Journey of a Loser

Mitchell stared at the five goblins as they crept toward him, circling like hyenas. The air seemed to thicken around him, the wind dying down, the chirping birds gone silent. 

His stomach twisted. His grip on the bronze short sword tightened as adrenaline surged through his veins. 'This is bad. This is really bad. They're fast. They're armed. And they are looking at me. Why are they looking at me?!'

The goblins snarled, tiny yellow teeth bared in cruel grins. One of them jabbed its wooden spear in the air, testing distance, while the others began to fan out—flanking him.

His legs itched to move, to run, to scream, but his mind screamed in fear!

But then one of them barked something guttural. "Gabur gnaash!"

Mitchell blinked. 'Wait... what?' He didn't understand the words—but something inside him tried to. A strange twitch in his brain, like a puzzle piece almost clicking into place.

Another goblin hissed, "Take the fat one fast! Stab his legs!"

Mitchell's heart nearly stopped. 'Did... I just understand that?' Then it clicked, Tongue, his skill. It wasn't just for human languages. It was working with Monsters as well. It was starting to translate.

His focus was immediately shattered when the first goblin charged, spear leveled at his gut.

Mitchell barely had time to react. The goblin's crude spear jabbed forward with surprising speed, aiming for his gut. He twisted out of the way, heart pounding in his ears, and the spearhead whistled past his ribs. 'That would've gone through me if I hadn't moved.'

"Too slow!" Shrieked another goblin.

But there was no time for Mitchell to breathe.

The next two goblins surged forward, swinging their clubs. Mitchell backpedaled instinctively—one club swished inches from his face, the other slammed into the ground where his foot had just been.

"Ay Dios!" Mitchell shouted, breath ragged, panic taking the reins.

One of the goblin's shrieked, high-pitched and gleeful, as if mocking him. Then the last two came at him with rusted swords. One from the front. One from the side.

Mitchell's mind froze. His body didn't.

With a shout, he raised his own sword—and instinctively blocked the first strike. Metal rang against bronze, sending vibrations down his arm, nearly jolting the blade from his hand. The second sword slashed out—he twisted, felt the sharp tug across his hoodie, and hissed in pain as fabric split and skin burned.

'I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die.' He looked up.

Four goblins were regrouping. The one with the spear was circling behind him. They were boxing him in.

Mitchell's eyes widened. 'No. No no no—' His legs moved fast.

Faster than he thought they could.

His body kicked into gear as Sprint activated, leg muscles flooded with strength and momentum. The goblins lunged, but Mitchell was already gone, shoes pounding the riverbank dirt as he tore past them, barely ducking a spear thrust and hurdling over a tree root.

"Split up! He runs like prey!" shouted one.

"No! Stay together—trap him near the rocks!"

The river glinted beside him. He didn't know where he was going—just away. Bushes scratched at his legs, his breath hitched, and sweat poured down his back beneath the too-tight armor.

He ducked behind a tree and crouched, gasping. 'Okay. Okay. Think. Five goblins. Too many to fight at once. But maybe…'

He peeked around the trunk. The goblins were confused, disorganized after his sudden burst of speed. One of them squealed and pointed. The others shouted in gurgles he couldn't understand but didn't need to. They were coming.

Mitchell gritted his teeth and touched his bleeding side. He then looked up again.

'Okay. I can do this. Maybe.'

He turned back toward the river, where the ground was slippery and damp—and smiled, an idea forming.

Mitchell stepped out from behind the tree and shouted, "HEY, GREEN GREMLINS! YOU WANT ME?! COME AND GET ME!"

They turned immediately. "He mocks us!"

"Get him!"

The goblins snarled and gave chase.

Mitchell ran—back toward the riverbank.

Just a few paces ahead was a slick patch of moss-covered stone. He didn't slow down as he leapt over it.

The first goblin wasn't so lucky. Its foot hit the moss and down it went, club flying, limbs flailing.

The second tripped over the first.

Mitchell spun around, his sword ready.

The third goblin lunged. He parried clumsily, almost losing his balance, but brought his sword up in a wild, diagonal swing. The blade connected with the goblin's arm, slicing deep.

The goblin shrieked and stumbled back, clutching its bleeding limb. "MY ARRRMMM." The goblin then ran and stumbled away, clutching its mangled arm, blood oozing between it's green fingers. It shrieked something unintelligible, then turned and ran into the underbrush—leaving behind a crude rusted sword in the dirt.

Mitchell didn't chase. He didn't move. His legs trembled from the Sprint. His chest heaved. His arms ached from the parry, and his cut side still burned from earlier.

