The forest was still.
Klein crouched low behind a curtain of ferns, eyes narrowed at the crude goblin camp below. Smoke from their fire drifted lazily through the trees, carrying the stench of burnt meat and sweat. He could hear their guttural laughter—sharp, ugly sounds that cut through the otherwise peaceful woods.
Five goblins. One slightly larger than the rest. They fought over bones and scraps, completely unaware of the small predator watching them from the shadows.
'Pathetic,' Klein thought.
"Pathetic but useful," Paros whispered in his mind. "Every monster felled feeds your growth, master. Think of them as experience made flesh."
Klein's lips curled into a faint smile. 'Experience, huh? Guess it's time to start grinding.'
He tightened his grip on the dagger. Whisperfang's hilt felt alive, thrumming softly, resonating with the pulse of his hand. The black blade seemed to drink the light, its faint silver veins glowing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
The goblins squabbled louder, one punching another and snatching a piece of meat from its hand. Their movements were erratic—careless.
"Observe them," Paros murmured. "Study their rhythm. The first rule of combat is to let your enemy's stupidity guide your blade."
Klein's breathing slowed. He watched every motion, every twitch, memorizing their habits. They didn't even post a lookout. It was almost insulting.
'This will be easy.'
"Confidence is good," Paros said, voice amused, "but let's not confuse arrogance for strategy."
'I've got this.'
"Of course you do."
Klein waited for the wind to shift, carrying their scent away. Then he moved.
Quiet. Fluid. His steps barely disturbed the grass. The training of his old world—those years of reading about assassins, knights, and shadow warriors—was suddenly being put to use. Only now, he wasn't imagining it.
He was living it.
Whisperfang seemed to guide him, the blade's presence sharpening his instincts. He slid between trees, closer and closer until he could see the oily gleam of the goblins' skin.
Ten meters.
Five.
Three.
A twig snapped under his foot.
One goblin's head jerked up. Its eyes narrowed, sniffing the air.
Klein froze.
The creature snorted, scratching its belly, then turned away.
Paros chuckled. "Lucky."
'Skillful,' Klein corrected.
"Delusional, but charming."
Klein exhaled and crept closer. The smallest goblin—barely taller than him—stood near the edge of the camp, clutching a crude spear. Its back was turned, posture slouched. Easy prey.
Whisperfang vibrated faintly, eager.
'So this is it,' Klein thought. 'First kill.'
He didn't feel fear. Just focus.
Paros' voice softened. "Remember, master: aim for the throat. Quick, clean, and quiet."
Klein nodded once.
He stepped forward, closing the final distance in one swift movement. His arm shot out, the dagger flashing like black lightning.
The blade sank into the goblin's neck with barely a sound. A faint gasp escaped the creature's lips before its body went limp. Klein caught it before it could fall, lowering it gently to the dirt.
Warm blood trickled over his fingers.
He stared at it for a moment, feeling the faint tremor in his hand. Not horror. Not disgust. Just… realization.
'I actually did it.'
"Congratulations," Paros said, tone light and teasing. "You've officially graduated from reader to reaper."
Klein didn't respond. He wiped the blade clean on the goblin's ragged cloth and stared at the corpse. The forest was still quiet—no alarm, no reaction from the others.
It was almost too easy.
'Is it supposed to feel like this?'
"Like victory?" Paros asked. "Yes."
'No,' Klein thought. 'Like it didn't matter.'
Paros paused before replying. "Every first kill feels hollow. The second one… that's when you decide what kind of person you'll become."
Klein's expression hardened. He rose slowly, eyes flicking back toward the firelight where the other goblins laughed, oblivious to their fallen kin.
'Then I'll become someone who wins.'
"Now that," Paros said, his tone brightening again, "is the spirit I was hoping for."
Klein crouched, inspecting the goblin's crude weapon—a stick with a sharpened stone lashed to the end. He tossed it aside.
'Trash.'
"Indeed," Paros agreed. "But their trinkets might fetch coin later. Looting is a noble art."
'I'll pass for now.'
He adjusted his grip on Whisperfang, eyes glinting in the dim light. The dagger hummed faintly, hungry again.
The next target sat near the fire, back turned, gnawing on bone. The others argued around him, throwing rocks and bones at each other.
Perfect chaos.
Paros' tone shifted, smooth and instructive. "Notice how their attention scatters. Goblins fight each other as much as their enemies. Exploit that. Step from shadow to shadow, strike between breaths."
Klein nodded. His heart beat steady. The earlier rush was gone—now there was only precision.
He crept forward, silent as the breeze. Every motion felt natural. The dagger was weightless in his hand, his body moving as though it had done this a thousand times before.
'So this is combat,' he thought. 'Not glory, not chaos… just rhythm.'
"You learn quickly," Paros murmured. "The battlefield is a dance, and you're learning the steps."
Klein's mouth twitched into a faint smile. 'Then let's dance.'
He was only a few steps from the next goblin when one of them suddenly turned, its nostrils flaring. It sniffed the air again, eyes narrowing toward the trees.
Klein froze.
The goblin barked a noise—half warning, half confusion.
"Now," Paros hissed.
Klein moved.
Whisperfang slashed through the air, faster than thought. The black blade whispered against skin, and the goblin's throat opened in a thin red line.
It collapsed, choking softly, its companions staring for half a heartbeat before shrieking in alarm.
Klein stepped back into the shadows, heart racing.
'So much for quiet.'
"Ah," Paros sighed, almost amused. "Subtlety never lasts long."
The camp exploded into chaos. The remaining goblins grabbed crude weapons, shrieking and running in circles before two finally spotted Klein's silhouette.
They screamed and charged.
Klein didn't run. He stood his ground, dagger poised, the Dragonheart's warmth thrumming through his chest.
The first goblin lunged with a jagged sword. Klein sidestepped easily, the movement instinctive, and drove Whisperfang upward. The blade pierced its chest and slid free in a single, fluid motion.
The creature collapsed, twitching once before going still.
The second swung wildly, more fear than skill. Klein ducked low, spinning to the side, and slashed across its arm. The goblin howled, dropping its weapon. Klein finished it with a clean strike to the throat.
Silence returned.
Only two goblins remained—both staring at him with wide, yellow eyes. One hissed, the other backed away.
Klein tilted his head slightly.
'What's wrong? Not so loud anymore?'
"Intimidation works wonders, doesn't it?" Paros mused.
The remaining pair exchanged a panicked look, then bolted into the trees, shrieking.
Klein didn't chase. He exhaled slowly, lowering his dagger. His heart still pounded, but his movements were steady.
Three bodies lay at his feet. His first battle—and he'd won it without injury.
'That… wasn't so bad.'
Paros chuckled softly. "Confidence confirmed. You've taken your first step into the art of survival."
'Art?'
"Yes. Killing with grace is always an art."
Klein sheathed Whisperfang, the blade whispering faintly as if in approval.
The faint smell of blood hung in the air, mixing with the smoke from the dying fire. The forest seemed to hold its breath around him.
He looked down at his hands—steady, unshaken. A small, sharp smile crossed his face.
'Not bad for a first kill.'
"Not bad at all," Paros agreed warmly. "And to think, this is only the beginning."
Klein turned toward the deeper woods, where the remaining goblins had fled. His eyes gleamed with quiet determination.
'Then let's keep going. Whisperfang's not done yet.'
And with that, he stepped into the trees.