The forest at night was a symphony of death.
Grix huddled in a hollow tree trunk, listening to the sounds of predators hunting prey. Screams cut short. The crunch of bones. The wet tearing of flesh. Nature was brutal, efficient, merciless.
Not so different from goblin society, really.
His skeletal wolf stood guard at the entrance to his makeshift shelter, motionless and tireless. Unlike living creatures, the undead didn't need sleep, didn't need food, didn't get bored or distracted. They were perfect sentinels.
If only I had more of them.
Grix had spent the day exploring his immediate surroundings, mapping the area in his mind. The forest was vast, dense with ancient trees and thick undergrowth. He'd found a small stream for water and some edible mushrooms—his goblin instincts seemed to know which were safe.
But food was becoming a problem. His infant body needed nutrition to grow, and mushrooms wouldn't be enough. He needed meat.
As if summoned by his thoughts, a rabbit hopped into view near the stream. Young, plump, perfect.
Grix's stomach growled. In his past life, he'd bought meat pre-packaged from convenience stores. The idea of killing and eating something himself would have disgusted him.
Now? He was already calculating the best way to use his undead to hunt.
Kill it, he commanded the skeleton wolf through their mental link.
The undead predator moved with shocking speed, its bone claws silent on the forest floor. The rabbit didn't even have time to run before skeletal jaws clamped around its neck with a sickening crack.
The wolf brought the corpse to Grix, dropping it at his feet.
"Good," Grix muttered, picking up the dead rabbit.
He'd never skinned or cleaned an animal before, but his goblin instincts guided him. His claws made adequate tools. Within minutes, he had a crude fire going—another instinct, the knowledge of flint and tinder somehow embedded in his reincarnated mind—and rabbit meat roasting on a stick.
It tasted gamey, a bit tough, but it was the best meal he'd had since rebirth. Real protein. Real sustenance.
As he ate, Grix noticed something strange. The rabbit's corpse, stripped of meat, lay nearby. And he could feel it—that familiar tingle of death energy.
Could I raise something that small? Something I killed myself?
He placed his hand on the rabbit's remains and focused. The death echo was faint, weak, but present. He gathered his mana and pushed.
Rise.
The rabbit's skeleton assembled itself with tiny clicks. Its hollow eye sockets flickered with dim green light. It sat up, waiting for commands.
Grix grinned. "Scout ahead. Alert me if anything dangerous approaches."
The skeletal rabbit hopped away into the underbrush, surprisingly nimble despite being dead.
Two undead now. Still pathetically weak, but it's progress.
He could feel the drain on his mana—a constant, gentle pull. The wolf took more to maintain than the rabbit, but neither was overwhelming. He estimated he could maintain maybe three or four small undead before exhausting his reserves.
I need to increase my mana capacity. Need to grow stronger.
Grix closed his eyes and tried to sense the mana within himself. It felt like a pool of dark water deep in his core, slowly refilling after being depleted. When he focused on it, he could almost see it—a swirling mass of death energy that resonated with his necromantic powers.
In the light novels, people increased their mana through meditation and training. Maybe I can do the same.
He settled into a cross-legged position and focused on that internal pool, trying to draw ambient mana from the environment. At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, he felt something respond.
The forest was full of death. Every fallen leaf, every dead insect, every animal that had perished and returned to the earth—all of it leaked tiny amounts of death energy into the environment. It was everywhere, invisible to normal senses but crystal clear to Grix's necromantic awareness.
He drew it in, pull by tiny pull, letting it trickle into his core.
It was slow. Tedious. But it worked.
Hours passed. When Grix finally opened his eyes, dawn was breaking through the trees. His mana pool felt fuller, deeper. Not by much—maybe ten percent more capacity—but it was real growth.
So this is how I get stronger. Meditation. Training. Practice.
His skeletal rabbit returned, hopping up to him. Through their connection, Grix received impressions—images, sensations. The rabbit had scouted a wide area and found something interesting.
More bodies.
Grix followed the rabbit through the forest, his wolf guardian trailing behind. After twenty minutes of walking, they emerged into a small clearing.
