Class points allocated
+3 Free Stat Points Available
The familiar system window floated in front of him, waiting for his decision. Max considered his growing strength, both magical and physical. After a moment’s thought, he assigned his points:
+1 Strength – More power behind each strike would make his swordplay more viable.
+1 Endurance – Fights were lasting longer now, and he needed the stamina to keep up.
+1 Intelligence – Magic was still his bread and butter, and every point helped.
[Stat Allocation Confirmed]
He felt it instantly—a subtle shift in his body and mind. More energy pulsed in his limbs, and the burning behind his eyes sharpened. He was growing stronger. He could feel it.
Looking back toward the direction of the larger goblin camp, Max exhaled. He knew he couldn’t just charge in, not without a plan.
I need to scout, set traps, maybe pick them off in waves... There’s gotta be a way to turn the odds.
Spitefang rested lightly against his shoulder, its weight familiar now. With a rare sword, and growing magical reserves, Max took off at a light jog through the trees.
Time to bring the fight to them.
Max decided on a simple plan: eliminate every patrol he came across on the way back to his makeshift lookout. It wasn’t the most strategic approach, but it worked—so far. He just had to be fast. Each ambush had to be quick, clean, and quiet before the next group got close enough to notice something was wrong.
He almost got caught once when one of the goblins peeled away from his group to take a piss—right next to a pile of corpses Max had dragged off the trail and stashed behind a bush. The goblin never got a chance to zip up.
By the time he reached the edge of his old vantage point, Max had taken out four patrols in total. It was going smoothly… until the fifth.
He crept into position like before, lining up a fireball to hit them dead-center. But just as he was about to release it, the lead goblin snapped his head up and shouted something guttural. The whole group scattered before the fireball could connect.
“Shit,” Max muttered.
He vaporized the screamer first—because screw that guy for ruining the ambush. Then, with a quick scan of the treeline, he spotted two more goblins huddled behind a tree far too thin to actually conceal them. A pair of mana bolts ended that bit of foolishness.
But the fourth? Gone.
Max searched the area and tried to find tracks, but there was nothing—just trampled undergrowth leading off in too many directions. Wherever that last goblin went, Max couldn’t follow.
If he’s running back to the main camp, I might’ve just blown my cover entirely.
Scowling, Max turned back toward the smaller outpost, hoping the goblin had doubled back instead of warning the entire base.
Max, of course, wasn’t that lucky.
The one goblin who slipped away hadn’t turned back. No, he’d sprinted straight to the outpost—just as Max feared.
By the time Max returned to his usual vantage point, the difference was obvious. The once half-asleep camp was now a hive of activity. Dozens of goblins were moving about with frantic energy, reinforcing the spike barrier and shouting orders in that harsh, guttural tongue of theirs.
More concerning were the patrols—larger now. Instead of groups of three or four, they were moving in squads of six or more. And they weren’t random grunts, either. Max spotted five goblins that looked far better equipped than the rest—crude weapons replaced with forged blades, bodies armored in stitched leather and scraps of metal. Warriors, clearly.
Behind them walked a thinner goblin holding a crooked staff topped with bones and feathers, a faint green glow pulsing from his palm every few seconds. A healer? Great. Max squinted toward the back of the group, trying to get a read on the last figure—but his eyes kept sliding off it, like it was half there, half shadow. Just looking at it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
What the hell is that thing?
His gut screamed danger.
He didn’t wait to find out.
Max ducked back into the tree line, heart pounding. Okay... they know I’m here. No more easy ambushes. No more picking off stragglers without notice.
Still, if they wanted to send patrols to find him, he’d use that.
Come on then, Max thought as he retreated deeper into the woods. Send them out. Just not all at once.
Max crouched low behind a fallen tree, his eyes locked on a patrol of six goblins weaving through the trees. No shadowy figure. No warriors. Just a handful of grunts and one goblin with a crude totem strapped to its back and a pouch of herbs swinging at its side.
Perfect.
He slipped away from his hiding spot and set a pair of noise traps—twigs bundled with string and bone that would snap loudly when tripped. With the traps placed in opposite directions, Max circled around and launched a weak fireball into the distance, just strong enough to crack against a tree and leave a trail of smoke.
As predicted, the patrol snapped to attention. A moment later, the traps fired off in opposite directions.
The goblins split, the leader barking orders in its nasal language. Half the group darted off toward the first trap, the others—including the healer—rushed toward the smoke. That was all Max needed.
