Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

I tilted my head and raised my blade.

”Choose.”

The shaman’s face twisted—not in fear, but in offense—as if my presence alone left a bitter taste in his mouth.

His lips curled, nostrils flared, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of genuine frustration behind his eyes, the kind that creeps in when things stop going according to plan, but it passed, almost too quickly, and its sour look melted away, replaced by something slower... smoother... more practiced.

A grin began to form—thin at first, then spreading like oil on water until it curved into something sharp and smug, a sneer masquerading as a smile.

He tilted his head, rolled his shoulders, and spun his staff between his fingers with the kind of ease that only came from arrogance, before saying in a conversational tone.

”Hmm...I hadn’t expected a Drugar-blessed to be this powerful,” He stopped with the staff spinning and then leaned forward. ”It’s rare to find a goblin worthy of such a powerful gift from Drugar. What rank is it, hmm? C-rank? B? Maybe... A?”

I said nothing. I was starting to get tired of the Drugar nonsense.

I believe Gandalf gave me my ability.

He chuckled.

”No matter. I don’t care what it is. What I do know is that your skill must cost mana to use, and judging by how often you’ve used it...” He paused, narrowing his eyes. ”You must be running low, aren’t you?”

”You couldn’t be more wrong, Einstein?”

I responded, but the shaman brushed it off.

Instead, he reached beneath his cloak, fingers slipping into a hidden pouch at his hip, and drew out a small glass vial filled with a thick, glowing blue liquid that pulsed faintly in the dim light.

He bit the cork off with a snap of his teeth, spit it aside, and tilted the vial back. The liquid vanished down his throat in a single, practiced gulp.

A second later, the empty bottle left his hand and shattered against the rocks.

He exhaled, slow and exaggerated, as though he’d just drained a bottle of fine wine rather than a crude magical tonic, then met my gaze with a smug smile.

”Unfortunately for you,” he said, dragging the final word with theatrical flair, ”I’ve got plenty more of those. So if this turns into a war of attrition, I’ll be the one left standing.”

He then spread his arms, his staff twitching with energy.

”I will defeat you, goblin. Then take your abilities for myself.”

I scoffed quietly.

I was tempted to tell him that my innate skill was SSS-rank, and that it cost nothing to use, as I wanted to see his face twist in despair.

But I didn’t.

There was no point in feeding his ego or bluffing out of pride.

This wasn’t about proving superiority.

This was about revenge.

The shaman goblin most likely thought this was a contest of strength, a battle to establish dominance between two gifted beings, but he was wrong.

This wasn’t about superiority.This was about vengeance.

I wasn’t here to prove something—I was here to end something.To bury what needed burying.

I was the chief now, and the fallen members of my clan demanded justice.

So...I focused on how to defeat him.

I studied the shaman more carefully now, breaking down his words and behavior.

He had referred to ability ranks—C, B, A. And that seemed to be a clue.

If the highest he could comprehend seemed to be A-rank, and he couldn’t name anything higher than that or even consider the possibility my skill could be higher, then it was likely his own skill didn’t exceed that.

Judging by how often he relied on that shimmering barrier of his, I was willing to bet that was his innate ability, and if that shield was A-rank or below, then it had limits.

And limits could be broken.

Especially if it burned through mana like everything else.

The way he slammed that potion down made one thing clear—his magic was active, not passive. Which meant it needed fuel. If I could keep him casting, force him to defend and retaliate again and again, he’d run dry.

That was my window.

I adjusted my grip on Gravefang, feeling the weight settle comfortably in my hand.

We stood in silence, staring each other down.

Waiting.

A breath.

A heartbeat.

Then the shaman moved.

He raised his staff, mana gathering at the tip as fire coiled upward.

But I was faster.

There was no sound. No warning. Just the pulse of instinct and the flick of a thought as the world folded.

[Warp]

I vanished from where I stood—and reappeared not a moment later, a breath away from his left flank, Gravefang was already in motion, a silver blur slashing low toward his ribs, with lethal, practiced efficiency.

But just as Gravefang was about to bite, the air between us shimmered—and the damn shield flared to life again, humming with barely visible light, like a glass wall.

