The forest was not kind to him.
Each step Arin took through the underbrush made the world feel heavier, as though the earth itself sought to drag him down. The wolf carcass he had left behind was long out of sight, yet its memory clung to him. The fight had not been graceful. It had not been heroic. It had been a clash of desperation, and though he had survived, that survival only sharpened the ache inside him. His stomach cramped, his throat ached with thirst, and his body reminded him at every turn that it was fragile, mortal, breakable.
He forced himself onward, pushing through fern and briar. The canopy above was a thick weave of branches that filtered sunlight into dappled patches of gold. Sometimes, it felt almost beautiful, as though the forest had been painted for serenity. But beauty in this place was a trick. The silence pressed in on him, broken only by the whisper of leaves shifting in the wind, and every rustle in the undergrowth set his nerves on edge.
He had nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. No map, no bearings. He was not even sure how much of the day remained. He had woken to this world without explanation, a stranger in flesh and memory.
And yet—despite his hunger, despite the danger—his mind returned again and again to the glowing panel he alone could see.
The Status Window.
It hung in his vision when he willed it forth, neat and ordered like the interface of a game he remembered from his other life. Numbers, names, limits. An accounting of his very being.
Level 2… thirteen health, six mana.
The terms felt foreign and familiar at the same time. He could not dismiss the sense that this world was bound to laws he could read but others could not.
And it wasn't just abstract numbers. His body felt different since his last allocation. Stronger in the arm, steadier in the chest. He had pushed his Strength and Endurance higher, and when he pressed against a moss-slick trunk, he could feel the muscle answer with more certainty than before.
But numbers meant little if he starved.
His stomach growled again, louder this time, and Arin grimaced. He paused by a fallen log, sinking down onto it with a groan. Sweat plastered his hair to his brow, and the edges of his vision pulsed faintly with fatigue.
"I need food," he muttered aloud, voice hoarse.
Speaking anchored him somehow. It made the silence less suffocating, even if no one else could hear.
The log was old and rotten, its bark flaking under his palm. Curious despite himself, Arin peeled a strip of it back. Beneath, pale white grubs wriggled blindly, disturbed by the sudden light.
His stomach turned at the sight. In another life, he would have gagged, shoved the bark back, and walked away. But this wasn't another life. This was here, where he had fought off a wolf with bare desperation and lived by chance.
The grubs were fat. Alive. Protein.
He clenched his jaw, picked one up between forefinger and thumb, and stared at it. The thing writhed against his skin, slick and disgusting.
Arin swallowed. "Better than starving."
He popped it into his mouth and bit down.
The taste was foul, bitter and earthy, like damp wood mixed with rot. He gagged but forced himself to chew, forcing his throat to obey, and finally swallowed. His stomach lurched, then quieted.
One grub wasn't enough. He ate three more, face contorted with each mouthful, until his hunger dulled from screaming to murmuring. He spat once into the grass, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.
"Disgusting," he said, voice cracking. "But it'll do."
The forest didn't care. It remained silent, impartial.
Arin pushed himself back to his feet, brushing dirt from his palms. He kept moving. Always moving.
The path he followed wasn't a true path, not carved by human feet, but rather a faint impression through the ferns where something else had passed. The trampled greenery was fresher than the surrounding undergrowth, and curiosity tugged at him. Perhaps it would lead to water. Perhaps food. Perhaps nothing.
But in this world, following signs felt safer than wandering blind.
The trail wound deeper, sloping gradually downhill. The air grew damper, cooler, and soon Arin heard the faint trickle of water. Relief surged through him, quick and sharp. He broke into a jog, heart pounding, and stumbled through a veil of hanging moss to find a narrow brook cutting through the forest floor.
It wasn't wide—no more than the width of his shoulders—but the water was clear and lively, darting over smooth stones.
