Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

"Chief…" she said quietly, her tone carrying a weight that made my chest tighten.

"Are you… are you trying to get rid of us?"

My brows snapped together, and the words tore out of me before I could stop them.

"What?!"

The echo of my shout bounced off the stone, absurdity slamming into me like a blow; still, her face stayed painfully, stubbornly serious.

Where had she even drawn such a conclusion?

"What makes you think that?"

I demanded, leaning forward; my tone was harsher than I'd meant.

Her grip tightened on the stick until her knuckles paled.

"Twice we've been attacked, twice you've been missing. Always gone when we needed you most. Why is that, Chief?"

My mouth opened to answer, but nothing came out — only a shallow, startled gasp.

How was I supposed to explain it? In a way that would make her believe without my explanation sounding like an excuse.

She seemed to read my silence the wrong way as she responded with this:

"If that's the case," she said softly, "then I don't blame you, Chief. If you see us as liabilities, I can understand."

Her fingers tightened around the stick, and then she began to mutter, "You leave and then come back. Then tell everyone, 'You did well, you did well,' confusing me. If we're a burden, why not say? And cut us off."

Her words dug in.

I sighed. All of this was a misunderstanding.

For a moment, I had to steady my breathing, and then I met gaze directly, letting the weight in my voice fill the silence.

"There is no reason for you to be confused, and none to doubt me when I say this: I will never abandon my role as your clan leader."

Her lips parted, another question beginning to bubble up.

But I cut her off before the doubt could root deeper.

"There was a reason I went missing."

I doubt you'd understand the first reason, though.

Her head lifted at once, eyes sharpening as if to say she was listening even if she couldn't possibly grasp it.

In that moment, her face lost some of its sternness—she didn't look like the hard Flogga the others obeyed, but oddly endearing in her blunt stubbornness, the doubt at once crude and honest.

"Every day," I continued, choosing my words slowly, "I'm forced to complete a series of tasks. If I don't, something drags me to a strange place where I'm thrown into fights with skeleton goblins just to survive."

Her brow knit so fast lines scored her forehead; she looked as if she couldn't decide whether I was being serious or mad.

I let out a short, humorless exhale.

Yeah. There's no better way to put it.

Silence stretched, so I pushed on.

"As odd as it sounds, that's what happened the first time I disappeared. The second time, I sensed enemies moving nearby and left to intercept them before they could strike here. I wanted to cut them off, but I missed the ones right under my nose."

I admitted, and Flogga didn't move for a long moment.

She stood like a carved stone, her gaze unreadable, then at last she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

"Right," she said quietly. "I understand, Totem."

A wry corner of my mouth twitched.

"You don't believe me."

"I do," she replied without hesitation. "Chief is… strange. So when he says strange things, I have no choice but to believe. Even if I cannot fully understand."

Seriously, Flogga.

That was her way of accepting it?

I let out a slow sigh of exasperation.

"I'm not a normal goblin," I admitted; my voice carried more weight than a boast.

She inclined her head a fraction, expression unchanged.

"I understand that much, Totem." She responded.

What the hell? Why does that sound strangely like an insult?

I bared my shoulder and tugged the fabric aside to show the dark, jagged mark carved into my skin—the mark every goblin in our clan had already seen and whispered about when they thought I wasn't listening.

"This mark…" I said, keeping my eyes on her, "What do you think it means?"

Flogga's gaze traced the lines; reverence and caution tightened her features.

"It's the mark of Drugar," she said slowly. "Goblins who bear it are… something else. Something special."

I narrowed my eyes and watched her closely.

"You said that like you've seen one before."

"I have," she admitted, nodding. "Back when I was a youngling. But it's rare. Extremely rare."

The word youngling hung oddly in my head, and curiosity pricked me.

"How old are you, anyway?" I asked, suddenly more interested than I'd meant to be.

Her posture snapped defensively at the question, as if I'd struck a chord.

After a beat, she answered, clipped and flat, "It doesn't matter, Chief."

"Right." I forced a cough to smooth the awkwardness; it's rude to pry about age, even if she's horned and knobby-kneed.

I let the silence sit, then kept talking, slow and deliberate so nothing I said could be mistaken for an excuse.

"This mark might not have been common in your day as a youngling," I said, rolling the word around in my mouth, "but it's becoming more common now. More and more goblins bear it—even among the clans that attacked us."

Flogga's expression sharpened into the focused, hard line. I pressed on.

"We Drugar-blessed can sense one another from a distance. I felt two of them long before they arrived; I knew how dangerous they were and went to intercept them. I killed those two, but I missed the ones right under our noses—and you paid for my mistake. I thought I had learned, but apparently I'm still capable of screwing up."

The confession tasted like iron. "That's why things have to change," I continued. "That's why I plan on involving you in my… strange activities. I'm trying to tell you as much as I can so you're not left in the dark about my plans.

I do not want to lose your trust."

Flogga watched me with a heat that felt almost physical—not probing, not accusing, but reverent in a way, as if she were studying a pattern she'd never seen before.

She exhaled slowly and, with a question that landed like a stone thrown out of nowhere, asked what I least expected.

"Are you truly...