In the Kingdom of Tristano, within the dark Forest of Butchers, I was born into a tribe of goblins. From the very beginning, I was different. Though I was a goblin like the others, my appearance was strange. I was smaller than the rest, and while babies usually had a healthy, plump forest-green color, my skin was a deep, dark hue. It wasn't pure black, but something that betrayed my fragility and thinness.

During my first nights, I coughed incessantly. The goblin Mothers complained about the wheezing coming from me, claiming it only confirmed my weakness. Some of the males found it curious that they were bothered by my cough, considering they were always surrounded by crying babies. However, after one of them pointed this out, no one else dared to say anything, especially after seeing the first brave soul pass out on the floor, bloodied.

Most believed I wouldn't survive the first week. But I survived. And that only made me stranger in their eyes.

To the Mothers' surprise, it took me a full two weeks to finally open my eyes. When I did, it was even more shocking: my slit pupils and red irises were something never seen before. No goblin had irises of that color, and the combination with my dark skin was even more unusual. They decided to ignore me, perhaps resigned to my strangeness. After all, if I had been born albino, I would have likely been thrown into the fire and turned into dinner.

But instead, I was just... different. My name is Ertil.

In the first years of my life, most of it was like any other young goblin. Like the others, I was collectively raised by the goblin Mothers. They taught me the essentials for survival, like how to hide from the wolves that roamed the trees just a few miles from the village.

The cooks, in turn, showed me how to skin a rabbit or, better yet, how to skin and cook goblins from rival tribes. I confess I enjoyed the taste of goblin meat, like any honest goblin, especially when we had the rare privilege of using salt. However, if I had to be honest with myself, I preferred the taste of venison.

Unfortunately, deer were rare in the region, partly because of the wolves. Additionally, most goblins hated the taste of venison, so I quickly learned not to ask the hunters for any. In any case, I wasn't exactly popular among them.

All I wanted was to be strong, like the hunters. So, when Lirt, one of the older and more eccentric hunters, offered to teach me, I was ecstatic. The idea of learning from him seemed like the first step toward gaining the strength I so desperately desired.

But I didn't expect the lessons to be so... different. Instead of teaching me how to wield weapons or hunt, Lirt instructed me to draw strange symbols on the ground with a stick. He called it the "dangerous technique of words." According to him, it was a powerful weapon, capable of becoming a formidable force in the right battle. It was, as he put it, a different kind of strength.

I had a hard time believing Lirt when he spoke of this "technique of words," especially as he laughed at the idea of reading. I knew there were different kinds of strength – like Pril, the venerable shaman of the tribe, who could make fire with just his mind. But, since no other hunter was willing to teach me, I decided to devote myself completely to this strange technique.

It took me more than two years to master it. When I finally thought I was ready, I proudly went to show the wavy symbols I had drawn to the other goblins. But instead of admiration, all I got were laughs. Running away from there, my face burning with shame, was all I could do. I was already considered strange, but at that moment, I became something worse: odd.

As for Lirt, his fate seemed to prove that his "technique of words" wasn't all that valuable. On one of his hunts, he encountered a terrible bear. All that was left of him was a broken bow and his left shoe. Whatever his technique of words was, I thought, clenching my small, useless fists.

At least the Mothers always taught important things. Especially the most valuable lesson of all: "The strongest get what they want. So, be the strongest." It was a simple truth, but deeply impactful. Although I was much closer to being the weakest than anything else, I still dreamed. I dreamed of becoming someone who could shape my own destiny.

I was grateful to the Mothers for their teachings, even though I didn't see them as parental figures, unlike many other goblins. None of them were really anyone's mother, after all. Most of us didn't even know who our true parents were.

It was almost impossible to know who the father of any goblin was, since most slept with different women every night, and the same went for the women. The biological mothers would hand over their babies to the Mothers immediately after birth, to be raised not as individuals, but as part of the tribe. After all, a solitary goblin would easily be devoured by wolf packs, but a group of goblins could even kill a terrible bear.

The goblins didn't bother telling the young ones who their real mothers were. But I knew who mine was. Some of the Mothers made it clear that she died during childbirth, which was seen as a bad omen, something sent by the moon itself.

I always imagined my mother had been weak. How else could she have died while I survived? To be honest, I really didn't care about her death. What bothered me was the fact that she had passed her weakness on to me.

I cursed her for that. And as for the bad omen, I knew it was because of my appearance, different from the rest. My gray hair, my strange skin... And my red eyes. I didn't even want to think about them. They were almost like blood, the reflection of the hatred that was probably in my mother's blood for being weak. I wished I had bright yellow eyes like the other goblins.

Now, at seventeen, I was still thin, not that any goblin was very stocky. But somehow, I managed to seem stronger than the other young ones, even though I was about two centimeters shorter.

My smaller build made it harder to follow the hunters on the trails or even train with them in the village square. I was always lagging behind the stronger goblins of my age, no matter how hard I tried. And I did try. I was the first of the young ones to wake up and the last to sleep. I practiced the spear and the bow twice as long as the others.

Although I made some progress with the spear, my skills with the bow left much to be desired. I simply didn't have the strength to pull the string properly. When it came to hand-to-hand combat, I really fell behind. I knew the basic moves by heart, I was even agile enough, but I lacked the strength to knock down another goblin.

Of course, this made the others laugh behind my back, and some even laughed in my face. Normally, someone would react, but I had learned early in life that I wasn't very strong. So, I swallowed my anger and ignored the comments.

One morning, I woke up from my straw mat and looked around the tent, where the other goblins were still sleeping. I knew I should be sleeping too, after all, I would need strength for the challenge of the night, but I was too excited.

Silently, I crawled around my sleeping brothers and left the tent. The sun was beginning to peek through the red canopy of the forest. Today would be different, I thought, as I took a deep breath.

The village was quiet, with the occasional vulture cawing somewhere beyond the grey trees. Some groans could be heard coming from a few tents. I glanced at some of them as I passed. Since I was still considered a child, I was forced to sleep in the common tent for young men.

But all of that would change today. Tonight, I would turn eighteen and officially become an adult in the eyes of the tribe. I would have my own tent and, finally, my own space. Moreover, I could join one of the tribe's trails.

Unfortunately, I knew I wasn't as strong as most goblins, so I probably wouldn't be able to join the hunters. But there was still the possibility of joining the guards, and I hoped that would be my chance.

Or, at least, I could try for the kitchen team. Everyone loved the cooks, and excluding the chief and the shaman, they were the first to eat. The problem was that there weren't many spots for cooks, and it was necessary to skin and butcher animals with speed and precision, a skill I wasn't very confident in. I really regretted spending so much time learning to draw on the ground.

Still, as long as I wasn't assigned to the gatherers or the builders, I would be fine. The girls never paid much attention to the builders, and the gatherers always disappeared into the forest, devoured by wolves, enemy tribes, terrible bears, or honestly, anything bigger than a goblin, which in the forest meant most things.

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1645 Words

This is the first chapter of a saga where the protagonist is a selfish villain. Yes, he will kill innocent people, rape arrogant milfs, steal items from wizards, commit crimes among other things. (Not recommended for minors.) (High quality lemons.)