The Red Python lay in a broken heap, its once-menacing eyes now dull and lifeless. The thick, coppery scent of blood lingered in the air, mixing with the musky odor of the slain beast.
Leav took it all in. The adrenaline of battle had begun to fade, leaving behind a cold, calculating calm. Around him, the others buzzed with the aftermath of combat—a mixture of relief, triumph, and something darker.
Yorl, chest heaving, repeatedly slammed his crude axe into the python's already lifeless head. Each blow sent a wet, sickening crunch into the air. A guttural, animalistic roar tore from his throat as he lost himself in the aftermath of the fight.
The Berserk skill had changed him.
Leav observed with growing concern. Raw strength was valuable, but this? This was dangerous.
Uncontrolled fury could be a weapon—one that turned against its wielder just as easily as it struck an enemy.
Weal, however, had already shifted gears. His initial fear had been replaced with focused energy, and he darted around the carcass, eagerly pointing out the best sections of meat.
Frot, opportunistic as ever, was busy prying the python's fangs loose with a sharpened stick. His greedy eyes gleamed as he worked.
Bout stood apart from them all, silent, watching. His expression was unreadable.
Leav took charge. He had to.
"Alright," he said, voice firm. "Let's get to work. Weal, you know meat. Start carving. Frot, keep working on those fangs—they could make useful weapons. Yorl…"
Yorl paused mid-swing, his axe trembling in his grip. His eyes snapped toward Leav, still wild, still filled with something untamed.
"Calm yourself," Leav continued. "We need your strength intact."
For a moment, he thought Yorl might ignore him—might even lash out.
Then, with one final brutal strike, the brute stopped. He exhaled heavily, his massive chest rising and falling. Then, slowly, he lumbered over to the python's thick hide and began to peel it away from the flesh.
Good. He listens—for now.
Leav watched over the harvesting process, ensuring nothing went to waste.
This battle had been a test. And while they had won, victory had come by chance—a combination of Weal's observation, Frot's distraction, Bout's deadly precision, and Yorl's brute force.
It wouldn't always go that way.
He needed to refine them, to hone their strengths and rein in their weaknesses.
His new skill, Tactics, pulsed at the edge of his awareness. It sharpened his thoughts, making every decision feel crisper, more efficient. He could already sense its influence, subtly guiding his strategies.
But the system was his alone.
His secret. His power.
The python's corpse provided more than enough resources—a feast's worth of meat, a hide thick and durable enough to fashion crude armor, and fangs sharp enough to be deadly weapons.
By the time the work was done, the sun had begun to set.
Leav assigned the loads:
Weal & Frot carried the meat.
Yorl took the hide.
Bout… Leav hesitated before handing him the fangs.
"Keep an eye out," Leav said, watching him carefully. "If we run into trouble, use that arm of yours."
Bout gave a slight nod, his eyes unreadable.
Leav needed to understand him better. That throw—the speed, the precision—it wasn't normal. Not for a goblin.
So he probed. Carefully.
"Bout," Leav said, matching his pace with the quiet goblin. "That throw… it was impressive. Have you practiced before?"
Bout merely shrugged. "Sometimes."
Nothing more.
Leav knew a stonewall when he saw one.
For now, Bout's secrets would remain his own.
The goblin settlement came into view, its crude huts and sharpened stakes standing against the darkening sky.
They were met with awe… and envy.
The older goblins—the ones who had dismissed them—had returned with a scrawny deer. Their expressions darkened as they saw the python spoils Leav's group carried.
They weren't just another hunting party anymore.
They were competition.
The tribe elder, an aged, scarred goblin with keen yellow eyes, stepped forward. He inspected their spoils with silent approval.
"You have done well, Leav," he rasped, voice thick with age. "The tribe will eat well tonight. You have earned your place."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
But Leav felt the glares of the hunting party.
This wasn't over.
The elder raised a bony hand. "The meat will be shared among the tribe. The hide will reinforce our defenses. And the fangs…" His gaze flickered to the pouch Leav had handed him. "The shaman will decide their purpose."
Leav nodded, keeping his expression neutral. He had expected this.
The fangs could be used for weapons, but more likely? The shaman would use them for rituals—to commune with whatever dark forces the goblins believed in.
Leav would have preferred to keep them. But power in the tribe was about playing the long game.
For now, he would comply.The Feast and the Shadows
That night, the tribe feasted.
The air was thick with the scent of roasting python meat, the sounds of gnawing and grunting filling the settlement.
Leav ate little. He was watching. Learning.
Weal basked in the praise of the others, his fear forgotten.
Frot was already scheming, whispering to other goblins.
Yorl, however, was different. He picked at his food, his usual appetite missing. His gaze was distant, locked onto the fire, flickering with something unsettled.
The Berserk skill was affecting him.
Leav needed to find a way to control it—to harness Yorl's power before it consumed him.
And then there was Bout.
He ate in silence, avoided eye contact, and when the feast was done… he vanished into the shadows.
Leav exhaled, staring into the dying flames of the fire.
The python was dead, but this victory had only unlocked new dangers.
His group was growing stronger.
But so were his enemies.
The hunting party wouldn't forget this.
The shaman now had the fangs.
And beyond the goblin lands? The python was proof that deadlier creatures lurked.
Leav looked up at the blood-red moon.
His gaze hardened.
Vik, the insurance worker, was dead.
Leav, the goblin, was just beginning.