Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

”Making garments and armors,” she said, her voice trembling but steady enough to sound truthful.

Armor? That word alone caught my attention. I tilted my head slightly, the corner of my mouth tightening with interest. ”You can make armor?”

”Not make exactly,” she replied quickly, her hands fidgeting at her sides. ”I can modify already crafted armor—reinforce its structure, enhance its durability, and make it easier for the wearer to move in. I can even adjust the fit so it feels like a second skin.”

There was no boast in her tone, just a quiet practicality, the kind that came from someone who had done this often.

”Is that what Threadbare does?” I asked, keeping my gaze fixed on her.

”Yes,” she said after a pause, ”and more.”

That last part lingered in the air like bait. I could feel the intrigue stirring in my chest. More? Just how deep did her ability go?

My eyes drifted over her again, slower this time. For a goblin, she had fine, steady hands—hands that had probably worked over fabric and metal alike, weaving mana into every stitch. The kind of skill that could turn the tide of a battle, given the right resources.

I couldn’t hide the faint glint of greed that crept into my eyes. ”You,” I murmured, almost to myself, ”your skills are rather useful.”

She must have seen something shift in my expression, because her breath quickened, and she instinctively raised her hands in front of her as if to ward off what she thought was coming next. ”Please,” she said hurriedly, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. ”Don’t hurt me. I—I can help. I’ll do whatever you want. Just... don’t hurt me.”

”Please—don’t kill me,” Talia said, her voice trembling, every word spilling out in panic. ”If you want me to work for you, I will. I’ll do anything you ask, I swear.”

Her desperation hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. I could see it in her eyes—the terror of someone who’d seen enough death to know exactly what came next if she said the wrong thing.

But before I could answer, a sharp, dragging voice rose from behind her.

”You... wench,” it croaked, weak but venomous. ”You would betray the chief?”

I turned toward the sound. Zivra—the chief’s daughter—was awake. She was propped halfway up on one elbow, her breathing shallow, blood staining her chin. Even in that fragile state, her glare burned with rage.

”Zivra,” Talia said quietly.

Her eyes locked on mine, and I saw it—the same flicker of energy I’d felt before the first attack. The faint distortion of air around her pupils, the tremor in her jaw as she tried to summon that cursed ability again.

She was about to use Mindbreaker.

I didn’t wait. My hand instinctively dropped to take out Gravefang’s from my inventory, every nerve in my body tightening.

I was ready to warp.

Ready to end her before she could unleash it again.

I couldn’t give less of a shit about who’s kid she was.

Her skill had slipped past [Fractured Existence] once, something no ordinary skill was capable of.

Meaning, there was no way to defend against it.

She...was a threat to my life.

But before I could move, she faltered.

Her body seized violently, muscles locking as she let out a strangled gasp.

Blood streamed from her nose, thick and dark, followed by a thin trickle from her ears.

Her mana flickered—then died.

And the light in her eyes dimmed as she collapsed, face-first onto the ground.

”Eeeh...” I muttered confusedly.

What just happened?

I straightened slowly, hand still hovering above my weapon, the tension in my muscles refusing to fade.

One of the younglings—the same one who had first charged at me in that foolish burst of bravery—hurried towards Zivra, his small hands shaking as he tried to lift her head.

He kept whispering her name over and over again, his voice breaking each time she failed to respond.

But not one that stirred much sympathy in me.

Talia broke the silence first.

Her voice was quieter now, but there was a strange steadiness in it, as if she’d decided that honesty was her only form of defense.

”She hasn’t mastered the skill yet,” she said, glancing toward Zivra. ”She can only use it once a day. It takes a lot out of her.”

She offered the explanation freely, without being asked, as though hoping that volunteering information might buy her a few breaths of mercy.

Useful information, admittedly.

If what she said was true, then Mindbreaker wasn’t just powerful—it was volatile. The kind of ability that could destroy its wielder if pushed too far.

Still, the fact that it could bypass [Fractured Existence] made my stomach tighten. A weapon that touched the mind directly—that wasn’t something I could afford to ignore.

But how was I supposed to know she was telling the truth?

For all I knew, she could have been lying—feeding me convenient truths to lower my guard, to make me hesitate, only to be caught by the young goblins’ trick.

My eyes narrowed as I turned toward her, suspicion sharpening the edges of my voice before I even spoke.

She noticed immediately.

Her shoulders stiffened, and a small flinch betrayed the calm front she tried to maintain.

”I could prove useful to you, Eli,” she said quickly, her tone slipping somewhere between pleading and persuasion. ”You don’t have to kill me for my skills. I’ll work for you instead.”

Work for me?

The idea lingered in my mind, half-tempting, half-concerning. If she truly possessed the ability to modify and enhance armor, she could be valuable—an asset that could make a difference in the field.

But that wasn’t what bothered me.

What did was the fact that she had already been working for the clan’s chief.

And that could only mean one thing.

She might be bound by an oath.

If breaking it would cost her life, then she would do anything to keep it.

I frowned slightly:

”An oath,” I said aloud. ”Are you under any?”

Her...