Hey, Grass-Eater! What’s that in your hand? Smells damn good—gimme it!"


    The speaker was the largest of the goblin whelps, standing at 0.8 meters tall—nearly an adult by goblin standards, and the strongest of the bunch. Li Qinwu’s grip tightened around his crude spear as he took a subtle step back.


    Eight goblin whelps surrounded him. Though they were juveniles, Li Qinwu—armed only with a simple spear—wasn’t much stronger. The odds weren’t in his favor.


    As for the nickname Grass-Eater? It stuck after they’d caught him gnawing on weeds to survive. Goblins named things plainly: there were Dirt-Gulpers, Shit-Munchers, Gob-Brawny, Gob-Scrawny…


    Li Qinwu retreated another step; the whelps advanced. Their greedy stares told him fleeing was impossible. Yet surrendering the roasted pig femur in his hand meant returning to a life of chewing grass—no. His mind raced, and resolve hardened.


    "Fine. Have it."


    He forced a grin and tossed the bone onto the ground between them. "We’re kin, right? Should share the good stuff!"


    The femur cracked against the dirt, leaking traces of seared marrow. The scent of charred fat and protein vaporized the goblins’ sanity. They lunged in a frenzy—


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    Li Qinwu struck. A stone hurled from his left hand smashed into one whelp’s skull, dropping it with a shriek. His spear thrust forward, piercing another’s gut.


    "Aaaagh—!"


    The imp collapsed, writhing. He yanked the spear free and stabbed a third. Only then did the pack notice. They scrambled back, but Li Qinwu kicked one stumbling laggard flat, driving his spear through its spine. A final screech—he didn’t wait to confirm the kill, backpedaling to regain distance.


    Dizziness washed over him. Had he not gulped half the marrow earlier, he’d have collapsed. Four foes remained. Even with a spear, getting surrounded meant death.


    He steadied his breath, eyes locked on the survivors. Fear flickered in their gaze—half their pack butchered in seconds. Yet the marrow’s aroma overpowered their instinct to flee. Hunger trumped survival.


    Clutching rocks and sticks, the four edged toward the femur again, watching Li Qinwu warily.


    His frown deepened. Risking death over a bone? Maybe retreat—


    Ding. Ding. Ding.


    Three system chimes rang in his ears:


    [You killed a Goblin Whelp. EXP +1.]


    [You killed a Goblin Whelp. EXP +1.]


    [You killed a Goblin Whelp. EXP +1.]


    Li Qinwu blinked. With a thought, he summoned his Mount & Blade II-style interface:


    ---


    Name: Li Qinwu


    Race: Goblin (Whelp)


    Title:Grass-Eater – Surviving on weeds earned you notoriety.


    Effect:Your stomach can extract trace nutrients from grass, but it’s a mark of shame. -10 Charm vs. Goblins.


    Level: 0


    EXP: 3/7


    Magic: 0


    Affinity: Dark


    Deity: Primordial Goblin Pantheon


    Attributes:


    - Vigor 3 (1H: 0 | 2H: 0 | Polearm: 2)


    - Control 0 (Bow: 0 | Crossbow: 0 | Throwing: 1)


    - Endurance 0 (Riding: 0 | Athletics: 18 | Smithing: 2)


    - Cunning 0 (Scouting: 11 | Tactics: 0 | Rogue: 0)


    - Social 0 (Charm: 0 | Leadership: 0 | Trade: 0 | Prayer: 0)


    - Intellect 0 (Stewardship: 0 | Medicine: 0 | Engineering: 0 | Magic: 0)


    Unspent: 0 Attribute Points | 0 Skill Points


    ---


    Three kills. Three EXP. Four more whelps equaled a level-up—and with it, stat points to grow stronger.  Vigor  meant raw power; Polearm  skill would unlock deadly techniques.


    His gaze locked onto the remaining four. A cruel smile twisted his lips.


    This world’s brutal. I’ll claw strength from any chance.


    Four foes. Four points.


    They’d chosen death the moment they eyed his bone.