A small goblin played with a rusty dagger in his hand, spinning it with deliberate clumsiness.
That goblin was César.
He had already spent seven days in this new and cruel world.
During that time, he had been thinking about what to do next. He couldn't continue like this. If he wanted to secure his footing in this world, he needed more than personal strength… he needed subordinates. Warriors. Structure.
And so he reached a clear conclusion:
He had to become the leader of the tribe.
Only then could he freely plan for the future.
Which meant there was only one thing left to do.
"I'll have to kill my so-called father in this life…" he muttered quietly.
The goblin chief.
With the help of the goblins he had already brought to his side, he initially believed it wouldn't be difficult.
But then he discovered the truth.
A cruel truth.
His father was not a mere tribal leader.
He was a true Goblin King.
In the novel, the birth of a Goblin King was described as an almost mythical event—something that could occur, at most, once every hundred years.
The world he now lived in was called Akalán. Unlike other magical worlds, devilhuman races—such as goblins—did not evolve into superior forms. There were no elite variants, no ascending bloodlines, no glorious mutations.
So then…
What made a Goblin King different?
The answer was simple.
An innate ability granted to a specific goblin once every hundred years:
Lust Smoke.
An exclusive trait of the goblin race.
It allowed the Goblin King to exhale a thick, sweet, pink mist capable of affecting any woman who came into contact with it. Reason weakened. Will eroded. Over time, dependence became nearly absolute.
No resistance.
No exceptions.
"Tsk… what a pain," César muttered, stabbing the dagger into the ground in irritation.
The appearance of a Goblin King always led to the same outcome. The goblins idolized him. To them, his existence meant abundance, guaranteed offspring, and tribal prosperity.
They knelt without question.
They crowned him king.
"I should have guessed…" he added, narrowing his eyes.
He remembered the moment of his birth. His mother had been far too calm. She hadn't struggled. She hadn't screamed.
Too serene for someone in her position.
It didn't take a genius to understand.
She had already been under the effect of the smoke.
Even so, a smile slowly spread across his green face.
"But it's not all bad news…"
His grin widened.
"The existence of a Goblin King means the main plot hasn't started yet. Damn… that means I reincarnated years before the real story begins."
It was an immeasurable advantage.
During these days, with the help of his subordinates, he had managed to ambush and neutralize several adult goblins. Using his mental compulsion ability on them while they were unconscious, he turned them into useful pieces.
And from them, he obtained crucial information.
They knew nothing about humans.
Which could only mean one thing.
"They haven't reached this continent yet."
A satisfied smile formed on his grotesque face.
He had room to maneuver.
Plenty of it.
There was another important detail he had noticed.
Neither he nor the other goblins possessed a structured power system.
"The absence of monster crystals confirms my suspicions…"
Akalán was composed of seven continents and housed countless species. As in any fantasy world, there were so-called gods of good and gods of evil.
Though in truth, that distinction meant nothing.
There were only victors and losers.
The gods cultivated power through faith—a resource inaccessible to mortals. That led to a divine war. The victorious faction gained the right to freely spread its faith across the world.
The defeated were exiled.
Worshiping them became heresy.
And heresy was punishable by death.
Currently, the continents remained isolated by direct divine intervention. But that barrier would not last forever.
On the continent of Muxuu, where humans coexisted with a race known as barbarians, humans began discovering—through "divine guidance"—the existence of the other six continents.
With each discovery, their power grew.
And with it… their greed.
Wherever they set foot, they exploited the natives.
The reason was simple.
The gods favored humans.
In the original novel, it was explained that human faith was purer. More intense. Of higher quality.
When humans reached the continent of Halvmen—César's current home—a massacre followed.
The devilhuman races still lived in a primitive era regarding mana usage. They did not cultivate it. They allowed it to grow naturally within their bodies and relied almost entirely on racial abilities.
The outcome was inevitable.
Humans won.
And when the devilhuman races stood on the brink of extinction, an evil god descended, feigning compassion, and granted them a new cultivation method:
Monster Crystals.
They allowed rapid growth in strength without much effort. Initially, their growth even surpassed that of humans.
It seemed like a miracle.
It wasn't.
The crystals had an absurdly low growth limit. Once a bottleneck was reached, one could no longer grow normally. To grow stronger, one had to devour the crystals of others.
A closed system.
Voracious.
Doomed from its inception.
Worse still, humans eventually discovered how to refine those crystals into pills, massively amplifying their power depending on the crystal's rank.
The supposed gift of an evil god ended up benefiting humans once again.
Why?
Because in the end, all gods—regardless of alignment—preferred human faith.
And the stronger humans became, the higher the quality of the faith they offered.
César stroked his chin.
"Another reason to save my dear mother…"
She was not human. She had to be a lycanthrope. And as far as he remembered, aside from the dark elves, hers was the only race on Halvmen that understood the true mana core cultivation system.
His smile was calm.
But his eyes…
They were the eyes of someone who already knew how the story ended.
And he was determined to rewrite it.