'One down. Four left.' He risked a glance at the others.

They looked at their retreating comrade, then back at him at the moment they are hesitating.

Mitchell felt a sudden rush of clarity in the space between heartbeats. 'They're weighing their odds.'

He could read it in their beady eyes. They are starting to be cautious as he hurt one of them.

Still, the goblin with the spear snarled and barked, "He's slow! We break him now!"

The goblin with the sword lunged.

Mitchell sidestepped, letting the swing go wide. He slammed his sword down diagonally, clanging against the crude metal. Sparks flew. The goblin screeched and staggered back.

Another came at him from the left—club raised.

Mitchell twisted and brought his sword up, too slow to block completely. The club smashed into his shoulder.

Pain exploded across his body. "AGH!" He cried out, stumbling back.

The goblins howled with glee.

The spear-wielder stepped forward—thrusting, fast and hard.

Mitchell dropped low—barely dodging the stab—and swung upward, catching the shaft of the spear and slicing it in half.

The goblin stared at the splintered end of its weapon, wide-eyed.

Mitchell didn't hesitate.

He lunged forward and drove his sword straight into the goblin's gut.

The goblin gagged, clawing at his arm.

Mitchell shoved it back, sword still in hand. It collapsed to the ground, twitching, before going still. "Two down!" Mitchell gasped. 

The remaining goblins backed away slightly, circling again—more cautious now.

Mitchell's whole body screamed in pain. His shoulder throbbed. His sword arm shook. His legs were lead.

'I can't keep this up.' He thought. But he kept his sword up.

The goblin with the club darted in again—quick, low. Mitchell stepped back, lost his footing slightly, and the club connected with his side.

Another crack. Another cry.

He dropped to one knee—but brought his sword up just in time to block the other goblin's downward strike.

Metal clanged. Mitchell grunted.

The goblins pressed closer, snarling now with no hesitation or fear.

Mitchell's vision blurred. Sweat poured down his face. He coughed, then growled through his teeth.

One goblin lunged.

Mitchell sidestepped.

The other tried to flank him.

Mitchell spun, slashing wildly, his blade cutting across the side of one's face. The goblin shrieked, clawing at its eye, quickly running away in pain.

He turned—just in time to see the last club coming down.

He raised his sword one last time.

THUNK.

The club hit his blade, driving him to the ground.

Mitchell gasped as he hit the ground, rolling through dirt and pain—his fingers curling around a fist-sized rock.

The goblin loomed over him, grinning.

Then—

THWAP.

The rock flew and struck the goblin square in the nose.

It screeched in pain and staggered back, dropping its sword.

Mitchell forced himself up, dragging his sword with him.

The final goblin scrambled with its club in fury to strike the injured human.

But Mitchell didn't give it the chance.

With a last burst of strength, he brought his sword down—and finished it and using his momentum he spun around to hit the one in the head that was stunned by the rock.

He stood there, panting, blood running down his side, cuts on his arms, legs shaking.

Around him, three goblins lay dead. Two injured had fled.

Mitchell looked at his hands—covered in grime, blood, and trembling with exhaustion. "I… I did it," he breathed as he dropped to his knees. Then he laughed. It was weak, breathless, and half-delirious. 

And then—

The pain hit him all at once. His breath hitched. His chest tightened. And finally, Mitchell Alvarez started to cry.

Mitchell laid there in the grass, surrounded by the aftermath of a fight he should never have survived. His body throbbed from head to toe. His hands were raw. His ribs ached every time he breathed.

He stared up at the sky—blue, cloudless, almost peaceful. It felt insulting. 'Is this what victory feels like? Hurts like hell.'

He didn't move at first. Just lay there, breathing, letting the shaking in his arms subside, letting his thoughts slowly realign. His mind—fogged by adrenaline and pain—finally began to clear.

After several long moments, he whispered, "Alright. Think. What now?"

One word bubbled up from memory.

Cure.

His rare skill. The only good thing Vel'Eina had given him.

"I… should probably use that now." He closed his eyes and focused. He had no chant, no gesture, no manual. 'How do I even activate this? Do I say it? Think it? Clap twice and spin in a circle?'

Then, something clicked—like a mental switch he hadn't noticed before. A subtle hum rolled through his body, like warm water trickling from the inside out.

The pain in his ribs dulled. The burning sting in his side vanished. The throbbing in his temple softened. The bleeding stopped.

But the bruises and the open cuts. The sheer fatigue?

They were still there. Every joint still felt like it had been politely shattered.

"…Well," He muttered, pushing himself up, "At least I'm not dying anymore." He groaned as he forced himself to stand, swaying on unsteady feet.

