Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

I slid my arms under the fox’s frail body, lifting it carefully.

The moment my hands touched its scorched fur, I felt the muscles beneath tense—tight as coiled wire, ready to spring. Its breathing quickened, and for a second, I thought it might bite.

But then... something shifted. The tension bled out of it in slow, cautious waves, as if it understood I wasn’t there to finish the job.

I worked the cork free with a quiet pop and brought the vial to its muzzle. Tilting its head gently, I let the thick, golden-green liquid flow between its teeth. At first, it choked, its throat working to decide whether to swallow or spit. Then instinct took over, and it drank.

Almost immediately, a faint green light began to spread across its body, seeping from the inside out like veins of moss glowing under moonlight. The torn gashes along its side began knitting together, raw flesh closing beneath new fur. The burns dulled from angry red to a muted brown, and the steady drip of blood onto the dirt slowed to nothing.

I lowered it back onto the ground, placing it softly in the bed of leaves where it had fallen. Its breathing had steadied now, each inhale a little deeper than the last.

Straightening, I dusted off my hands and muttered, ”You’d better repay me for this.”

It didn’t respond—not even with a flick of its ear. Its eyes slid shut, not in the resigned way of a creature giving up, but in the slow, heavy manner of something surrendering to sleep while its body worked to rebuild itself.

I set it down gently, tucking it into the shelter of a low, root-curved hollow where the shadows pooled thickest.

The spot was hidden from open view, a place where prowling predators would be less likely to stumble across it, and there I left it to heal without further disturbance. The faint green glow from the potion still clung to its fur, pulsing in quiet rhythm with its shallow breaths.

Rising to my feet, I glanced down at it one last time. ”You’d better repay me for this,” I muttered, half-serious, half to convince myself this wasn’t just an act of foolish charity.

The fox gave no sign it had heard me. Its eyes slid shut, its body curling faintly in on itself as the slow work of mending continued, each wound knitting closed in silence.

I turned away, my boots crunching over twigs and dry earth as I headed back into the forest. A small part of me still grumbled at the decision. I had just walked away from what could have been a chance to earn a new skill—one more weapon in my arsenal—because I’d listened to a gut feeling I couldn’t even explain.

That was a loss I couldn’t ignore.

If I wasn’t going to get stronger from that encounter, then I’d just have to make up for it by finding more prey. Stronger prey.

I pressed deeper into the forest, my senses tuned for anything worth the effort. The smaller creatures scattered at my approach—squirrels, horned hares, and the occasional low-level boar—but I ignored them. Weak prey wouldn’t help me recover the advantage I’d lost with the fox. I needed something stronger.

It didn’t take long.

Through a break in the trees, I caught sight of movement—a slow, deliberate shifting of feathers and bone. At first, I thought it was just another carrion bird, but as I drew closer, the shape came into focus, and my grip on Gravefang tightened.

It looked like some unnatural cross between a vulture and a crow, towering over me even as it hunched over its meal. Its frame was skeletal, the skin stretched too thin over its bones, yet its size gave it a predatory presence that made the air feel heavier. Black feathers clung to its body like strips of shadow, swallowing what little moonlight reached them, while its head turned in slow, mechanical arcs, pale milky eyes glowing faintly against the darkness.

It was feeding, tearing strips of meat from what had once been a deer. The carcass was already half gone, its ribs jutting like jagged white bars under the open sky. Each time the bird’s beak came down, I heard the wet crunch of bone and tendon snapping.

Then it noticed me.

The motion stopped mid-tear, the shreds of flesh hanging from its beak like ribbons. Its head swiveled toward me, unnervingly smooth, and those cloudy eyes fixed on mine—not blind, but focused in a way that made my skin crawl.

I used [Analyze].

[Nightmaw Vulture – Level 22]

The words floated in my vision.

Finally, a prey worth hunting.

I exhaled slowly, centering my weight, then broke into a charge.

The vulture’s response was immediate. It threw its head back and let loose an ominous, bone-rattling screech. The sound wasn’t just loud—it carried weight, force, a violent pressure that rolled outward in a visible shimmer, bending the air as it rushed toward me like a wall.

[Danger Sense] flared like an alarm bell in my mind, giving me just enough warning to move before the impact hit.

I triggered [Warp] instantly, vanishing in a flicker of shadow and reappearing behind the vulture, midair, upside down, my body twisting as though I’d just flipped clean over its massive frame. The world spun for a heartbeat, but my eyes never left my target.

My arm shot out toward its back, palm open.

For the first time, I channeled [Flame Orb]. Heat surged into my hand, the air shimmering around my fingers before a sphere of burning light snapped into existence.

FWOOM!

Without hesitation, I loosed it.

And the fireball struck dead center on the Nightmaw’s back.

BOOM!

Flames blossomed across its feathers, and the vulture let out a shriek that clawed at my eardrums. It thrashed wildly, its enormous wings beating the air into a storm as the fire ate through black plumage, turning shadow into smoldering ash.

I landed in a low crouch, Gravefang ready, and sprinted toward it to finish the kill before it could recover.

But the creature wasn’t done.

Its charred feathers began to shimmer faintly, as if drinking in the cold silver glow of the moon above. The smoldering tips reformed into sharp, bristling spines, standing on end like a porcupine preparing to strike.

Then, with a whip-crack motion, the quills...