Three goblin corpses lay scattered across the ground, partially eaten by scavengers. Grix recognized them—scouts from his tribe who'd been sent out before the adventurer attack. They must have run into something. Wolves, judging by the claw marks.
Perfect.
Grix approached the least damaged corpse. This goblin had been a hunter, skilled with a crude bow. His body was mostly intact except for the throat, which had been torn out.
Will you serve me better in death than you did in life?
Grix placed both hands on the corpse's chest and focused. This was becoming easier each time—the process more intuitive, the mana flow more natural.
Rise.
The goblin's eyes snapped open, glowing with green phosphorescence. Unlike Rok, this one didn't speak. The death was too recent, the degradation too severe. But the body stood, functional and obedient.
Can you still use a bow?
The zombie goblin picked up its weapon from the ground and tested the string. The movements were stiff, clumsy, but recognizable. Muscle memory partially intact.
Good enough.
Grix raised the other two corpses as well. Now he had a small warband—two zombie goblins, one skeletal wolf, one skeletal rabbit. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
And it was already straining his mana to the limit.
He could feel it—the constant drain of maintaining four undead simultaneously. His mana was depleting faster than it regenerated. At this rate, he'd exhaust himself in a few hours.
I need to be strategic about this. Can't maintain a large army yet. Need to choose quality over quantity.
Grix released control of the skeletal rabbit, letting it return to true death. The relief was immediate—his mana drain decreased noticeably.
Three undead. That's my current limit for extended periods.
He needed to test their capabilities. "You," he pointed at one zombie goblin, "climb that tree."
The undead obeyed, scrambling up the trunk with jerky movements. It was slower than a living goblin would be, but functional.
"You," he pointed at the other, "attack that tree with your bow."
The zombie nocked an arrow and shot. The aim was terrible, missing the trunk by several feet. But it could shoot.
They retain some skills but lose precision and intelligence. The fresher the corpse, the better they function.
This was valuable information. If he wanted skilled undead servants, he needed to raise them quickly after death, before decomposition set in too much.
A thought occurred to him. What if I killed something specifically to raise it? Hunted strong creatures and turned them into undead while they were fresh?
It was a predatory thought, calculating and cold. But Grix didn't shy away from it. This was survival. This was power.
A distant howl echoed through the forest. Wolves. A pack, by the sound of it.
The same wolves that had killed these goblins, probably.
Grix smiled darkly. "Time to hunt the hunters."
He sent his skeletal wolf ahead as a scout, using their connection to see through its empty eye sockets. The undead predator moved silently through the undergrowth, tracking the source of the howls.
There—a pack of five wolves gathered around a fresh kill. A deer, still warm. The wolves were feeding, distracted.
Perfect ambush opportunity.
Grix positioned his forces. The skeletal wolf would attack from the front, drawing attention. His two zombie goblins would flank from the sides. And he would stay back, controlling the battle from a safe distance.
Attack.
The skeleton wolf charged into the clearing with a soundless snarl. The living wolves looked up in confusion, then alarm. Their prey was attacking them?
One wolf lunged at the skeleton, powerful jaws clamping onto bone. It bit down hard—and immediately yelped in pain as its teeth shattered against the magically reinforced skeleton.
The zombie goblins emerged from cover, stabbing with crude spears. One wolf went down with a spear through its ribs. Another turned to flee but the skeletal wolf pounced, bone claws tearing through fur and flesh.
It was chaos. Brutal and bloody.
Two wolves broke from the pack and ran. Grix let them go. Three dead wolves was enough.
He approached the corpses, already feeling that familiar tingle. So much potential. So much power waiting to be claimed.
But I can only maintain three undead. I need to choose wisely.
Grix released his two zombie goblins, their bodies collapsing as the animating force left them. Then he focused on the largest wolf corpse—an alpha male, massive and powerful even in death.
Rise.
The wolf's body jerked and twisted as dark energy flooded into it. Unlike the skeleton he'd raised before, this was a fresh corpse. Flesh and muscle still intact. When the wolf stood, it looked almost alive except for the unnatural green glow in its eyes and the complete stillness of its chest.
