Goblins (1)
Goblins. The most commonly encountered monsters in the world, alongside slimes. But unlike the generally harmless slimes, they are hostile toward other living creatures. Thanks to the distinctive green skin unique to pure-strain goblins, goblins and their derived monster types are collectively known as greenskins, stirring up trouble across the world even now.
Goblins, with the stature and strength of a child in their early teens, aren't particularly strong as individuals. Yet their pack-hunting instincts and enmity toward other lifeforms make them monsters that must be exterminated on sight.
If we had to pick their defining trait, it would be their reckless evolution and adaptation. They adapt and change to suit their surroundings, developing all sorts of different abilities. This leads to an incomprehensible array of variations and evolutions.
For example, consider goblins living by the seaside. While standard goblins camouflage in green skin amid the foliage, seaside goblins have deep blue skin and live traversing sea and land alike—a adaptation thought to help evade predators from both realms.
Beyond such ecological shifts, they develop thin membranes between fingers and toes for swimming, or enhanced lung capacity to hold their breath longer. Changes like these emerge to fit the environment.
These aren't unique to seaside goblins. Those in frozen tundras grow thicker fur to conserve heat or bulk up in size.
Curiously, despite adapting to diverse environments with such varied changes, goblins never lose their core nature. No matter the transformation, they always form primitive villages wherever they appear and attack other creatures—a habit that endures.
Exterminating such goblins is, alongside clearing out swarms of slimes, the first step for novice adventurers. It's a crucial rite that teaches the weight of life, one every beginner must undergo.
Among these goblins, those meeting certain conditions undergo even more special evolutions. Among those evolved goblins...
Furry green skin covered in coarse hair. Slender limbs and grotesque features. Wielding tree branches as weapons, these hideous monsters were a perfect match for the name goblin.
At this point, maybe we can drop the "(presumed)" from "goblin (presumed)"?
Small stature, primitive intelligence limited to basic tools. Pack mentality to boot. These goblins had an ecology utterly unlike conventional monsters.
Regular monsters either didn't form packs or formed wolf-like ones, not human-like societies. Completely different from these goblins.
But where the hell did these goblins even come from? Unlike other monsters born from mutated animals, they popped up simultaneously worldwide. Hard to believe they're the result of some creature mutating...
Maybe they sprout from underground? They were that baffling.
Living in packs of dozens, cooperating to hunt and sharing food—their behavior almost made you think they were a demihuman race at a glance...
But no, monsters were monsters. The feral hostility they showed other creatures on sight. Tiny things charging with mere sticks, yet ferocious enough to attack anything. It drove home that even with some intelligence, a monster's still a monster.
Hmm... Still, at this level, maybe we could just leave them be? Each one as frail as a child, their tools hardly threatening. To humans hardened by wars against their own kind, these primitive goblin-folk wouldn't pose much danger.
Yeah. Let's ignore them.
That was the thought—but it didn't take long for perceptions of these goblins to shift.
As time passed, the goblins began to change. Or rather, evolve.
Gathering fruit, hunting animals, swelling their numbers. Needing little food per individual, they multiplied rapidly even on meager rations. Reaching adulthood in days, boosting the pack. Once the group hit a certain size, they'd exile some to maintain balance.
With such rapid generational turnover, mutations cropped up in the newborns. Goblins adapted to environments and predators faster than existing lifeforms, birthing survivors suited to thrive.
Well, they'd have to evolve that aggressively just to survive.
Among these ever-changing goblins, some underwent sudden, radical evolution—not generational, but individual.
To be precise... it was akin to an ordinary animal turning monster.
A goblin no different from the rest would abruptly grow. From child-sized to just shy of adult human height. A bizarre phenomenon, like monster evolutions in anime—utterly inexplicable.
Of course, such evolutions were rare, occurring maybe once per pack of dozens.
These evolved goblins—tentatively dubbed hobgoblins—differed sharply from standard ones.
First, strength: comparable to an average adult.
Intelligence: they wielded more advanced tools. One that scavenged human gear examined it, then used it proficiently—quite the shock.
And another change: hobgoblins could assess situations. Unlike regular goblins charging blindly, a hobgoblin spotted humans, observed silently, grasped the odds, and hid.
Unlike mere beasts, hobgoblins knew how to use their smarts.
And that... spelled trouble for humans.
"Mom. Is that why you came to me?"
Sagarmata gently stroked my hair, heavy with worries.
The room we'd shared back when I lived with her was pristine as new, despite the years. Did she clean obsessively? Or some dust-repelling trick?
"Yeah. I've got a lot on my mind."
Humans weren't much of a worry anymore. The Knight King's rule had stabilized, turning Romania into a decent place to live. Relations with neighbors were cordial too.
"What kind of worries?"
"New monsters cropping up."
Goblins alone wouldn't faze me. No, it was the hobgoblins.
They weren't common—maybe one per pack of dozens. But packs formed fast, so...
Hm! Wait, maybe... the condition for goblin-to-hobgoblin evolution is pack size?
Intriguing hypothesis. If true, how does pack number trigger it? Worth investigating later.
"Those green-skinned dwarves?"
"Yeah, them." (Though the dwarves you rule are dwarves too.)
"Why are they a worry?"
"Unlike old monsters, they keep evolving."
"Evolving?" Sagarmata tilted her head.
"That evolution a threat?"
"Not yet, but who knows down the line."
"Down the line...?"
"Yeah."
Hobgoblins now were just adult-level. But if—if—they evolved again... wouldn't they threaten humans?
That was the concern.
"Hmm... Not sure, but does Mom really need to fret over it?"
"Huh?"
"You don't have to handle everything like old times. Strong ancient monsters were beyond humans, but these green dwarves? Humans can manage."
She had a point. Goblins multiplied fast, but each was child-weak. Two or three armed adults could wipe a pack.
"Leave it to the others. Wasting your time on every little pest? Your time's too precious—especially with us. With me."
Sagarmata spoke with utter confidence. I couldn't help but smile faintly.
She's right. I can't do everything forever.
So, hand goblins off to humans. The Church of Life can spread the knowledge, but let humans handle the details.
