Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

So why… why was I hesitating?

I let out a slow, steady sigh, lowering my blade by degrees rather than forcing the strike. If my danger sense was telling me not to finish the fox, then I'd be a fool to ignore it.

That skill had dragged me back from the brink more times than I cared to count—too many close calls, too many moments where survival came down to trusting it without question. This was not the moment to start second-guessing its warnings.

My gaze stayed locked on the fox. It coughed weakly, the sound wet and rattling, a spatter of blood staining the ground beneath its muzzle.

Aigoo… it didn't look like it had much time left. Every tremor running through its body seemed smaller than the last, every breath a little shallower, like the light inside it was flickering out grain by grain.

Killing it would have been mercy. Quick. Clean. A far kinder end than letting it bleed out on cold dirt.

But for reasons I couldn't quite explain—not to myself, not even in my own head—I couldn't bring myself to deliver that mercy.

So I turned away.

One step. Then another. My boots crunched over leaves and twigs, carrying me further from the pitiful bundle of fur and ember-ash heat. I told myself it was for the best, that I was leaving a dying animal to its fate because my instincts demanded it. I told myself a lot of things.

And then—

A voice.

Clear as thought, sharp as a blade, and yet impossibly alien.

Help!

I froze mid-step, the sound—or whatever it was—still echoing inside my skull. Slowly, I turned back toward the fox, my eyes narrowing.

What was that? A voice?

Help?

There it was again. The same word, carrying the same desperate weight, but the fox's mouth hadn't moved. No twitch of the lips, no sound in the air. The voice hadn't come from outside—it had bloomed directly inside my head.

It wasn't speaking.

It was… something else.

Telepathy? The thought felt absurd, but the evidence was right there in front of me, lying half-broken in the dirt.

Help me?

The words came again, fragile yet insistent, like a thread pulled taut and refusing to snap.

I found myself moving toward it, slow, deliberate steps carrying me back across the blood-smeared ground. My gaze stayed locked on its eyes, watching for any shift, any sign that this was some trick of adrenaline or imagination.

"What are you?" I asked quietly, my voice low and edged with suspicion. My brow furrowed deeper as if narrowing my eyes could force the truth out of it.

Help.

Just that. The same word, repeated without inflection, yet somehow still carrying the raw ache of desperation.

I should have turned away. I should have ignored it and let the world finish what the badger had started. That would have been the smart choice. The safe choice.

But there was something… wrong about walking away. Not in the moral sense—morality didn't keep you alive out here. No, this was different. It was the same prickling unease I'd felt before lowering my blade. The same warning hum in my chest that told me there was more to this moment than what I could see.

And now, standing here with its unblinking gaze fixed on mine, I couldn't shake the feeling that letting the fox die would be a mistake—one that might cost me far more than I understood.

I let out a long, tired sigh, rubbing a thumb against the hilt of my blade.

"Haven't I done enough already? I didn't kill you, did I? Why are you asking for more…?"

Help!

The word slammed into my mind again, sharp and insistent, almost like it had been hurled rather than spoken.

I frowned.

"Is that the only word you know?"

Help!

Same tone, same urgency, as if repetition alone could wear me down.

Where are your manners? Saying please might convince me.

No...no...it might only freak me out.

Help!

"Okay… okay," I muttered under my breath, exhaling slowly.

The truth was, I had no real reason to help it. I'd spared its life—that was already more mercy than most creatures out here would ever get. But as I stood there, watching it struggle to breathe, something about it refused to let me walk away.

The air around it shimmered faintly, tiny flickers of heat-light curling off its fur like embers riding an invisible breeze. The effect was subtle but constant, and it made the space around it feel… alive, charged in a way that prickled against my skin.

This wasn't just another forest predator. Whatever the Ember Fox was, it carried something with it—something rare, maybe even dangerous.

But in the end, that didn't change one crucial fact.

It was still a beast.

And beasts, no matter how intelligent they seemed, had instincts you couldn't bargain with. If I tried to save it, there was every chance it would turn on me the moment it could stand.

Help!

The word hit me again, buzzing through my skull like a fly I couldn't swat.

I rubbed at the side of my head and muttered:

"Promise me you won't harm me."

Help.

I blinked. "Was that a yes… or a no?"

Help.

I dragged in another breath, letting it out through my teeth in a long, weary sigh.

"Fine. Let's just get this over with so I can move on."

Reluctantly, I reached into my inventory and pulled out the recovery potion I'd earned from clearing the daily quest—a small glass vial glowing faintly in the moonlight, the liquid inside swirling like liquid amber. My knees bent as I crouched toward the fox, keeping my movements measured and slow.

Every instinct in me screamed that I was going to regret this.

This potion was valuable—something I could've stashed away for the day I found myself bleeding out on some dungeon floor with no way out. And here I was, about to burn it on a creature I barely understood, simply because my gut refused to let me walk away.

Yeah. Stupid.

That's what this was.

But in the end, I chose to trust my instincts.

I slid my arms under...