Arin fell to his knees at the edge, cupping his hands and drinking deeply. The cold water shocked his tongue, sharp and metallic, but it soothed his throat and quenched the ache in his chest. He drank until his stomach swelled, then sat back, gasping for breath.
His reflection quivered on the brook's surface: a lean young man, dirt-streaked, hair wild and sweat-matted. His eyes looked back at him with something between fear and determination.
This was him now.
The brook gave him strength, but it also carried warning. As he followed it downstream, he noticed more signs of passage. Not just trampled grass, but marks carved into bark—lines and crude symbols gouged deep. At first, he thought them random scratches. But the longer he looked, the more deliberate they seemed.
A crooked "X" on one tree. A spiral on another.
He frowned. Territory marks?
The thought chilled him more than the brook's water.
In his old life, he had read fantasy stories where goblins were little more than fodder, green-skinned nuisances that heroes cut down without thought. But here—here in the hush of the forest—such marks felt ominous. This wasn't fiction. This was survival.
He touched one of the carvings, fingers tracing the rough groove. The wood was fresh, the bark still splintering. Whoever had made it had passed recently.
And then he saw it: a footprint in the mud by the brook.
Small. Bare. Three-toed.
Not human.
Arin's pulse quickened.
He crouched low, scanning the undergrowth, every nerve straining. The forest seemed to hold its breath with him.
The footprint pointed downstream.
Arin swallowed, weighing his options. To follow meant danger. To retreat meant starvation and aimless wandering.
But something in him—the same reckless will that had made him face the wolf instead of running—pushed him forward.
He tightened his grip on the crude branch he had been using as a walking stick. It wasn't much, just a length of half-rotten wood, but it steadied his hand. He thought again of the Status Window, of the strength and endurance he had forced into himself. He wasn't helpless anymore. Not entirely.
He followed the prints.
The forest changed as he went. The trees thinned slightly, giving more light. The undergrowth was thicker, thorny shrubs clustered together as though to hide what lay within. He moved slowly, carefully, each step measured to avoid snapping twigs. His heart thundered loud enough he feared it would give him away.
And then, through the foliage, he saw it.
A figure. Small, crouched by the brook, spear in hand.
The creature's skin was a sickly green, its limbs wiry and knotted with tendon. Its ears jutted long and pointed, twitching at every sound. It wore little more than a strip of ragged leather tied around its waist, and its eyes glowed faintly yellow in the shadow of the trees.
A goblin.
Arin froze. The stories hadn't lied.
The goblin dipped the tip of its crude spear into the water, watching intently. After a long moment, it flicked upward, sending a dart of silver fish wriggling through the air. The goblin caught it with practiced ease, grinning wide to reveal jagged teeth.
Hunger gnawed at Arin again, fierce and desperate. That fish could be his.
But the spear. The teeth. The marks on the trees. This wasn't just prey—it was a hunter.
He crouched lower, breath shallow, watching.
The goblin gutted the fish with a sharp stone and tossed the entrails aside. Its movements were efficient, unhesitating, like one who had done this many times before. This was no bumbling creature. This was survival made flesh.
Arin's hand tightened on the branch. He could walk away. Slip back into the forest, find another stream. But the thought of wandering again with only grubs to fill his belly made bile rise in his throat.
His eyes darted to the goblin's belt. A sheathed dagger hung there, the metal pitted and rusted but solid. A weapon.
A weapon he could use.
Arin crouched in the brush, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
The goblin was still crouched by the brook, gutting its fish, oblivious. Its long ears twitched now and then, turning toward faint sounds in the forest, but it had not noticed him yet. Arin's grip on the branch tightened until his knuckles whitened. It wasn't much of a weapon, more rot than wood, but it was the only thing between him and hunger.
His eyes flicked again to the dagger hanging from the goblin's belt. The metal was dull, orange with rust, but it was still metal. A tool sharp enough to cut fish, sharp enough to pierce skin. If he could get it, he might actually stand a chance in this world.
