Vik adjusted his tie, the cheap polyester scraping against his neck—a daily reminder of all the compromises he had made in life. He was a cog in the relentless machine of Benevolent Insurance, a company whose name was nothing short of a cruel joke. His job wasn't about helping people; it was about denying claims, finding loopholes, and protecting the company's bottom line at the expense of desperate souls. He was good at it, too. But he hated himself for it.
Every rejection letter he stamped felt like another nail in the coffin of his own humanity, but one case in particular haunted him. A ten-year-old boy had come into the office, hands trembling as he clutched a stack of crumpled papers. His father was dying, and the surgery that could save him was just out of reach. Vik had seen desperation before, but this was different. The boy wasn't just pleading—he was breaking, his quiet dignity crumbling under the weight of despair.
The claim was denied, of course. Some obscure clause buried in the fine print had sealed the father's fate. Vik had stared at the rejection notice for an hour, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, wishing there was a way to change the outcome. But in the end, the company's interests came first.
That night, he couldn't sleep. The boy's face burned into his mind, his hollow eyes etched into Vik's conscience. He knew what he had to do. In a reckless act of defiance, he transferred the exact amount needed for the surgery into the boy's account—anonymously, of course. It was a desperate attempt to wash away the guilt, to remind himself that he wasn't entirely a monster.
He should have known it wouldn't be that simple.
A week later, Vik was summoned to Mr. Harding's office. The CEO of Benevolent Insurance was a man whose smile never reached his eyes, his presence thick with an aura of manufactured authority. The office reeked of expensive cologne and ruthless efficiency. Harding gestured to a chair, his fingers steepled as he regarded Vik like a scientist studying a lab rat.
"Viktor," Harding began, his voice as smooth as polished marble, "we've been investigating some… irregularities."
Vik's blood ran cold.
Harding leaned forward, his expression unreadable. "Someone, it seems, has taken it upon themselves to… supplement a denied claim. A generous soul, wouldn't you say?"
Vik swallowed hard, his mind racing. They had traced the transaction. Of course they had. Benevolent Insurance didn't lose money without finding someone to blame.
Then the real gut punch came.
The boy, the one Vik had tried to save, was ushered into the office. He looked smaller than before, his frame shrunken by stress and coercion. He refused to meet Vik's gaze. Harding's hand rested on the boy's shoulder, a mockery of reassurance.
"Tell Mr. Harding what we discussed," he prompted.
The boy hesitated, then muttered, "They… they said they'd pay for my father's surgery if I told them who gave the money."
A hollow numbness spread through Vik's chest. The company had used the boy's desperation against him. Of course they had. It was what they did best.
"Viktor," Harding said, his voice almost gentle, "you understand this is a breach of contract. A violation of company policy."
He was fired, of course. But that wasn't enough for Benevolent Insurance. They made sure he was blacklisted, ensuring no other firm would touch him. They froze his assets, drained his savings, left him with nothing. The world became smaller, darker. He found solace in cheap alcohol, then in stronger substances. Days blurred into nights, and nights into an endless fog of regret.
One night, lying in a grimy alleyway, his body ravaged by addiction, Vik felt the last remnants of life slipping away. The cold seeped into his bones, numbing the pain, the guilt, the failure. He exhaled a shuddering breath, staring at the indifferent sky above.
"If there's anything after this," he rasped, "I swear—I'll never be selfless again. I'll look out for myself and only myself. Never again will I risk anything for anyone."
Then, darkness.
He opened his eyes.
But this wasn't the pearly gates, nor the fiery pit he had half-expected. Instead, he was staring up at a rough, uneven thatched roof, dim candlelight flickering against the damp walls.
Something was wrong.
Panic clawed at his throat. He tried to move, but his limbs were small and clumsy, his muscles weak and uncoordinated. His breath came in ragged gasps as he forced himself upright. He looked down.
Tiny, green hands. Clawed fingers. Coarse, matted fur covering his arms.
He tried to scream, but only a guttural gurgling noise escaped his lips.
He was a baby.
A baby… goblin.
The hut was filled with them—dozens of tiny green bodies, mewling and kicking. The stench of mildew and unwashed goblins filled his nostrils. He felt a wave of revulsion and nausea. This was his new life?
He tried to form words, but his mouth refused to cooperate, his vocal cords producing nothing but meaningless clicks and grunts. Frustration swelled inside him.
Then, it appeared.
A translucent screen flickered into existence before his eyes, displaying a series of words and numbers.
STATUS
Name: N/A
Race: Goblin
Blessing: N/A
Level: 1
Exp: 0/100
Stats:
Strength: 1
Vitality: 1
Agility: 1
Magic: 0
Charm: -25
Skills:
Unique Skills:
Adaptive Mutation: Adapt from any situation.
Growth Mutation: Not limited by racial limitations.
Vik—or whatever his name was now—stared at the screen, his mind reeling. A goblin? Stats? Skills? It was like something out of a video game, a bizarre fantasy brought to life.
He focused on 'Adaptive Mutation.' Adapt from any situation. Was this his second chance? A twisted joke from some cosmic entity? And 'Growth Mutation'—not limited by racial limitations. What did that mean?
His eyes flicked to the 'Charm' stat. -25. He snorted—a guttural sound that startled the goblin next to him. Even in this new life, it seemed his inherent likability was… lacking.
But he had something the other goblins didn't. Memories. Experience. And a vow he had made with his dying breath.
He wouldn't be selfless. He wouldn't be a victim. He would use this new life, this grotesque new body, to his advantage. He would claw his way out of the filth and rise above the limitations of his race.
Vik, the insurance drone, was dead.
In his place stood something new—something selfish. Something cunning.
And the world, whatever it was, was about to learn just what that me