Kingdom of Verdwryn

The forest was quiet that morning, save for the rustling of leaves swaying gently in the Everwinds. Michael, now six years old, moved through the woods with a quiet purpose, his small body navigating the terrain with the same efficiency of a seasoned hunter. The woods around Dawnfield were familiar to him, each tree and stream marked by memories of past expeditions. Years of learning and careful observation had transformed the forest from a sprawling wilderness into an extension of himself. With his makeshift bow slung across his back and a quiver of crude arrows at his side, he approached the clearing where he'd set his traps the day before.

As he neared the trap, the scent of iron hit him—sharp, metallic, and unmistakable. Michael froze, his senses heightening, his pulse quickening as his gaze locked on the scene before him. The rabbit he'd caught was still there, but it lay lifeless, its fur matted with blood, not from the trap's snare but from the creatures feasting upon it.

Two figures hunched over the carcass, their faces twisted in grotesque hunger. They were goblins—wretched, green-skinned creatures with wild yellow eyes and jagged teeth. Their wiry frames crouched over the remains, their hands tearing into the flesh with a ferocity that sent a cold shiver down Michael's spine. Their ears, large and pointed, flicked back as they snatched at the rabbit, oblivious to his presence.

Michael's heart raced, but he forced himself to remain calm. His eyes tracked their movements, observing their clumsy yet ruthless efficiency. Goblins, he knew, were notorious for their cunning. Small but vicious, they were opportunistic scavengers, always ready to exploit weaknesses. In packs, they could overwhelm even the most well-prepared, but alone, they were manageable—if one knew how to deal with them.

Instinct took over as he slowly nocked an arrow, his small hands moving with surprising steadiness. He'd trained for moments like this, even if his body was no longer the one of a soldier. The string of his bow hummed with tension as he aimed at the nearest goblin. The first goblin, so engrossed in its meal, never saw the attack coming.

The arrow flew through the air, swift and sure, striking the creature in the neck with a sickening thud. The goblin's yellow eyes bulged in surprise, its hands grasping at the arrow as it let out a gurgling scream. The forest seemed to hold its breath as the goblin crumpled to the ground, its twisted body spasming in its death throes.

The second goblin turned with a screech, its eyes locking onto Michael's position with a primal fury. It hissed, baring its teeth, and raised a crude knife—barely more than a jagged rock tied to a stick. Michael didn't wait. His body moved without thought, a response born from countless training sessions and instinctual lessons learned in a life far removed from this one. He rolled behind a nearby tree, breaking the line of sight, just as the goblin charged toward him.

His thoughts raced. He didn't have the time to retreat, didn't have the luxury of waiting. The goblin's movements were wild, driven by pure rage, its lack of coordination both a disadvantage and an opportunity. He pulled another arrow from his quiver, nocking it swiftly, feeling the rough fletching press against his fingers.

The goblin snarled, its yellow eyes locked on his position as it closed the gap between them, too fast, too frantic. Michael waited, breath held in his chest, until the goblin was almost upon him. Then, with precision, he stepped out from behind the tree, his small form moving with unexpected grace. The bowstring sang as he released the arrow.

Time seemed to slow as the arrow flew, striking the goblin square in the chest. The creature's eyes widened in shock, and it staggered backward, dropping its rusted knife with a loud clatter. It crashed to the ground, the impact sending a shudder through the earth, and lay still, its life snuffed out.

Michael stood motionless, his chest heaving with the effort, his mind still processing the fight. The woods around him were quiet once again, save for the faint rustle of the Everwinds, as though the forest itself was holding its breath. His gaze flickered over the fallen goblins, the horror of the moment beginning to sink in. He'd killed—not for the first time in this life, but the weight of it was different now. The numbness of necessity was there, but it didn't quite drown the disquiet that tugged at the edges of his mind.

He approached cautiously, ensuring both goblins were truly dead. The reality of what he'd done settled in his chest, heavy and unrelenting. He had survived—he had acted, and it had been necessary—but that did not erase the gnawing unease that lingered. He knew that in this world, survival came at a cost. It always did.

His eyes moved to the mangled body of the rabbit. It, too, was a casualty of this world—a world where danger could appear even in the quietest of mornings. He knew he would have to report the encounter. The goblins' presence near Dawnfield was not something to be ignored.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he retrieved his arrows, pulling each one free from the bodies of the fallen creatures. He paused for a moment, staring down at the crude weapons the goblins had been wielding—a jagged knife, a makeshift club. They were dangerous in their own right, but nothing he couldn't handle. Still, it was a reminder: the world he now inhabited was not as safe as it seemed.

As Michael straightened, he allowed himself a moment of reflection. His thoughts drifted to the absurdity of it all. No divine system, no magic to ease his path, no fantastical allies to guide him—just a six-year-old boy with the knowledge and skills of a soldier. A farmer's life? A healer's life? Perhaps. But a soldier's instincts, a soldier's mind, were what had saved him today.

And there was no escaping that truth. This life, despite its simplicity, would demand the same qualities that had defined him in his past. It was a life of survival, of adaptation, and of quiet determination.

Michael exhaled a steady breath, his gaze sweeping the forest once more. The Everwinds rustled again, their voices carried in the breeze like a whispered promise. For now, the forest was calm. But he knew better. He knew better than to think danger wouldn't come again.

With the goblins dispatched and his mind focused, Michael began the trek back to the village, his footsteps light but purposeful. The world was a larger, more dangerous place than he had once imagined, but for now, he had survived. And that, in this world, was enough.

His thoughts, heavy with the gravity of the day, followed him as the Everwinds whispered through the trees, the scent of iron still lingering in the air.