《Feral - Evil is a matter of perspective》


 1. Hunting

    Rush walked silently through the mushroom glade, the shadows from the huge, oak-sized stalks obscuring him as he moved.


    This was his favourite time of day. The twilight slowly ebbing away. The moss muffling the sound of his footsteps as he walked, concealing him as he stalked his prey.


    He was close now. So close, he could hear its sobs. They were the halting cries a new slave lets out when they think they¡¯re alone and no one will see their weakness.


    Humans, Rush thought, they¡¯re weak, snivelling fools, raised with love and attention. They rarely survive long down here in the dank, mushroom forests before someone mercifully kills them.


    He studied this one as he prepared to take its life. She was taller than him, her stringy, brown hair, dirty from neglect. She wore loose overalls that would provide little protection from the stone spike he held in his hand. It was likely that she had little in the way of possessions, excluding the meat on her body. However, the flesh alone made her death worthwhile.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    He crept closer, hefting the makeshift knife, waiting for the opportunity to make a killing strike. Suddenly, a foul odour shrouded him like a blanket, suffocating him with fear and making him pause.


    Something huge dropped from above, crushing Rush and trapping him between the bulk of the creature and a mushroom stalk. He screamed but refused to give in to the pain. Life had taught him to run when possible, but whenever it wasn¡¯t an option he fought like a demon. In a frenzy, he lashed out with the dagger, screaming, ¡®Draal dholaar!¡® as he desperately attempted to free himself.


    He frantically plunged the dagger into the beast¡®s side once, twice, before a leg kicked out and he flew backwards. Pain flared, as his head bounced against a rock, and everything went dark.


    Life in the twilight gloom of shadow mountain was brutal, rough, and often very, very short for a goblin slave.

 2. Heaven Sent

    Jeanne stood frozen in shock for a long moment after the spider dropped on her. She had only survived her indecision and terror because of the distraction caused by the goblin¡®s sudden appearance.


    The goblin was young, barely full-grown, and no more than five feet tall, He had pallid, grey-green skin and long, black hair flopping down his narrow face, partially obscuring his glowing, mustard eyes. His frame was scrawny, and compared to the enormous spider, he was merely puny. Despite this obvious mismatch, the goblin had continued to fight, driving his spike deep into the side of the creature. Ichor gushed from the gouges torn in the spider¡¯s flank, and she began to believe his courage would save them both. Then the harsh reality of life had asserted itself, and he had been thrown crumpled to the floor.


    She was brought back to the present by the sound of the spider¡®s bulk dragging around as it turned to face her. The huge, monstrous creature was dragging several limp legs. Its injuries impeded its progress, and ichor still flowed from where the stranger¡®s stone spike was embedded in its carapace.


    Huge fangs clicked angrily, and its shiny, black body gleamed in the dim light as unblinking, alien eyes glared at her with the promise of violence.


    Terrified, Jeanne slowly backed away as it moved towards her. Farther and farther she scurried back, wondering why it was advancing so slowly. Was it playing with her in the way a cat toys with its prey?The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Jeanne slammed hard against a stone surface. Glancing behind her, it became evident that she had retreated to the very wall of the cavern and, there was nowhere left to run. She looked back, and the spider was still edging its way towards her, its mandibles clicking menacingly.


    The murderous advance became slower and slower, the clicking erratic and less frenzied. Then, all at once, the spider collapsed in on itself. Curling into a ball as it died, looking like an oversized house spider.


    Though shocked, she resisted sinking to the floor, determined not to fall apart. Blinking back tears, she steeled her nerves before moving forwards past its corpse.


    As she did so, she mumbled a quiet mantra, ¡®My name is Jeanne. I am a priestess of Minerva, an example to others and a light in the world.¡®


    Her previous life of quiet contemplation in the temple may be no more, and she definitely wasn¡®t the innocent girl who was forced away from her temple a few days ago. Yet she was still a priestess. It was time to rise above the situation and do Minerva¡¯s will.


    Conflicted, she looked down at the goblin who had fought the spider. A small, green-skinned humanoid with an angular, unpleasant face and sharp, feral teeth. Her education in the temple had warned her that they were very unpleasant, vengeful creatures with no mercy in them.


    Yet this one had undoubtedly saved her life with its actions, and according to Minerva¡®s teachings, it would be wrong not to help it.