He swallowed, throat dry despite the water he had drunk earlier. The choice before him was simple, yet terrifying: starve or fight.
He chose to fight.
Arin lunged from the brush with a ragged shout, swinging the branch with all the strength he could muster.
The blow landed across the goblin's back with a dull crack. The creature shrieked, flailing sideways into the brook, fish and entrails scattering. Water splashed high as it rolled, spear tumbling from its hand.
Arin didn't give it a chance to recover. He charged, shoving the goblin down with his shoulder, teeth gritted. His hand darted for the belt, fumbling at the dagger's crude sheath. The goblin snarled, clawing at his arm, but Arin's fingers closed around the hilt. He ripped it free and rolled backward just as the goblin lashed out with a wild kick.
The dagger was in his hand.
Heavy. Real. Cold despite the rust.
The goblin scrambled to its feet, yellow eyes wide with fury. It bared its jagged teeth and hissed, snatching its fallen spear from the mud. Its long ears quivered with rage, and it beat its chest with one fist before lowering into a crouch, spear leveled.
Arin's heart raced. His branch was gone, splintered in the brook, but he had the dagger now. He flipped it nervously in his palm, testing the grip. The hilt was wrapped in decayed leather, sticky and loose. The blade itself was short, no longer than his forearm, and pitted from age. It was not a weapon made to last.
The goblin advanced with a shriek.
Arin backed a step, then another. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body stayed firm. He had started this fight—now he had to finish it.
The goblin lunged.
Arin twisted aside, clumsy but quick, and the spear tip slashed across his sleeve instead of his chest. Fabric tore. Pain seared his forearm as the wooden shaft grazed him.
He retaliated with a desperate stab. The dagger glanced off the goblin's ribs, cutting shallow. It wasn't enough to stop it.
The goblin howled and lashed back, clubbing him with the spear's shaft. Arin staggered, vision flashing, but didn't fall. His Endurance—the stat he had chosen—saved him from collapsing.
This wasn't a duel. It wasn't a spar. It was raw violence.
The goblin darted forward again, nimble on its wiry legs, trying to circle him. Arin turned with it, dagger raised, every muscle taut. He could see the cunning in its eyes. This wasn't just an animal—it was a hunter, seasoned by survival.
And he was just a man fumbling through his first battle.
The goblin feinted, stabbing low. Arin moved to block, but the true strike came high—the spear shaft whipping into his shoulder. He cried out, stumbling, nearly losing his grip on the dagger. The goblin pressed, driving him back toward the brook's edge.
Water splashed at his heels. Panic surged. If he fell into the brook, it would pin him there, spear ready.
With a roar, Arin lunged forward, reckless. He rammed his shoulder into the goblin's chest, forcing it back. His dagger struck, sinking shallowly into its side. The goblin shrieked in pain, swinging wildly with its claws.
One claw raked across his cheek, burning. Blood sprayed. Arin gritted his teeth, twisting the dagger deeper.
The blade caught on bone. Rust crumbled.
There was a sharp snap.
Arin stumbled back, staring in horror at the hilt in his hand. The dagger had broken clean in two, leaving only a jagged shard of metal in his grip. The rest of the blade was buried in the goblin's flesh.
The creature wavered but did not fall. Instead, its fury doubled. It tore the broken piece from its side with a guttural roar, tossing it into the brook. Blood smeared its claws as it charged again.
Arin barely had time to react. He raised his broken weapon, more shard than blade, and caught the goblin's spear on it. Sparks hissed as rust met wood, and the impact jarred his arm to the bone.
The goblin pressed forward, teeth bared inches from his face, breath rancid with raw fish. Its strength was shocking for its size, lean muscle straining against him. Arin pushed back with all he had, his muscles screaming, the numbers from his Status flickering in his mind like a mantra.
Strength: 10. Endurance: 10. Hold.
The goblin shrieked, saliva spraying. Its spear drove closer, splintering the dagger shard inch by inch. Arin's arms shook. His vision blurred with pain and exhaustion.
