Race: [Goblin]
Current Kill Count: 0
Next Stage Reward:
[Kill 1 Goblin, obtain Goblin Monster Organ]
Introduction:
"Goblins must die. These green-skinned vermin crawl into this world with nothing but pus and poison flowing through every blood vessel from head to toe. Hundreds, thousands of realms have been ravaged by the green plague called goblins. If you kill goblins, you're my comrade for life." (Garlon, Ironsoul Sword Saint, "The Dragonslayer")
...
What the hell?
"My cheat ability... seems pretty laser-focused on goblins, doesn't it?"
Deep in the forest cave, Orum muttered to himself while facing the pitch-black rock wall.
The interface visible only to him faded quietly as his words trailed off.
No one knew that Orum wasn't native to this world.
In his past life, Orum had been a student buried in textbooks for over a decade, eventually earning admission to a top-tier university in the Massachusetts. After graduation, he landed a job at a private aerospace company.
At the company, Orum threw himself into the grind, working long hours and weekends to prove himself. By year's end, he finally received his project bonus: a solid $15,000.
After the company's holiday party wrapped up, Orum climbed into his newly leased Tesla, ready to head home.
"Good thing I'm allergic to alcohol," he muttered. "Saved myself an Uber fee again."
"HONK—"
The instant he came around the curve, a massive truck loomed in his vision, hurtling straight toward him.
Three days after Orum's transmigration, recalling that overwhelmingly oppressive moment still left his heart pounding. The visual impact had been far too intense.
Fortunately, death hadn't brought the agony he'd expected. His vision went black in an instant, and when he opened his eyes again, he'd become "Orum" of another world, taking over this young body.
From the scattered memory fragments left by his predecessor, Orum pieced together the contours of this alien world like glimpses through a narrow tube.
This world possessed supernatural forces, a true fantasy realm.
He'd once witnessed a traveling bard perform cantrips, conjuring a continuously burning flame an inch from his fingertips without any matches. He'd also glimpsed, while passing a blacksmith's shop, a bare-chested muscular man whose hammer glowed with a pale golden aura as he swung it. That radiance came from forging skills honed to their absolute peak, creating a resonance with the tools themselves. And the village's juiciest gossip? The village chief's cousin had married a brass dragonborn woman who, during one heated argument with her husband, had gotten so angry she'd breathed dragon fire and set their entire house ablaze.
(/n: cantrips are basic, low-level spells)
However, these fantastical tales had little to do with Orum, because his identity was merely that of the humblest common farmer.
In this world resembling medieval Europe, peasants lived in extreme poverty. Orum's parents both worked the lord's estate, with three to four days each week devoted to mandatory labor. Only the remaining time could be used to cultivate their own "allotted land."
After taxes, what a peasant couple could save after a full year of production amounted to almost nothing. They might even fall into debt from lacking money to purchase winter provisions.
When young Orum was six or seven, he began helping his parents herd cattle, gather firewood, and pull weeds, continuing until he turned eighteen.
All of Orum's childhood food memories consisted solely of black rye bread mixed with wheat bran and watery gruel thin enough to cause malnutrition.
It was precisely this endless suffering that pushed Orum to leave the village, venture into the wilderness, and risk his life seeking a way to survive.
However, after arriving in Blackwater Town, just the first adventure made Orum realize he'd been far too naive before.
Orum slowly turned his head, looking toward the interior of this forest cave.
A burning campfire scorched the surrounding rock walls. Several tents crudely cobbled together from burlap and animal hides stood inside the cavern, their openings all facing the fire to ward off the bone-gnawing damp chill rising from the cave floor.
Several distinctive figures sat around the campfire, roasting meat over the flames.
At first glance, it looked like a classic four-person adventure party.
But when Orum looked more carefully... the chill in his heart grew deeper and deeper.
A half-orc, a tiefling, a duergar [gray dwarf], and a drow elf.
Good lord. This team? All villains.
Each one more notorious than the last. Each one heavier weight than the last.
Garr the half-orc had extremely unstable emotions. At least three times daily, he'd grab the axe at his waist over some verbal provocation, ready to fight his companions to the death.
After observing Garr for three days, Orum's stereotypical impression of half-orcs had only deepened.
No wonder they ranked number one for brawling rates in Baldur's Gate. They found everyone irritating.
But Orum had overheard others gossiping about Garr, saying he had no orc blood at all. He just had long canines, and his rage fits were simply his mania acting up.