The three goblins lay sprawled around him—still, ugly, and undeniably dead. Blood dotted the riverbank. One club was splintered. The sword was rusted beyond repair. And the wooden spear, broken in half, barely counted as firewood.

Mitchell dragged himself toward the mess and exhaled. 'The guild buys materials... right?'

He knelt beside one corpse, inspecting it with as much detachment from the ones that tried to kill him as he could muster. "Not dragging this thing through the city," He muttered. "I have a hard enough time getting people to take me seriously."

Then a more practical idea hit him. He eyed the goblin's ear.

'Proof of kill. Classic.' He hesitated for just a second before pulling out his sword and, with a grimace, began cutting.

It was messier than he expected.

He repeated the process—three times total. "God, I hope I don't need to clean these…"

With his backpack now containing four slime cores, three severed goblin ears, two crude short swords and two wooden clubs. He sheathed his sword and gathered what little energy he had left.

Every step was stiff. Every breath reminded him of the club to his ribs. But the worst was over.

He turned back toward the city walls, just barely visible past the bridge and farmland.

And with that, Mitchell Alvarez limped toward Varnhelm—bleeding, bruised, sore… but alive.

—------------------------

The heavy wooden doors of the Adventurer's Guild creaked open as Mitchell stumbled in, limping and slightly hunched under the weight of his soreness, blood stains, and sheer exhaustion. His armor was scuffed, his hoodie was torn, and dried goblin blood painted ugly streaks across his sleeves and chest.

The atmosphere inside shifted immediately.

Conversations paused. Tankards lowered. Several adventurers turned to stare. One guy near the request board tilted his head, eyebrows raised.

Mitchell didn't need a mirror to know what they were seeing.

'He looks like he just survived a battlefield.' One of them spoke.

'Or crawled out of a monster's stomach.' Another might've whispered.

He could feel the weight of their gazes following him across the room. But thankfully, no one said a word.

At the front counter, Sera stood as usual, sorting through parchment with practiced focus. For once, the line was empty. No adventurers joking or bantering with the receptionist.

'Perfect.' Mitchell approached the desk, dragging his feet like a man fifty years older than he was. He dropped his backpack of loot onto the counter with a soft thunk.

Sera glanced up and her eyes scanned him once.Then narrowed.

"…What happened to you?" She asked flatly, her tone clipped with concern. "Your first quest was only supposed to kill slimes."

Mitchell offered a weak grin, sweat-matted hair clinging to his forehead. "You know, the guards said the same thing."

Sera didn't smile. "This isn't a joke, Mitchell," she said sharply. "Slimes cant give you bruises or cut your clothes open."

Mitchell winced and held up his hands. "Alright, alright. I get it."

He took a breath.

"I was hunting slimes. No issues there. Got four of 'em and I was gonna head back here. Then I sort of got... ambushed by five goblins. Just—bam—appeared out of nowhere near the riverbank."

Sera's cool demeanor cracked. Her eyes widened. "Five? Fighting a goblin individually is usually not an issue but fighting a group of them is too much for a rookie"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. One had a spear. Two with clubs. Two had swords."

"And you're still standing?" she asked, clearly stunned.

"Barely," Mitchell muttered. "I... I got lucky. Managed to outmaneuver a couple. Killed three. The last two ran off after I nearly took their heads off."

Sera stared at him, then at the pouch. She opened it and quietly examined the contents.

"Four slime cores," She muttered, counting. "Two clubs… two swords…" Her fingers pinched the goblin ears last, and she frowned. "These are... unpleasant."

"They were attached to unpleasant people," Mitchell said. "Or... creatures. You know what I mean."

Sera exhaled slowly. "Normally, goblin ears are worthless. But there is an active subjugation bounty on goblins in the area, as the more we kill the better for the city. Lucky for you."

She pulled a small ledger from beneath the desk and began calculating.

"Slime cores: 2 copper each, that will be 8 coppers. Small Clubs are low-quality but still usable—4 each, that will be 8 copper in total. Swords are better—7 copper each, so 14. Goblin subjugation bounty is 4 copper per confirmed kill. You brought three ears, so that's another 12 copper."

She looked up.

"In total, that's 42 copper."

Mitchell's eyes widened. His shoulders slumped this time in relief.

"Forty-two?" He repeated, lips curling into a small, lopsided smile. "That's... that's almost enough to make today worth it."

Sera raised an eyebrow, but her expression softened just a little. "You took on five goblins and lived. That's more than most F-ranks manage in their first week."

Mitchell chuckled softly. "Do I get something special?"

