweat, her breath shallow but steady. Her belly, once taut and straining, now rested flat—emptied, but already stirring again with the promise of more.
Three newborn goblins squirmed beside her, slick and shrieking, their limbs twitching with instinct. One clawed its way toward her chest, another nuzzled blindly at her hip. She welcomed them with a tired smile, her fingers trembling as they brushed over their damp skin.
Arthur stepped into the stable, boots crunching softly over the straw. He paused beside her, eyes sweeping over the scene: the blood, the brood, the woman who had made it all possible.
Merlin turned her head, vision hazy, but her smile widened. "See?" she whispered, voice hoarse but proud. "I did it. I'm useful. I can keep going. I want to."
Arthur crouched beside her, resting one hand on his knee. He didn't touch her, but his gaze lingered—calculating, yes, but not unkind.
"You did well," he said. "Good litter. Fast turnaround."
Merlin laughed softly, deliriously. "I can feel the next one already. It's working, Arthur. We're working."
He nodded once, then looked to the goblins—three more tools, already alive, already hungry. His war machine was growing, and she was the engine.
Arthur stood, brushing straw from his coat. "Rest. You've earned it. I'll need more soon."
Merlin closed her eyes, still smiling. "I'll be ready."
As the sun crept over the horizon, casting pale light into the reeking stable, Arthur turned toward the door. His mind was already moving—calculating XP, cooldowns, kill routes. The system was cruel, but he had found the loophole.
Behind him, the goblins hissed softly, curling against their mother's side.
And Arthur, already halfway to the treeline, murmured to himself:
"Good employee. Good product. Let's keep the cycle running."
Arthur's hand brushed the haft of his axe as he whispered to himself, almost reverently:
"With each birth, I climb higher."
And as the sun broke weakly over the horizon, spilling pale light into the reeking stable, Arthur turned away, already planning the next hunt, the next harvest, the next step toward dominion.