Ferrak the tiefling sported two horns on his head and blood-red skin. At a glance, he gave off the impression of having very high fire resistance.
And that impression was absolutely correct. Tieflings were descendants born from humans who'd made pacts with demons or devils. They possessed demonic bloodlines and natural resistance to flames.
Their demonic heritage made tieflings more prone to embracing the dark side. Add to that the many city laws prohibiting tieflings from respectable employment, and to make a living, many tieflings could only operate in gray or even black markets. This led to tieflings having persistently high crime rates, making them the second most criminal race in Baldur's Gate.
Incidentally, the race with the highest crime rate was kobolds.
What surprised Orum somewhat was that this tiefling named Ferrak had mediocre martial skills, crude swordsmanship, and sloppy cantrips. However, when it came to race-play jokes [sexual humor involving fantasy races], he was a genuine literary master.
Especially when telling race-play jokes to his companions, he practically had witticisms rolling off his tongue, endlessly amusing. If Orum weren't so afraid of dying, he'd definitely jump in with some straight-man responses to join the fun.
Steelton the duergar stood 100 centimeters tall, weighed 220lbs(100kg), had a big beard, and possessed the typical square build.
Unlike regular dwarves, duergar were neither warm nor loyal, while still being just as greedy as regular dwarves. They'd fight bitterly over even half a copper piece.
Orum had heard that Steelton used to live quite well, managing an entire mining vein.
Then he got divorced.
Then he started taking out loans to pursue his doctorate.
Then he got caught in a debt spiral, using new loans to pay old ones.
What happened after that, Orum wasn't quite clear about.
In any case, he wished Steelton's debt-recovery plan success.
Sitting beside Steelton was Dorian the drow elf, with brilliant silver hair, ink-dark skin, and a coldly elegant bearing.
He was also this team's leader. Usually taciturn, but Orum's impression of him was the deepest.
Not only because he was a "naturally evil" drow elf, but because Dorian himself was rotten from head to toe [literally: "sores on his feet, pus flowing from his head"], a notorious scoundrel.
The moment Orum entered town, he'd seen Dorian's wanted poster:
(Blood Wolf Bandit Gang Leader: Dorian, Bounty: 100 gold coins, 10 gold coin reward for effective leads)
That's right. At this very moment, the four people sharing the same cave with Orum weren't some lawful-good adventuring party at all, but a gang of murderous bandits.
"I'm mixed up with bandits, so does that mean I'm also..."
Orum's gaze dropped, seeing his own hands and feet currently bound tightly with rope.
Everyone else slept in tents. Only he was trussed up like a dumpling, lying on some broken wooden boards that dug into his spine with dull pain.
All right, I'm not a bandit. I'm a hostage.
Three days ago... harboring dreams of finding treasure in dungeons, Orum had registered as an adventurer alongside two other young men from his village.
The three-person squad's first adventure yielded less than ideal results. Fresh out of the gate, they'd been ambushed and killed by bandits.
His two village companions were killed on the spot. Orum, because he could identify wild herbs and make poultices in the bandits' cave hideout, had barely enough utility value to temporarily keep his life.
"This opening setup... it's basically like those Myanmar border compounds, isn't it?" [reference to human trafficking operations in Myanmar]
Orum took a deep breath. When he'd transmigrated here, he'd already been a hostage.
His predecessor hadn't left him any room to maneuver whatsoever.
Fortunately, his cheat ability had already arrived... now he just needed to kill one goblin...
Then he could obtain a monster organ!
Although Orum didn't know what use a goblin monster organ had, having one was better than nothing!
Right on cue, voices from the villains around the campfire drifted over. Orum keenly caught the word goblin among them:
"In about half a day, the Gray Hawk squad on their goblin nest subjugation mission will pass through Tiger's Leap Gorge and enter the Wailing Caverns." Dorian wiped the longsword in his hands, maintaining the blade with heated linseed oil. "There's only five of them, one crossbow, no professionals. We just need to block the Wailing Caverns exit, and they're as good as dead."
"Another bunch of broke losers. Scrape all the meat off them and they won't even sell for 10 gold coins." Duergar Steelton grumbled.
"While we're eating roasted meat, don't say disgusting things like that." Ferrak frowned at the duergar and half-orc before him.
After his scolding, these two animals somehow ate even more enthusiastically.