My blade slammed into it with a harsh, jarring clash, sparks erupting in bursts of white and gold as metal met magic and came to a dead stop.

I hissed through my teeth, the jolt rattling up my arm, and stepped back, boots skidding slightly over broken twigs and loose soil.

But the shaman wasn’t done—not even close.

He didn’t cast. Didn’t chant. Didn’t summon fireball like I’d come to expect.

No, this time... he stepped in and swung, his staff arcing toward me like a club, fast and blunt and entirely too simple—almost laughable, if it hadn’t been coming straight for my skull.

My brow furrowed in surprise, but my body moved on instinct, ducking low just in time for the wooden shaft to whistle past the space where my head had been a heartbeat before.

But something was wrong.

There was weight behind that swing—too much weight. Not just a desperate jab or misdirection. It felt deliberate. Too deliberate.

Then it hit.

Not the staff.

The sensation.

A sick pulse in the base of my skull, cold and electric—[Danger Sense] screaming without words, just raw instinct flaring like a red light behind my eyes.

And I didn’t think. I didn’t calculate.

I vanished instantly, getting away from there as fast as possible.

[Warp] ignited mid-motion, pulling me out of space just as a thunderous crack shattered the stillness behind me.

I reappeared high above the treeline, crouched on a thick, swaying branch, air rushing around me and as I looked down, I froze.

Below, from the tip of his staff, an explosion had erupted—not fire, not magic in the traditional sense, but something brutal and primitive.

A radial burst of wooden spikes had detonated outward, fanning across the clearing like a swarm of angry spears, each jagged shard spinning with deadly precision.

They tore through the place I’d just occupied, slicing through the undergrowth, shattering tree bark, and punching into the ground with enough force to send dirt and debris flying in all directions. The clearing looked like it had been chewed up by a storm of blades—raw, savage, and cruel.

”Whoa,” I muttered under my breath, the word escaping before I could reel it back in.

If I’d stayed down there even a second longer...

I wouldn’t have had the luxury of reflection.

This wasn’t just a spell flung in panic. No wild lashing of magic, hoping to catch something in the blast. No—this had been deliberate, calculated, and cruel.

A minefield of wood and rage, designed to punish proximity and punish it hard.

And the shaman knew it.

He only needed to let me get close—just close enough to feel like I had a shot—then detonate that spike burst while hiding safely behind that shimmering dome of his.

The shield took care of him; the spikes took care of everything else.

Simple, efficient, and devastating.

If I had blinked even a heartbeat later, I wouldn’t be up here thinking—I’d be down there leaking.

Below, the shaman moved through the wreckage with the confidence of a man walking through his own handiwork, boots crunching over torn earth, his gaze slicing left and right as he searched for me.

Then his head lifted, slowly, like some sixth sense nudged him upward—and then our eyes locked.

His grin returned, sharp and too wide, like he’d just spotted a mouse in the rafters and couldn’t wait to pull it down by the tail, and he called up, voice thick with mockery.

”What’s the matter, goblin? Afraid?”

He stretched his arms wide as if inviting me to strike.

”You won’t beat me from up there,” he sneered. ”If you can’t get close... you’ve already lost! Blessed one!”

The laugh that followed was loud, theatrical, and far too certain.

It echoed through the shattered clearing, bold and triumphant—like he genuinely believed he’d already won.

I had no long-range attacks.

My skillset was built for mobility and close combat. If he kept spamming that spike burst whenever I got within striking distance, this would drag out, and he could just keep drinking potions.

But...

That was only true if I played by his assumptions.

My innate skill—[Phase Walker]—was more versatile than he realized. It didn’t need brute strength or flashy spells. It just needed creativity.

So I smiled.

Let him gloat.

I used [warp] and blinked high into the sky, higher than I’d ever gone before.

The wind rushed past me as I ascended.

Then, at the peak of my arc, I twisted.

My body flipped midair, spinning until my head faced downward.

And I let gravity do the rest.

My limbs tucked.

My body streamlined.

And the world became a blur.

I shot downward like a cannonball, blade in hand.

A plan in mind.

I didn’t need a ranged attack.

I only need my prey in sight, and as soon as the shaman was visible from above, I met the condition to use...