He struck from the shadows.
Two fireballs, one mana bolt, and a dagger to the spine later, it was over. The goblin healer managed to throw a single pulse of weak magic before Max closed the distance and took it down with a slash of Spitefang.
He panted, heart racing, and checked the corpses.
[Loot Acquired: Crude Health Potion x3]
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The vials were thick, brownish-red with strange sediment swirling inside. Max sniffed one cautiously and made a face. “Smells like boiled rat piss... but if it works, it works.”
He tucked one into the side pouch of his enchanted ring—ready for emergencies—and slid the other three into his satchel. They'd probably come in handy if things went sideways.
And they might.
Because now came the real risk.
Max turned his gaze toward the outpost.
He knew he couldn’t fight every goblin out there. Not yet. But if he could sneak in—get to the leader—maybe, just maybe, he could decapitate the whole structure. Goblins weren’t exactly known for their organization or morale.
Cut off the head… and the body collapses.
He adjusted his grip on Spitefang, took a deep breath, and disappeared back into the shadows of the trees, eyes locked on the makeshift palisade.
Time to see if chaos could be his greatest ally.
The goblin outpost was an ugly thing—roughly circular, surrounded by jagged wooden stakes pounded into the ground to form a crude palisade. It wasn’t uniform; some spikes leaned, others were rotting, but it did the job well enough to keep wild beasts out and most enemies from casually walking in. Torches lined the fence at uneven intervals, casting long shadows that danced across the camp as goblins moved about in nervous clusters.
Max crept through the underbrush, keeping low, watching. From his new vantage point, he counted at least four squads of goblins inside the barrier—some patrolling, others tending to food, gear, or injured comrades. The center of the camp held the largest structure: a thick leather-and-hide tent reinforced with bone stakes and banners stitched with crude symbols. That had to be it. The leader's tent.
He studied the patrol patterns. Sloppy. Goblins weren’t disciplined; they walked in lazy arcs, often stopping to argue or eat. The biggest weakness? No one was guarding the tents near the back of the camp, and most of the goblins were clustered around the center.
Alright, Max thought, reaching into his satchel. He pulled out a small vial—one of the crude health potions—and smashed it into a dry brush pile near the corner of the camp. It wasn’t flammable on its own, but the oil-based residue made a good accelerant. A quick spark of mana lit it up.
The flames caught fast, licking up the tent beside it.
Goblins shrieked and scrambled, pouring toward the smoke like panicked ants. The camp erupted in chaos.
Max moved.
He slipped through a gap in the back wall where two rotted stakes had fallen, keeping low and quiet. No one noticed. The crackling fire and shouting goblins created the perfect storm of distraction. Max skirted the edge of the camp, heart pounding in his ears, until he stood before the flap of the leader’s tent.
He took a breath. In. Out. Then ducked inside.
The air hit him first—hot, fetid, thick with the stench of rot and old blood. The interior was lit with a few glowing stones embedded in the walls, casting a greenish hue over the disgusting space. Bones hung like wind chimes from the ceiling, clacking softly with every movement. A crude throne made of lashed wood, fur, and twisted scrap metal sat at the center.
And around it... smaller goblins.
Three of them, no older than children if goblins even had children. Their limbs were thin, their skin scarred, their eyes hollow. One dragged a bowl of foul-smelling stew across the ground while another trembled under the weight of a shield twice their size. The third was frantically scrubbing bloodstains from the floor with a rag that looked suspiciously like it used to be clothing.
This is vile.
Max’s gaze hardened. He hadn’t come to pity them, but this... this was worse than expected.
Movement.
From the far end of the tent, the leader emerged—a hulking brute of a goblin, hunched and broad-shouldered, his skin a sickly greenish-black. He was muttering to himself, oblivious to Max’s presence, barking orders in a guttural tone to the smaller goblins, who flinched at every syllable.
Max didn’t hesitate.
He moved like a shadow, silent and swift.
One step. Two. Then a hard grip on Spitefang’s hilt. The blade hissed free just as the goblin turned, eyes widening in confusion—and then fear.
Too late.
Max drove the sword upward, burying it deep into the goblin’s throat. A wet, choking noise escaped its lips as it crumpled backward, blood splashing across the floor and the abused goblins around him.
The tent fell silent—only the soft clatter of bone charms swaying above remained.