    Reaching down, she checked his neck for signs of life.


    Yes, there it was, a feeble pulse. The spark of life remained. If Minerva willed it, the goddess could revive him.


    Kneeling, she began to pray with all her heart.

 3. Interlude - Playing God

    Staring at the keyboard, Doctor Jane Kittle¡¯s head ached from hours of concentrating on code. For the thirtieth time that week, she considered her sanity. These days, psychiatry really is a young person¡¯s job, she mused, missing the old days when she met patients in person and discussed their problems with them. She shrugged, nowadays, psychiatric treatment was undertaken using virtual chatbots who interacted with and diagnosed clients. The profession had become more about programming than empathy and understanding.


    In front of her, the analytics from the program pulsed in neon on the screen. Although she¡¯d created the program, they made no sense to her since it was behaving in ways she simply didn¡¯t understand and hadn¡¯t expected. Damned neural networks, at times, she thought the thing was smarter than she was. Jane was one of the first architects of the new wave of mental health treatments. Instead of interacting with simple chatbots, the patients would be immersed in role-playing games where they could face and overcome whatever issues might be challenging them. Wearing virtual reality sets, the players would be able to feel and participate in the game as if they existed in it as real living beings.


    But to be truly effective, the treatment had to overcome the biggest problem with early role-playing games¡­ the fact that users knew they weren¡¯t real. It was hard to take decisions seriously and grow as a person when your username was BonerPwner123, and you called everyone ¡®dude¡¯. Jane had designed a virtual immersion system that sent electrical impulses into a user¡¯s brain to repress their real memories and replace them with alternative ones from the game world for the duration of their play.


    This effectively made the world real for them while they were engaged with it. People who felt crushed by the society around them could escape to somewhere else. A fantasy world where they slotted into a life based around their personal issues and insecurities, which was intended to help them grow and overcome them.


    The Pulchritude Health Corporation had bought into her vision for the future of treatment. Backed by a government desperate to stem an impending mental health epidemic, her project had been approved. This brought her to her current dilemma as the corporation was pushing harder and harder for tangible progress. If she didn¡¯t give them something soon, then the project funding would be cut, and eventually her dream would die.


    However, the virtual world was governed by artificial intelligence¡ªthe aforementioned program¡ªwhich was presently giving her an intense migraine. It was intended to populate the world with seemingly realistic adventures, which made sense to the participant while they worked their way through their neuroses. The problem was that her program was evolutionary, and while its purpose was to create and manage the world, its behaviour bordered on the erratic and was unpredictable at times. It wasn¡¯t at all ready for a real patient, and she was concerned that it could cause more harm than good.


    She looked away from the monitor at the pile of paperwork in front of her. Jane had to admit, whoever this Marc was, he was the perfect candidate for her program. The sheer bulk of paperwork demonstrated not only how long he had been in the mental health system but also the lack of progress that had been made with his case. The kid had been institutionalised for most of his life after a childhood of abandonment and abuse. He was currently in a comatose state after his third attempted escape from the Wyndham Mental Institution. It had ended abruptly when the bedsheet he had been trying to climb down snapped.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    His third attempt. The kid is persistent, Doctor Kittle thought, Stubborn yes, but also none too bright or he would have realised that using bedsheets as a ladder only works in the movies. Still, she procrastinated, Who am I to play God with his life? Then again, what does the kid really have to lose? As Eric Idle said, You know, you come from nothing, you''re going back to nothing.


    There really was no other option. You can¡¯t make an omelette without breaking eggs, she thought, as her fingers danced gracefully over the keyboard, triggering the Artificial Intelligence to start generating the scenario for the treatment.


    On the console, text scrolled past her eyes, updating the doctor as to what was happening. Presuming he was cognitive, the kid should now be immersed in the character creation process. As the player, he would believe he existed in the world he awoke in, and his memories would be replaced by those of the creature he was controlling.


    As she watched it, the screen flashed red and a dialogue box appeared.


    Unique mind discovered, unable to match to existing player race. Match found with monster race. Creating new life.


    Fuck, Jane thought, That wasn¡¯t supposed to happen, patients are meant to be matched with human creatures within the virtual world. Her hands danced across the keyboard, and a picture of a small, skinny green-skinned humanoid with wild hair appeared. As she watched, it idly picked its nose, examined its findings, and ate them.


