Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

But as he brought his weapon down, the fox’s eyes snapped open, molten fire burning in their depths.

With a sudden surge of will, she twisted free of the ground and lunged, her body moving in a flash of instinct and pain. Dirt scattered in her wake as she tumbled aside, landing hard but alive.

Amon clicked his teeth in frustration, the sharp sound cutting through his snarl.

He pivoted quickly, staff already rising for another strike, his intent clear. But just as he moved, a voice slithered into his mind—cold, sharp, and undeniable—stopping him mid-motion.

”Don’t waste your time, filthy goblin. There’s nothing you can do that would earn you a win against me.”

Amon froze, his staff trembling slightly in his grip.

His first instinct was rage at the insult, but unease quickly smothered it.

This beast was not ordinary. Its voice rang directly in his head, threaded with a pressure heavier than any physical blow. That alone marked it as something far beyond the norm. Killing such a creature promised immense rewards—levels, skills, perhaps even a title—but the danger was just as real. Beasts like this did not die easily.

His eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with calculation.

”Are you with them?” he asked at last, his voice sharp, caught between demand and plea.

The fox gave a dismissive snort, her tails flicking sharply against the ground.

Her voice slid back into his thoughts, dripping with disdain.

”What happens to them does not concern me. Do as you will. I will not interfere.”

Amon’s jaw clenched, tusks grinding together. He didn’t know if he believed her.

A creature with a will strong enough to force its voice into his mind was not one to be trusted.

Yet what choice did he have?

He had already tested her once, and she had evaded with a speed that made him wary of pressing again. If she truly intended to interfere, she could have done so already.

The thought steadied him, if only slightly.

He let out a slow breath and turned away, forcing himself to walk back toward the clash where fire and steel still tore through the clearing. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing over his shoulder.

The fox hadn’t moved—her body coiled, her gaze unreadable, as though watching and waiting for a game only she understood.

That unsettled him far more than her words had.

Finally, Amon tore his gaze from her and faced the battlefield.

Whatever schemes the beast carried, they would have to wait. For now, his clan’s victory mattered more.

The sounds of battle crashed against his ears—steel clashing, goblins screaming, fire detonating in bursts that shook the ground.

He quickened his pace, staff gripped tight, anticipation curling hot and bitter in his gut. In his mind he already pictured the scene: Eli’s goblins cut down in heaps, their blood soaking the dirt, their resistance shattered beneath the numbers he had unleashed. That was what should be waiting for him.

But when he crested the rise and the fight came into view, he stopped dead. His breath hitched, his body locking in disbelief.

They weren’t dead.

They weren’t even faltering.

Eli’s goblins were still standing, their formation tight, their movements sharp with a discipline that should have been impossible. Worse still—much worse—they were winning.

His own forces, the ones he had driven forward with confidence, were being torn apart.

Dribb cut through them like an armored beast, Gobbo bulldozed entire lines aside, and the faster ones—Thok and Zonk—left trails of corpses in their wake. Above it all, fire and arrows rained down from Narg and Zarah, turning the battlefield into a killing ground where his goblins could not breathe.

Amon’s eyes widened, a chill crawling up his spine.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

This wasn’t what he had imagined at all.

His goblins were being butchered, roasted alive by flame and carved apart by steel, and the sight twisted his face into a deep scowl. It made no sense.

He remembered well what Eli’s clan had looked like before—weak, fumbling creatures, no different from the ones he had culled for experience.

The goblins of a Chosen’s starting clan weren’t supposed to be like this. They were fodder, a steppingstone for growth, barely more than tools to be sacrificed along the way.

So why did they now fight with such strength? Why did they move like trained warriors instead of frightened beasts?

Amon’s thoughts churned.

When a Chosen arrived in this world, they were thrust into the skin of a goblin, embedded in a clan, but the truth was simple: those clan goblins were almost always weak. Levelling yourself was already a steep climb—levelling an entire clan alongside you was nearly impossible.

That was why he had slaughtered his own when the chance came.

Each kill had been a steppingstone, free experience that propelled him forward.

The weak served no purpose other than to be consumed.

The only reason his current clan had survived at all was because their chief’s innate skill had been extraordinary—something unique enough to tilt the scales and justify keeping them alive. Without that, they would have been nothing more than another pile of corpses feeding his rise.

But now, watching Eli’s clan carve through his own, Amon felt the heavy weight of a new realization pressing in. Could Eli also be special? Another Chosen blessed with an innate skill strong enough to reshape even the weak around him?

Or worse—had Eli found others like himself, other Chosen, and bound them into his clan?

That would explain the strength, the discipline, the way his goblins fought as if drilled by something greater than instinct.

The thought gnawed at him, but he quickly shook it off.

He wasn’t a Chosen himself, so he couldn’t sense such things with certainty.

And that only made the truth more unsettling.

If Eli truly stood alone, then how, in Drugar’s name, had he cultivated such strength among what should have been nothing more than weaklings?

His eyes narrowed as he...