Still, he did not fall.
The brook's water lapped at their feet, crimson now with mingled blood. The forest around them seemed to vanish, silence smothered by the sound of their struggle.
Then, with a sudden twist, the goblin wrenched its spear free and swung wide. Arin ducked instinctively, the shaft hissing past his head.
He lunged upward, stabbing with the broken dagger hilt.
The shard bit into the goblin's chest. Not deep, but enough. The goblin screamed, staggering back.
Both stood gasping, circling now, each bloodied and battered.
The fight was far from over.
The brook gurgled softly, but neither Arin nor the goblin moved. They circled one another in the clearing, the distance between them no more than a handful of steps. The goblin's yellow eyes glared with malice, its grip tight on the crude spear. Arin's hand clenched around the broken dagger hilt, the jagged shard of rusted metal catching what little moonlight filtered through the trees.
The standoff broke with a sudden shriek. The goblin lunged, spear darting toward his chest.
Arin twisted aside, the iron tip slicing the air where he'd stood a heartbeat before. He swung the hilt, desperate, but the broken blade barely scratched the creature's arm. The goblin hissed, pressing forward, jabbing again and again, each thrust faster, sharper, forcing Arin back toward the brook's edge.
His foot slipped on the wet soil, panic jolting through him. If he kept retreating, he'd be driven into the water and gutted like a fish.
Now or never.
With a snarl, Arin hurled the broken hilt into the mud and seized the spear's shaft with both hands. The goblin shrieked, tugging furiously, trying to wrench it free. They grappled in the clearing, locked in a vicious struggle where neither had the advantage. Arin's boots slid in the mud, the goblin's nails raked across his arm, pain burning hot.
He drove his knee into the goblin's gut, forcing it down, and with every ounce of strength, wrenched the spear away. The wood shuddered in his hands as the creature clawed at him, but now the weapon was his.
The goblin lunged, maddened, trying to bite at his arm. Arin thrust. The first strike glanced off its shoulder. The second pierced its chest. The goblin convulsed, thrashing, shrieking until the sound broke into a wet gurgle.
Arin thrust again, a cry tearing from his throat. And again.
At last, the goblin collapsed, twitching once before going still.
Arin staggered back, panting, his arms trembling from the effort. The spear was slick with blood, his knuckles white around it. His entire body ached. Every muscle screamed that he had come within a breath of death.
The corpse sprawled in the mud looked more pitiful than monstrous now. Its limbs bent at awkward angles, its crude leather rags soaked through. For all its savagery, it wasn't so different from a man. The thought turned his stomach. He retched into the brook until bile was all that came.
---
Interlude: Goblins
Goblins were not mighty, nor were they wise. They thrived on numbers, on ambushes and raids, using crude weapons stolen or scavenged. A single goblin was dangerous only to the weak or the unprepared. But in groups, they could overrun farms, caravans, even villages if the defenses were thin.
Hunters whispered that goblins were not born of flesh alone but of malice itself, the forest shaping them into parasites on mankind's borders. Whether that was myth or truth, Arin couldn't say. All he knew was that one goblin had nearly killed him.
And there were surely more.
---
Aftermath and Survival
Wiping his mouth, Arin forced himself to scavenge. He couldn't waste the chance. The broken dagger was worthless, but the crude spear he now held was serviceable. It became his first real weapon.
The goblin carried a pouch of half-rotted meat, a strip of hide, and two fish tied with twine. Arin's hunger overpowered his disgust. He rinsed the fish in the brook, grimacing, but they would keep him alive another night.
The forest pressed close around him as shadows lengthened, the chill of evening creeping in. He tightened his grip on the spear, its rough wood digging into his palm. Fear still clung to him, but beneath it, a harder truth formed: hesitation meant death.
He cast one last glance at the corpse. Not out of respect, but as a warning to himself.
