It had been about a year since I was reincarnated as a Goblin.
A year in this world seemed to be longer than on Earth—apparently around 400 days or so.
But since there was no such convenient thing as a calendar in the Goblin village, nobody really knew the exact dates.
That said, it was only on the outside. My mind hadn't really caught up.
I still could only understand fragments of the Goblins' conversations, and my physical abilities felt weaker than my appearance suggested.
Even so, there was no denying that my growth was far faster than a human's.
A human one-year-old would still be a baby, but in my case, I could walk around on my own.
I considered this a major advantage.
The first thing I did once I could move was look for any other former humans who might have found themselves in the same situation as me.
I didn't even know what had caused my death.
How I had died, why I had been reincarnated.
I didn't know. And precisely because I didn't, I thought there might be companions out there who shared my predicament.
But that was just a faint hope.
I went around groping at every young Goblin born around the same time as me in the village, and what I learned from the results was that there wasn't a single reincarnator like me in this village.
Well, it wasn't a completely wasted effort either.
I could barely hold a conversation with the young Goblins, but by running around the village, I learned all sorts of things.
That one year was about 400 days—that was something I'd learned from listening to the adult Goblins.
First, Goblins grow physically fast, but their intelligence develops slowly in proportion.
Young Goblins around my age were roughly the size of a human kindergartner, but inside they were little different from babies.
Not a single young Goblin could speak.
In the midst of that, even the fact that I could manage a few broken words apparently made the adult Goblins think of me as a genius.
Still, it wasn't exactly something that made me happy.
What was expected of Goblins was fighting ability—not so much brainpower.
Surprisingly, the Goblins of this world seemed to be a born-and-bred warrior race.
In my imagination, Goblins meant weak, stupid, and filthy—that was the image I'd had. But the Goblins here shattered every last one of those preconceptions.
Weak.
This wasn't entirely wrong.
Ordinary Goblins were weak and short-lived, and they supposedly died off quickly.
If they were just ordinary Goblins, that is.
This world apparently had the concept of Level.
And besides that, there were Skills and magic as well.
It was almost like a game, but apparently that was simply how the world worked here.
And Monsters that reached a certain Level could evolve.
Goblins were no exception to this.
From what I'd seen, the village had not only ordinary Goblins but also Hobgoblins, who were a size larger in build.
When a Goblin evolved into a Hobgoblin, its lifespan extended and its Strength increased.
The ordinary Goblins, both male and female, raised their Levels in order to evolve.
The only way to raise Levels was to defeat other Monsters.
And so, naturally, Goblins became a warrior race.
Because if they couldn't evolve, they couldn't survive long with their short lifespans and their weakness.
Next—the image of them being stupid.
This also wasn't entirely wrong.
Goblins were a warrior race, and they didn't have much interest in scholarship.
I was probably the smartest one in this village.
Probably—no, undoubtedly.
But that didn't mean they were simply stupid.
When it came to combat, they used refined tactics to fight, and they were thoroughly familiar with efficient hunting methods.
It was just that they never had the opportunity to learn. Their minds weren't particularly bad in and of anything.
If anything, with a kind of clarity reminiscent of ascetic monks who had achieved enlightenment, they carried a certain sacred air about them.
There was a sanctity there that could not be mocked with words like "stupid."
Filthy—that carried a double meaning.
The pure sense of being physically dirty, and the sense of being morally despicable.
My image of Goblins had been that they were weak and stupid, but cunning in their malice.
But the Goblins here were, if anything, the complete opposite.
They were warriors who carried noble pride in their hearts.
A Goblin's day began with prayer.
Gratitude for the world, gratitude for the Goddess who protected it, gratitude for the daily sustenance.
After offering those prayers, each set about their work.
Goblins who hadn't yet evolved honed themselves, while the evolved Hobgoblins devoted themselves to training the younger generation.
And then the hunting party, which had enough strength to go out, would set off from the village.
The village was located deep in a treacherous mountain range—a harsh environment teeming with dangerous, powerful Monsters.
Of the Goblins in the hunting party that departed, only about half made it back.
Even so, the Goblin village survived because of the Goblins' high reproductive rate.
This was the one thing that matched my image.
They welcomed back the returning Goblins and mourned the fallen.
And then, with gratitude for the food they had risked their lives to bring back, they offered prayers.
Goblins went to their deaths so the village could live.
Those who remained behind pressed preserved flowers into the hands of those departing.
As a charm.
Carried within was the wish: please come home safely.
With that wish in their hearts, they set off on their deadly journey—and returned.
To live.
To keep others living.
There was none of the righteousness or evil that I had obsessed over in my past life.
There was simply something that transcended it all.
Watching the Goblins set off, something welled up inside me.
Tears flowed without my realizing it.
Because there was something in their backs that was worth weeping for.