"No," She said flatly, already writing the payment slip. "But I'll mark your account as 'combat capable under high stress.'"

He blinked. "Wait, that's a real tag?"

"No."

"…Your sarcasm hurts, you know." Mitchell says disappointed.

She slid the small leather pouch with his reward across the counter. Mitchell accepted it like it was gold from heaven.

'Including the five coppers that I still own. That will be forty-seven coppers in total.' Not a fortune. Not even close to a full refund on the money he wasted for the gear. But it was earned. Through sweat, pain, and effort.

Mitchell tied the coin pouch to his belt with care—as if it might vanish if he wasn't gentle with it. His muscles ached. His legs still wobbled slightly. The excitement of survival was fading, replaced by a crushing wave of exhaustion.

He turned to Sera, eyes heavy but grateful.

"Hey… do you, uh… know any cheap places to stay?" He asked. "Preferably one that won't steal my organs in my sleep?"

Sera looked up from the ledger, giving him a look halfway between amusement and concern.

She tapped her chin, thinking for a moment. "There's a place not far from here. It's called The Hollow Hearth. Cheap, clean enough, and they won't ask questions unless you start bleeding on the floor."

"Perfect. That sounds like it was designed for me."

"It's five copper a night," she added. "Which leaves you with thirty-seven. Don't spend it all on roasted meat skewers."

"No promises," He said, already dreaming about actual food.

Sera slid a scrap of parchment toward him and scribbled a quick map on the back—simple directions from the guild to the inn. "Follow this road east, take a right at the well, then left when you see a statue of a winged lion. Should be a squat building with a red awning and a crooked chimney."

Mitchell took the map like a sacred artifact. "Sera, you're a lifesaver."

"I try," she said, and—just barely—smiled.

He gave her a tired salute, then turned to leave. His steps were slow as he still had the pain of his earlier fight.

—-----------------------------

Mitchell followed the map Sera had drawn, clutching it in one hand while the other hovered near his sword out of paranoia. The cobbled streets grew quieter as he moved away from the main road and as the sun was lowering for the night, with fewer merchants and adventurers and more worn signs and shuttered windows.

As he turned a corner near a narrow alley, he froze.

A small crowd had gathered outside a wide, iron-barred storefront. The building was lined with worn banners, and a wooden placard above the door read something in Aulean script Mitchell couldn't decipher. But the meaning was clear enough.

Men and women stood and were dragged in chains. Some in iron collars. Others in cages barely tall enough to sit in. The crowd murmured, watched, and in some cases… pointed.

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

He didn't need a skill to translate this scene.

This was a slave market.

Mitchell's blood ran cold. His legs locked in place.

One of the caged figures—barely older than he was—met his gaze. Hollow-eyed. Silent. Covered in dirt.

Mitchell turned away fast.

He walked. No—marched—down the street, fists clenched, throat dry.

He didn't stop until the strange murmurs faded behind him, and only the sound of his own ragged breathing remained.

'This world really is different.' He thought bitterly.

He finally found the building Sera described: a squat, tired-looking structure with a faded red awning and a crooked chimney that looked like it had been punched by a giant.

A weathered wooden sign creaked overhead: The Hollow Hearth.

Mitchell stepped inside.

The interior smelled like damp wood and boiled vegetables. A few oil lamps flickered dimly, casting uneven light across a scuffed wooden floor. A bored-looking man stood behind a small desk—balding, with a scraggly beard and the posture of someone who had long since stopped caring.

Mitchell approached, his exhaustion now fully catching up.

"I need a room," He said quietly.

The man didn't even look up. "Five coppers."

Mitchell counted them out, placing the coins on the counter. The man swiped them away, opened a drawer, and tossed a small iron key onto the wood with a dull clink.

"Upstairs. Third door on the left," he muttered with no smile or questions.

Mitchell took the key and made his way upstairs, boots heavy on the creaking steps. The hallway smelled faintly of mildew and dust.

He found his room, turned the key, and pushed the door open.

The room was… functional.

A narrow bed with a straw-filled mattress. A chipped nightstand. A shuttered window. No more, no less.

Mitchell dropped his sword and pouch beside the bed, kicked off his boots, and collapsed face-first onto the mattress.

And immediately regretted it.

The straw poked through the thin sheets. The frame creaked with every shift. The pillow smelled like it had survived multiple tenants and possibly a wet animal.

"Fantastic," He muttered into the mattress.

But his body was already shutting down.

His mind wanted to think—about goblins, about slimes, about the goddess, about slaves—but sleep crept in fast, unrelenting.

And despite the discomfort, despite the questions…

Mitchell Alvarez was asleep within seconds.