When he turned away, he caught it again—that faint glow beyond the trees, low on the horizon. Not the cold gleam of moonlight, but warm, flickering, fragile. Firelight.
Civilization.
His legs trembled as he took his first step toward it. But step forward he did.
The torchlight ahead shimmered like a beacon in the darkness. Arin pressed himself against a tree trunk, his breath slow and shallow, forcing his pounding heart to calm. He had seen the silhouette of walls, the faint angles of rooftops, the unmistakable glow of human firelight. A village. Civilization at last.
His legs trembled with relief, but he didn't move right away. The lessons of the last few days had been etched into his body with sharp clarity—carelessness meant death. Wolves in the shadows. Goblins in ambush. He couldn't just stumble forward and hope for kindness.
The scent of roasted meat drifted across the breeze, so rich and warm that his empty stomach clenched painfully. For a fleeting moment, the world blurred, and he saw himself at a wooden table, a loaf of bread and steaming stew set before him. The illusion cracked as his hunger gnawed sharper, pulling him back into the cold night.
"Steady," he whispered under his breath. His voice sounded foreign, ragged, as though it belonged to someone else.
With the crude spear still clutched in his hands, he inched forward, crouching low, each step deliberate. The trees thinned. The forest's embrace gave way to an open stretch of grass, moonlight spilling across the clearing like silver paint. The village wall stood there, a barrier of sharpened logs sunk into the earth. Crude, but effective enough to hold back prowling beasts.
He hesitated at the edge of the treeline. A torch flickered near the gate, and a figure moved beside it—armed, alert. A watchman.
Arin weighed his options. He could try to sneak closer, but if caught, suspicion would harden to hostility. Or he could step forward openly and risk being mistaken for a threat.
His exhaustion made the decision for him. The world tilted faintly with each heartbeat. If he collapsed out here, he would never rise again.
So he walked. Slowly. Deliberately. Into the open.
The torchlight grew brighter, and the figure by the gate shifted, raising a spear. "Halt!" a rough voice barked.
Arin froze, lifting both hands, the crude weapon dangling at his side. His throat ached, his words catching, but he forced them out. "I… I mean no harm."
Another torch flared to life. Two more shapes emerged from behind the gate, armed and wary. They spread out slightly, flanking the first. Their eyes swept over Arin's silhouette, catching the torn clothes, the dirt clinging to his skin, the faint bloodstains.
"Drop the spear," one ordered, his tone sharp.
Arin hesitated, then let the crude weapon fall into the grass with a soft thud. He raised his hands higher. "Please. I'm not your enemy."
"Who are you?" the first watchman demanded. "What business have you skulking out of the woods at this hour?"
The question struck him like a blow. Who was he? A wanderer with no past, no place in this world. His mind fumbled for an answer. "…I don't know."
That earned a scoff. "Don't know? You expect us to believe that?"
"I swear it's the truth," Arin said, voice shaking. "I… I woke up out there. I don't remember where I came from. I've had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, no fire, no rest. I just…" His throat closed around the words. He swallowed hard, forcing them out. "I just need help."
The three men exchanged uneasy glances. Suspicion lingered in their eyes, but something about Arin's ragged tone, the way his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world pressed down on him, seemed to stir doubt.
"Could be a trick," one muttered. "Goblins set snares too."
"Look at him," another countered quietly. "He's half-dead. No goblin spy's this pitiful."
The leader clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing. His grip on the spear didn't ease, but his voice lost some of its bite. "Stay where you are. No sudden moves. The elder will want to see this."
Arin nodded quickly, relief flooding him so sharply his knees nearly buckled. He had reached human walls, to a place where fire burned and voices spoke. Whether it became sanctuary or danger, he couldn't yet know. But for the first time since opening his eyes in this strange world, hope flickered against the darkness.
---
Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 2
HP: 13/13
MP: 6/6
Strength: 10 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 10 (Max: 83)
Agility: 10 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0