An's death was not a hero's tale. It didn't come in a grand explosion, not while he was pushing someone out of the way of a runaway truck, and certainly not in a fateful battle. It came at 2:37 AM on a Tuesday, under the dim blue light of a computer screen. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the mouse cursor blinking soullessly next to an Excel cell filled with meaningless numbers. A sharp, chilling pain spread from his chest, like an icy hand squeezing his heart. The final thought of An, a 30-year-old data analyst with student debt larger than his ambitions, was not about his loved ones or life's regrets. It was: "Damn it, this quarterly report still isn't finished."
Then, darkness.
An absolute, empty silence.
And then... dampness.
An's consciousness returned slowly, fragmented. The first sensation was a cold wetness seeping through what felt like clothes, and the smell of decaying earth and rotten leaves hitting his nose. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were as heavy as lead. When he finally succeeded, a blurry world gradually came into view. He was lying on damp ground, surrounded by giant tree trunks with roots as large as coiling pythons. Above, a canopy of deep, unfamiliar green leaves obscured most of the sky, letting only a few weak rays of light filter through. The air was thick, carrying the scent of life and decomposition.
Where am I? The hospital?
No... doesn't feel like it.
He tried to push himself up, and that's when the real panic set in.
His hand. It wasn't his hand.
Instead of the familiar skin and long fingers skilled at typing, what he saw was a skinny, pale green limb with three long, bony fingers and short, black claws. He frantically brought up his other hand, and it was identical. He touched his face, feeling rough skin, a flat nose, and long, pointed ears.
He staggered to his feet, this new body strangely weak and unbalanced. He stumbled toward a nearby puddle of stagnant water, his heart—or something like it—pounding in his chest. He leaned down, and the reflection in the murky water nearly made him fall backward.
It wasn't An.
The thing staring back at him was a small creature, less than a meter tall, with dull green skin. Its large, yellow eyes shone brightly in the dim light, filled with fear and bewilderment. A wide mouth opened to reveal a set of jagged, sharp teeth. It was gaunt, bony, looking both pitiful and hideous. It was a monster.
A goblin.
No... no way. This is a dream.
A nightmare from overworking...
Just as that thought crossed his mind, a mechanical "ping" rang out in his head. A translucent, shimmering blue screen suddenly appeared before his eyes, floating in the air. White text began to appear at a dizzying speed.
[Level: 1]
An stood frozen, his mouth agape. This was... a game interface? A system?
[ATTRIBUTES]
Strength: 3 (Feeble)
Agility: 5 (Decent)
Stamina: 4 (Frail)
Intelligence: ?? [span_49](start_span)(Error: Incompatible Value)
Spirit: 2 (Easily Panicked)
[SKILLS]
Peeking (Beginner): The ability to observe from a distance without being easily detected.
Rock Throw (Awful): Throws a small object. [span_53](start_span)Low accuracy.
Fleeing (Proficient): Increases movement speed when leaving combat.
[QUEST]
Main Quest: Survive through ▯▯▯▯▯▯▯.
Reward: ▯▯▯▯▯.
Time Limit: Infinite.
Errors. Errors.
Errors were everywhere. Corrupted data, incompatible values, the quest reward was a jumble of meaningless symbols. His intelligence, his most valuable asset in his previous life, was now just a question mark.
"No," he whispered, his voice coming out raspy and high-pitched, completely unlike his own. "No, no, no."
He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head frantically. Wake up, An. You're just dreaming.
He opened his eyes. The blue screen was still there. The goblin body was still there. The strange forest was still there.
A chill ran down his spine.
This wasn't a dream.
His death, his pathetic death in the office, was real.
And somehow, he had been reborn. Not as a hero from a fairytale, but as a low-level scout goblin, a disposable mob in any video game. And his "welcome gift" was a buggy, beta-version system.
Just then, another feeling, one more primitive and powerful than fear, rose from the pit of his stomach. A fierce, gnawing hunger. A System warning echoed in his head: "Trust your feelings."
An looked around the gloomy, dangerous forest. He was no longer a data analyst sitting behind a desk. He was a predator, or perhaps, prey. His goal was no longer to complete a report.
His goal was to survive.