    She quickly flicked from that screen to the profile describing the fake history it would remember when the user started in the game.


    The goblin grew up in the Wolf Rider clan where life was hard and food was often scarce, but the tribe always pulled together. The memories of those years are comprised of nostalgic tales of waiting patiently for fish to bite in quietly babbling brooks and of setting traps in the leafy glens, only to find them sprung by clever rabbits who seemed to taunt the goblin¡¯s attempts to trap them.


    Unfortunately, this pleasant period wasn¡¯t destined to continue forever. The clan had been based in a small, cave network on the bright side of Gloom Mountain. They and their wolves ranged the terrain hunting, but were ever wary of the civilised races who treated them as vermin to be eradicated. The tribe had thought they could survive by hiding from the more powerful races, but they had underestimated a society that hated his people. On that fateful day, the sentries¡¯ alarm went off, and a horde of ¡®heroic¡¯ mercenary adventurers descended into their home.


    The heroes were merciless, slaughtering most of the tribe. The only survivors were those old enough to work but too young to defend themselves. Those few were placed into indentured servitude where they were treated as disposable labour by the guild that owned them. The slaves were mainly left to fend for themselves when they weren¡¯t working. They weren¡¯t provided with protection or medical care if they fell ill or were injured. In the winter, food always ran short, further weeding out the weak.


    One by one, the survivors of his tribe had died, each mourned by the surviving brethren until only Rush remained. He was the last of the Wolf Riders, and no one would mourn him.


    Damn. That was harsh, she thought. The background story was designed to mesh with a player¡¯s past and their character. This helped ensure that the game gelled with their natural inclinations. Jane had to admit it made sense. The kid had issues.


    She figured the treatment session was likely to be a very short one. A number of ruthless guilds controlled the country the player was starting in. Their law ruled the land, and their only motivation was profit. In testing the system, users usually enjoyed adventuring in that country because the game typically started them off as part of the dominant ruling races. Never before had someone started as one of the feral races. These downtrodden, rebellious people remained uncivilized or free, depending on the perspective you took.

 4. Awakening

    Snarling reflexively, Rush awoke to darkness. He flexed, surprised that he was neither restrained nor in pain. Frantically peering around blindly and listening intently, he heard only the void of silence.


    A light appeared nearby, causing him to shield his eyes and squint. Instinctively, he crouched, coiled, anticipating an attack. The brightness grew, revealing a misty scene of the mushroom forest.


    The image was confusing to Rush, and his thoughts whirled, Is that really me twisted on the floor, and why is a human kneeling over me with her mouth moving constantly?


    Raptly listening, he could hear the woman¡¯s distant, pleading murmur, ¡®Minerva, spare this brave soul who saved me. Though his body is broken, I know you have the power to heal him.¡¯


    A silky, female voice drifted out of the darkness, startling Rush, ¡®It isn¡¯t often that I involve myself directly in the affairs of mortals, but one of my followers interceding to heal a goblin is unusual.¡¯You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Rush¡¯s eyes flitted around, trying to fix where the voice was coming from. It sounded elegant and educated, which was undoubtedly dangerous. Such people tended to dislike goblins and often treated them as if they were rats that needed to be exterminated.


    ¡®The priestess you hear praying over you is called Jeanne, but others in my temple call her Minerva¡¯s Dog because of her selfless devotion to me.¡¯


    The voice paused, and he waited in a crouch, muscles tense in anticipation.


    ¡®She saw something in you, and for that reason I am going to give you a choice. You are dying, but this doesn¡¯t have to be the end for you. Agree to bind your fate to Jeanne and I will spare your life, and more than that, I will give you the potential to be what she believes you are.¡¯


    Rush, losing patience with talking, spat out, ¡®Enough already with the yammering. It hurts my head, either kill me or let me go.¡¯


    A tinkle of laughter echoed, ¡®I¡¯ll take that as a yes.¡¯


    After the laughter died, silence stretched out and Rush was left alone in the darkness once again. The quiet solitude continued for hours, time he spent tensed, waiting for an attack that never came.


    Eventually, his eyelids drooped as he tired. Overcome by exhaustion, Rush curled into a ball on the smooth floor, finally relaxing as sleep overtook him.