The Forgotten World

The scent of damp earth and charred wood clung to the wind, drifting lazily over the ruined outskirts of Eldrin's Hollow. A once-proud village, now little more than a collection of crumbling cottages and abandoned farmland, lay in the shadow of the ancient hills. The people here lived simple lives, clinging to what little remained of a world that had long

since lost its grandeur.

Dain Varrow stood at the edge of a sunken dirt path, a rusted pitchfork slung over his shoulder. He was a young man of twenty, lean

from years of toil, his dark hair tousled by the morning breeze. His clothes, a patchwork of worn leather and faded cloth, were threadbare from hard labor. There was no glory in Eldrin's Hollow, no heroes or grand warriors—only

farmers, fishers, and traders, all struggling to survive.

It hadn't always been this way.

There were whispers of a time when the world had been different. A time when magic thrived, when warriors wielded steel imbued

with power, and men could slay monsters with a mere flick of their wrist. But those stories belonged to another age. Whatever power had once graced this land was long gone, buried beneath centuries of decay.

The system—the lifeblood of the ancients—had been lost.

Now, all that remained were forgotten ruins, myths, and the dangers lurking beyond the village's borders.

Dain had never given much thought to such stories. They meant nothing to a man who spent his days repairing fences, tending

livestock, and hunting for scraps in the nearby woods. Life in Eldrin's Hollow was about survival, nothing more.

But today felt different.

A low hum filled the air, almost imperceptible, like the distant murmur of a storm yet to arrive. Dain furrowed his brow, glancing

toward the hills where the old watchtower stood. The structure had been abandoned for decades, its stone walls cracked and overgrown, but it still loomed over the village like a silent sentinel.

A shadow moved.

Dain tensed, gripping his pitchfork.

Something was out there.

The goblins had grown bolder in recent months, raiding farms and ambushing travelers along the main road. The village elders spoke of forming a militia, but what could untrained farmers do against such

creatures? They were small, yes—scarcely taller than a child—but their numbers

made them a threat.

And they were getting smarter.

Dain exhaled slowly, shifting his stance. He had no formal training, but years of hard labor had made him strong. If something was

watching him, he wouldn't go down without a fight.

A rustle of leaves. A snap of twigs.

Then—a flash of movement.

Dain barely had time to react before a goblin lunged from the underbrush, a jagged dagger in its clawed grip. He twisted, swinging

the pitchfork with all his might. The rusty prongs connected with the goblin's chest, sending it sprawling back into the dirt.

Another growl.

More shapes emerged from the trees—three, no, four goblins, their yellowed eyes gleaming with hunger. Their crude weapons dripped

with filth, their hunched bodies tense with predatory intent.

Dain swallowed hard. He had fought off a goblin before—once, maybe twice. But never this many.

He took a step back, his mind racing.

Run?

No. They were too fast.

Fight?

He had no choice.

The first goblin rushed him, shrieking as it swung a rusted hatchet. Dain dodged, barely avoiding the blow, and drove the pitchfork

forward. The prongs scraped against the goblin's shoulder, drawing a wet, gurgling snarl.

Pain—real, tangible pain.

Dain's heart pounded.

The goblin staggered but did not fall. It snarled, raising its weapon again.

Then, the others attacked.

A blade slashed across Dain's forearm, hot pain searing through his flesh. He gritted his teeth, swinging wildly, but they were

too many. Clawed hands grabbed at him, pulling, tearing. He lashed out, kicking

one goblin square in the chest, but the effort cost him precious seconds.

A dagger found its mark.

The world tilted.

Dain stumbled, his vision blurring as cold steel sank into his side. He gasped, his breath ragged, his strength fading.

No.

He couldn't die here.

Not like this.

A guttural laugh echoed around him as the goblins closed in. Their sharp teeth gleamed with savage delight. They had won.

Darkness crept at the edges of his vision.

But then—

A flicker.

A whisper.

A sensation unlike anything he had ever felt.

Something stirred deep within him, something

ancient, something lost.

Then, in the silence of his fading consciousness, a single message appeared before his eyes.

[System Rebooting…]

[Initializing…]

Dain's breath hitched.

He tried to move, but his body was failing him.

Blood pooled beneath him, the earth drinking in his warmth. The goblins chattered among themselves, unaware of the change unfolding within him.

A second message blinked into existence.

[System Online]

[User: Dain Varrow]

[Status: Critical

Condition]

[Emergency

Protocols Engaged]

A sudden surge of energy coursed through him.

Dain's eyes snapped open.

His vision sharpened. The pain dulled, pushed aside by something new—something powerful. His body, moments ago on the brink of death, responded to his will as if it had been reforged in the span of a heartbeat.

A notification appeared before him.

[Skill Unlocked:

Last Stand (Passive)]

 • When health drops below 10%, strength and speed temporarily increase by 50%.

 • Pain resistance activated.

A goblin lunged.

Dain moved before he even realized it. His pitchfork shot forward, piercing straight through the creature's throat. Blood sprayed,

and the goblin gurgled, its body convulsing before going still.

The others hesitated.

For the first time, they sensed something was wrong.

Dain's breathing was steady, his stance unwavering. He had no formal training. He had no experience as a warrior.

But something inside him had awakened.

And the goblins could feel it.

A second goblin rushed forward, but Dain sidestepped with unnatural speed, his weapon striking with precision he had never possessed before. The crude blade barely grazed him as he retaliated, driving the prongs

into the goblin's gut and twisting.

It screamed.

The remaining two hesitated.

Then, they ran.

Dain exhaled, his grip tightening on the bloodied pitchfork. His body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from something else.

Power.

He looked down at his hands.

The system… it was real.

And it had chosen him.

The world he had known—the world where men were weak, where survival was a struggle—had just changed.

For the first time in centuries, the system had

returned.

And Dain Varrow was its first wielder.