"A tiny goblin, barely seven days in this world, and yet… there's something strange about you, isn't there?"
"You feel me. You hear me. And still, despite being a goblin you stand? Curious." the voice mused again.
Skit felt it—an invisible weight bearing down on him, suffocating and oppressive.
Every muscle in his body was frozen, as if held by chains that were invisible but undeniably real.
He tried to summon the courage to open his eyes, to see what was before him, but his body refused to obey.
"You want to look at me, don't you?" The voice was playful, teasing, almost as if it knew his thoughts.
"So curious, so young. But you wouldn't want to make that mistake. Not so close." There was a pause, and then the voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "should you dare gaze this near, you may never leave this place again."
The silence was a shroud, suffocating and complete.
A laugh slipped through the dark—soft, feminine, and wrong. Like silk drawn across a fang. It did not echo. It lingered… and coiled.
"Goblin... but not," the voice mused, curling around him. "A newborn, yet you walk with blood not meant for you."
Something exhaled—no, tasted.
"Mmm. Your blood sings. A song too old for your bones. Too deep for your size."
"How peculiar. I do not know your blood. That—" It voice dipped into a hum, thoughtful.
There was something almost amused in it tone now—almost.
"And that..." It purred, "is not supposed to happen."
A pause. A silence that pressed into his skull.
Then, a murmur like velvet on skin.
"You are no child of those hypocrites"
The word hypocrites cracked like dry bone in her tone, leaving behind a faint trace of venom.
"You do not wear their touch. You do not reek of their cowardice."
Skit didn't understand—his mind was too fractured—but the weight of those words lingered.
Then, softly—mockingly—
"Oh, little greenling... you are not theirs, are you?"
Skit's heart hammered in his chest. The suffocating pressure had returned, heavier than before.
Then, the laugh returned. A low, seductive, filled with venom, sound that curled inside his ribs and made his heart stutter.
His confusion made it worse. He felt drawn to the sound, pulled by some thread he couldn't see.
"Mmm... no matter," the voice sang, drunk on mischief. "Even if you were…"
A beat.
"I'd leave a little something anyway."
It sounded almost disappointed... then excited.
The voice curved like a smile.
"A treat."
"A keepsake."
It was not an offer, nor a promise—just an inevitability.
Tre-at? ,Skit's mind barely registered the word..., as the pressure disappeared.
"Let's make you even stranger, shall we?"
But before he could even reach for the thought, pain struck.
Pain.
Unholy.
It was the world itself tearing apart.
He couldn't scream. Couldn't breathe.
All he could do was endure as something carved into his flesh, twitching and convulsing uncontrollably.
Then, within the darkness of his closed eyes, runes—a river of gold—began to flow.
They burned his vision, words too old, too wrong for his mind to understand.
And yet, the message echoed:
[You are being bestowed with ■■■■ Etchings]
It was no blessing. No title.
It was an irrevocable fate laid upon him.
Skit could not comprehend it, his through already scattered from the beginning, his thoughts already faded, but the pain kept him tethered to his failing body.
"Oh my," It purred again, noticing the shudder in his spirit. "Already fading?. Poor thing."
[You have been bestowed the ■■■■ Etchings: Blood Mania.]
A soundless voice boomed across his mind, not spoken, but felt.
"Blood Mania~? Hah, what a name... they do get dramatic, don't they?"
Skit barely heard it. His awareness was slipping like sand through cracked fingers. Even the words felt like distant thunder.
The weight of it gaze pressed down on him, suffocating, but there was something odd in it voice now.
"Don't worry, little thing," It murmured, so close, so tender, but cruel.
"My child is near."
The voice words slipped past his consciousness, like water through cracked stone.
"Play nice, little goblin. Don't bully him," the voice purred.
"Not that you'll remember. He'll be your playmate soon enough."
The laughter that followed was honey-laced poison.
And then—darkness claimed him.
...
Skit's nightmare had ended.
But the cruel reality of survival had only just begun.
His battle with the Barkscale Stalker had left him bloodied and broken, bruises blooming across his body like rot, ribs sore with every breath.
And yet… he lived.
Somehow.
It wasn't strength or cunning that saved him. It was the stubborn vitality that goblins were cursed—or blessed—with. Through the long, starless night, his body mended. Crude and slow, but enough.
Still, survival was never guaranteed in these woods. Not even for victors.
And Skit had not won.
Not really.
He lay out in the open, exposed in a forest that crawled with beasts, monsters, and worse.
And yet none had come. No scavenger. No predator. Just… silence.
But something had been watching him.
And it still was.
"Wake up."
The voice wasn't loud, but it cut like a knife through shadow.
It wasn't heard—it was felt. A tremor through his skull. A pull in his gut.
Skit's eyes snapped open.
Air surged into his lungs with a ragged gasp. His body lurched. Pain followed—sharp, throbbing, cruel. It flared in his ribs, his arms, his legs.
He twisted, trying to move, to stand—but his limbs protested, and he slumped back with a wheeze.
Panic buzzed at the edge of thought. His mind was still fogged, his memory splintered. Flashes came, too fast, too loud:
The Stalker.
The fight.
The fall.
The red eyes.
The cold.
He shouldn't be here.
He shouldn't be breathing.
The unease crawled through him like worms beneath skin. Something didn't add up.
Grrrr!!
Instincts kicked, He pushed himself up, slowly this time. Muscles ached, but obeyed.
His breath was shallow, ribs protesting with every inhale.
Around him, the forest looked wrong.
Splintered trees. Blood-slick earth. Deep gouges in the soil. The aftermath of violence, not battle.
There were no predators here.
But no safety either.
Silence choked the air—no birdsong, no insect drone. Just the faint hiss of wind dragging through the trees.
Nothing moved in the dense undergrowth. Only the faintest stir of wind through the trees broke the silence.
He looked around, cautiously, scanning the broken forest.
Pieces of the Barkscale's body lay scattered in a disjointed pattern, as if someone had torn it apart in a single, violent motion.
His hand went to the knife at his side, the familiar hilt grounding him in this world of confusion and pain.
The blade was chipped, worn from use.
His legs felt weak beneath him, but he forced himself to stand. A sharp throb shot through his ribs as he took a step forward.
Snap!
The sound of a twig snapping broke through the stillness.
Skit froze.
His heart skipped a beat.
He whipped around, his knife raised, muscles tensed for a fight.
Nothing.
The silence stretched on, stretching Skit's nerves thin.
His gaze darted to the shadows, expecting something to leap from them at any moment.
Still nothing.
Skit's breath hissed out between clenched teeth. A low, guttural growl. Part fear. Part relief. He was done here. Time to—
"Leaving already?"
The voice was thick, guttural—carrying with it a weight of presence, as though the very air had shifted around it.
Skit's muscles locked.
And chill ran down his spine.
......
UPCOMING NEXT - CHAPTER 10 - Playing Nice.
......
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