The Weakest Reincarnator Builds the Strongest Nation

"Perhaps words and tricks can bring peace better than blades."

That's what the mountain goblin leader said to me.

And honestly? That hit harder than I expected. Because after all the traps, the bluffs, the bluffing about traps I didn't even have… we were still standing.

Barely.

The fires were out, the blood was cleaned, and a dozen makeshift bandages held half of Underleaf together—figuratively and literally. The sun dipped low behind the trees, painting the village in gold and ash, like nature was apologizing for everything that had just happened.

Night fell with the weight of exhaustion and the ghost of something dangerous: hope.

Elena reappeared as if summoned by the smell of cooked roots and regret. She wasn't hiding anymore. Just... walking openly through the village, cloak fluttering in the evening breeze. The goblins eyed her warily but didn't flee. That was progress.

"The guild hesitates," she said, crouching beside me at the edge of the healer's tent. "They've never seen anything like this. Monsters... defending their homes. With strategy. With restraint."

"They're not monsters," I said, watching Bonk try to help a goblin twice his size onto a stretcher. "They're just people with worse teeth and better survival instincts."

"You've bought time," Elena said, soft. Thoughtful.

"Time is everything," I replied. My voice caught a little. I didn't try to hide it.

She nodded, then disappeared into the trees again, vanishing like a half-finished sentence.

By the time I stood to speak, half the village had gathered. Not in neat lines or dramatic ceremony—just huddled together, quiet and tired, but waiting.

"We've suffered," I started. No speechwriter. No magic. Just me and my sore throat. "We've lost friends. Homes. Parts of ourselves."

Silence.

"But we're still here. And that means something. We didn't just survive—we showed the world we're more than prey. We're more than what they think we are."

Someone started clapping. Bonk, obviously. Then the others joined in, slowly, like it felt weird to cheer after everything we'd just crawled through. But they did. And somehow, it helped.

We weren't a nation yet. Not even close. But we'd passed our first trial. And maybe that was more important than a flag or a border.

As the others drifted away to rest, Bonk stayed behind, staring at the healer's tent.

"Is Guk gonna be okay?" he asked, his usual grin nowhere in sight.

"He's strong," I said. I put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. "Too stubborn to quit."

Bonk nodded, sniffling, then wiped his nose on his sleeve and muttered something about getting soup. His way of coping, I guess.

Inside the tent, Riri sat beside Guk like a tiny general on a bedside campaign. She was focused—bandaging, checking, whispering encouragements. You'd think she'd been trained in medicine. She hadn't. She was just determined not to lose anyone else.

Honestly, she scared me sometimes.

The mountain goblin leader approached again. His armor was scratched bone and weathered leather, but the way he carried himself made it feel like steel.

"Your people," he said quietly, watching a goblin help another to their feet, "they fight with something more than claws and clubs."

"We fight for each other," I said. "That's what makes us dangerous."

He nodded. Slowly. Respectfully.

"Maybe... humans and goblins aren't so different."

"Maybe not," I said. "But convincing the rest of the world? That's going to take more than words."

"Then we stand with you," he said. No ceremony. No hesitation. Just that.

I felt that promise settle into my bones like a warm coal. Not a fire yet. But something.

Then came Elena again, back from wherever shadow realm she uses for fast travel.

"The guild is... shaken," she said. "You've planted doubt. That's rare."

"Doubt's a good place to start," I said. "Doubt turns into questions. And questions into change."

She didn't argue. Just studied me with a look that was equal parts admiration and what have I gotten myself into.

"Keep doing what you're doing," she said. "You're forcing them to see what they've refused to."

Then—poof. Gone again. Seriously, where does she go?

By nightfall, the goblins had finally stopped moving. Many curled up near burned homes, leaning on each other, whispering softly in the dark. The kind of silence that's not empty—but full. Full of what we'd just done. Full of what we'd lost.

I sat down beside a campfire, watching them. My people.

How the hell did I end up here?

I used to stress about zoning permits. Now I'm running logistics for a half-burned village of goblins and tricking military officers with stick figures and scented mud.

But I felt... something. Purpose, maybe. It was unfamiliar and a little terrifying.

"We were just goblins once," I murmured to myself. "Now we're something else."

Not a kingdom. Not yet. But not a scattered forest tribe either.

I stood again. Couldn't help myself.

"We've faced down death," I said to whoever was still listening. "We've lost, and we've bled. But we've also shown what we are—and what we can become."

Eyes turned to me. Not all. Just enough.

"This is the beginning. We rebuild. We recover. And when they come again—and they will—we'll be ready."

A few cheers. A few tired grins. Bonk lifted his bowl of soup like a toast.

And for one moment, one impossibly rare and fragile moment...

Underleaf felt like a nation.

Not in title.

But in spirit.