Max stood there for a second, breathing heavy, eyes scanning for any more surprises. But none came.
Then, as if summoned by the system itself, a faint chime echoed in his mind.
[Quest Complete: Assassinate the Goblin Warchief]
Reward: +EXP, +150 Credits
Loot Available: Warchief’s Personal Chest Unlocked
Max locked eyes with the smaller goblins—still frozen where they stood. He didn’t raise his weapon. Didn’t chase. Just looked.
After a heartbeat of hesitation, the three broke into a scramble, yelping and slipping as they bolted through the tent flap and out into the chaos outside.
Max let them go.
They're not soldiers, he told himself. Just survivors.
With the leader slumped in a heap and no one else in the tent, Max turned to the heavy chest at the base of the throne. Iron-bound, scratched, and sealed with a simple latch. He kicked it open.
Inside, he found…
- A Common War Axe, larger than he preferred, but embedded with a Sharpness Rune. Serviceable, but not an upgrade.
- Two unlabeled vials of cloudy green liquid that gave off a foul, coppery smell. Max wrinkled his nose and avoided contact. Poison? He didn’t want to find out the hard way.
- A waterskin, heavy with clean water—a rare luxury out here.
- A rolled hide map, too degraded to read now but maybe salvageable later.
- And most usefully, a large canvas tent, folded tightly and tied with cord, far better than the scraps he had for shelter.
He dropped the potions into his storage ring—no way he was contaminating his special potion bag—and slung the waterskin and folded tent over his shoulder. He grabbed the war axe too, strapping it to his back as an emergency weapon.
That’s when the temperature in the tent seemed to drop.
A sound—like breath being pulled from the air—slithered behind him.
Max spun, but too late.
A blade—curved, thin, and jagged—sliced across his side as a shadow goblin erupted from the very darkness itself. Its eyes glowed violet, and its skin rippled like smoke around muscle and bone.
Max stumbled back, gritting his teeth through the pain. He barely managed to raise Spitefang in time to block a second blow, the clang of metal echoing in the chaos of the camp.
He didn’t wait for another round. He blasted the ground at the goblin’s feet with a fireball and dove through the nearest tent wall, rolling out into the shadows. The fire caught, spreading behind him and masking his escape as he vanished into the woods, sprinting through the brush until his lungs burned and the camp was long behind him.
He collapsed behind a thick log, clutching his bleeding ribs.
“Shit,” he hissed.
Then he remembered…
Max lifted his hand and focused. Green light pooled in his palm—clumsy at first, flickering like a candle. But it steadied. He pressed it to the wound.
[Lesser Heal – Activated]
A warm, tingling sensation spread through his side. The bleeding slowed. The pain dulled. It didn’t fix everything, but it was something. The light faded a few seconds later, leaving him sore but no longer in danger of passing out from blood loss.
“Hah,” he breathed, slumped against the log. “Guess I am a healer too.”
Max made his way back to his old camp under cover of darkness, ribs sore, mana low, and tension still thrumming through his limbs after the close encounter with the shadow goblin. His “camp,” if it could even be called that, looked even shabbier now after everything he’d seen. The crooked drying rack, the half-burned log he used as a bench, and the patchy tarp he had once called shelter—it all looked painfully temporary. Worse, it was far too close to the goblin outpost now that he’d made his presence very clear.
They would come looking for him. Of that, he was sure.
Can’t stay here. Not unless I want to wake up with a spear in my gut.
Max moved quickly, packing up what little he had. The tent he stole, his potions, the drying strips of jerky, and his water skin—everything went into his storage ring or slung across his back. He didn’t bother with the rest. Whatever was left could rot.
He made his way west, toward the distant crashing of waves. The terrain grew rockier as he approached the shoreline, but eventually, he found what he was looking for: a tall willow tree whose long, leafy branches created a natural curtain of green. Just behind it, a thick hedge of flowering bushes helped hide the clearing from prying eyes. It was close enough to the coast for fresh air and escape routes, but far enough from the goblins to feel safe—safer, at least.
“This’ll do.”
Max unfolded his stolen tent beneath the willow and secured it between roots and stones. It wasn’t much, but it was his. Hidden. Covered. Defensible.
As he sat just outside the entrance, staring out through the veil of branches, he felt something new: a flicker of calm. Not peace, exactly—but something close.
He wasn’t just surviving anymore.
He was carving out space. Planning. Learning.
And tonight, he’d earned a real rest.