This zombie wolf was bigger than the skeleton, stronger, with flesh to absorb damage and jaws that could actually bite.
Grix raised a second wolf, then hesitated over the third.
I'm at my limit. Two wolves is all I can maintain with my current mana.
He left the third corpse for now. The forest would reclaim it eventually, but for the moment, it would serve as a backup if one of his current undead was destroyed.
Grix looked at his small undead pack—one skeletal wolf, one zombie wolf. Both powerful predators even in death.
This is just the beginning. When I can raise dozens, hundreds, thousands...
He shook his head. One step at a time. First, survive. Then grow. Then conquer.
A sound made him freeze. Footsteps. Heavy. Human.
Through the trees, Grix caught a glimpse of armor. Adventurers.
The same party from before?
He couldn't tell from this distance, but it didn't matter. Any adventurer was a threat to a lone goblin.
Hide. Now.
Grix and his undead wolves melted into the undergrowth, becoming as invisible as possible. Through his skeletal wolf's vision, he watched as two figures emerged into the clearing.
It was them. Kain the knight and the rogue woman.
"Wolf tracks lead here," the rogue said, kneeling to examine the ground. "And these bodies are fresh."
"Something killed three wolves," Kain observed. "Recently."
"Could be a larger predator. Bear, maybe?"
"Maybe." Kain didn't sound convinced. He looked around the clearing, his hand on his sword hilt. "Or maybe it's that goblin with the necromancy."
Grix's blood ran cold.
"You think a goblin youngling could kill three wolves?"
"With undead servants? Possibly." Kain walked to one of the wolf corpses, examining it. "Look at these wounds. Precise. Coordinated. Not like a bear attack."
The rogue stood, drawing her daggers. "So we're hunting a necromancer goblin now? That's a first."
"Rare doesn't mean impossible. And if it's true, we need to kill it before it gets stronger. Young necromancers are manageable. Adult ones are disasters."
They're hunting me specifically, Grix realized with growing dread. This isn't just about clearing monsters. They see me as a threat.
"Spread out. Look for tracks. It can't have gone far," Kain ordered.
The two adventurers began searching the clearing methodically.
Grix made a decision. If they find me, I'm dead. I need to leave. Now.
He retreated as silently as possible, his wolves following. Every snapped twig made him flinch. Every rustle of leaves felt like a scream announcing his position.
"Over here! Small tracks!" the rogue called out.
Shit.
Grix abandoned stealth for speed, running through the forest as fast as his small legs could carry him. Behind him, he heard the adventurers give chase.
"There! I saw it!" Kain shouted.
An arrow whistled past—the archer had joined them. Grix zigzagged between trees, using his small size to navigate obstacles the larger humans had to go around.
I can't outrun them. They're too fast, too experienced.
Through his connection, Grix felt his zombie wolf's predatory instincts.
They want to protect me. They're loyal unto death—or beyond it.
An idea formed. Desperate. Costly. But necessary.
Both of you. Attack. Buy me time.
The two wolves wheeled around and charged back toward the pursuing adventurers. Grix kept running, tears streaming down his face from exertion and frustration.
Behind him, he heard shouts of surprise, then combat. Through the fading connections, he felt his wolves fighting—biting, clawing, dying again.
The skeletal wolf's connection severed first, its bones shattered by Kain's sword.
The zombie wolf lasted longer, its flesh absorbing several strikes before the rogue's daggers found its skull.
Then both connections went dark.
Grix didn't stop running. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs gave out. Ran until the sounds of pursuit faded completely. Ran until he collapsed in exhaustion beside a different stream in a different part of the forest.
He lay there, gasping, alone again.
I lost them. Both of them.
The rational part of his mind knew they were just tools, easily replaced. But the emotional part—the part that was still human despite everything—grieved for his loyal servants.
They died protecting me. Even though they were already dead, they died again for me.
Grix stared up at the canopy above, watching leaves sway in the breeze.
I'm still too weak. Still running. Still barely surviving.
But he was alive. And as long as he was alive, he could grow stronger.
Next time, he vowed, I won't be the one running.