Goblinor spent the next three days in a relentless cycle: hunt at dawn, train Goblar and Goblir in crude combat formations by noon, and stake out the Troll's cave each night, eyes glued to the shadows. His Keen Eye talent picked out details others missed: the faint scrape of claws on stone when the Troll shifted in its sleep, the sour tang of rotting meat wafting from its den, and—most importantly—the glimmer of hundreds of Magic Crystals piled in a forgotten corner, half-buried under moldy fur and bone shards.
By the third night, his pouch held 19 Tier 1 crystals—just 6 short of the 25 needed for another simulation. Exhaustion nagged at him, but excitement burned brighter. One more hunt tomorrow, and I'll have enough. He'd already mapped the Troll's routine: it slept like a boulder, only stirring to eat or terrorize the tribe. But tonight, something was different.
The Troll's snoring abruptly cut off at midnight. Goblinor tensed, pressed flat against the damp cave wall. Thud. Thud. Heavy footsteps echoed, growing closer. He dared a glance around the boulder—just in time to see the Troll emerge, massive hands clutching a pile of shimmering crystals.
His breath hitched. The crystals glimmered faintly in the moonlight, at least a hundred of them, each the size of his fist. The Troll's single eye scanned the camp, but Goblinor was already a shadow, melting into the darkness as it shambled toward the forest's edge.
Where is it going?
He trailed at a distance, Keen Eye tracking the Troll's path through the vine-choked valley entrance. For weeks, he'd wondered why the forest around the camp held only weak monsters—the answer now unfolded before him: beyond the vines lay a sheer cliff, and at its base, a sinkhole oozing with putrid green slime. The Troll paused at the edge, then did the unthinkable: it dropped the crystals into the slime.
Goblinor's jaw clenched. The slime hissed and bubbled, dissolving the crystals into nothing. It's destroying them? Why? Realization dawned: the Troll didn't hoard crystals— 它 feared them. The raw magic within must burn its primitive mind, so it disposed of them like poison.
But that meant one thing: the pile in its cave wasn't a hoard—it was a cache, a temporary storage before disposal. Goblinor's chest tightened. If he waited too long, those crystals would vanish forever.
He retreated to the camp, mind racing. His original plan: wait for the next simulation, use the rewards to weaken the Troll. But now? With the crystals at risk of destruction, patience might mean losing everything.
"System, how many Magic Crystals for the next simulation?" he whispered, fingers brushing the 19 in his pouch.
"25 Tier 1 Magic Crystals."
Goblinor cursed silently. 6 more crystals. He could hunt them tomorrow, but what if the Troll destroyed its cache tonight? He glanced at the den, where the remaining crystals still glimmered in the shadows—at least 150 left, maybe more.
I could take them now. The thought burned like fire. The Troll was weakened after its midnight errand, breathing heavily as it collapsed into its nest. Goblinor's Combat Instinct hummed, urging him to strike—now.
But reality anchored him. This wasn't a simulation. One mistake, one misplaced step, and he'd be Troll food. The first simulation had taught him that overconfidence killed; the second, that strategy defeated strength.
He forced himself to breathe, to think. Six crystals. Tomorrow, we hunt the valley's deepest corners. We'll find six, then trigger the simulation. Only then, with new skills, new strength—
A roar from the Troll's den cut off his thoughts. Goblinor froze, but it was just the creature shifting in its sleep, muttering in a guttural tongue. He exhaled, heart pounding.
The decision was made. Patience, not greed, would win the day. The crystals would still be there tomorrow—he hoped. And when the simulation came, he'd be ready to seize them, to confront the Troll, and to finally break free of the Common Template that bound him.
For now, though, he retreated to his alcove, ignoring Goblar's sleepy mumbles. His last thought before drifting into a fitful sleep was of the Troll's den, those glittering crystals, and the promise they held—a promise of evolution, of power, of a future where he wasn't just a goblin hiding in the dark.
He'd waited this long. Six more crystals, one more simulation. Then, the Troll's hoard would be his.
And with it, the first step toward becoming something greater than a goblin. Something that even humans would fear.