I muttered as I took a sip from the coffee cup clutched in my frail hands. The taste was awful—almost as bad as my life right now.
I raised my head, eyes scanning the people scattered across the park. Couples on benches. Joggers in tracksuits. Kids chasing each other in circles. Everyone looked like they were actually enjoying life.
A cold wind swept through the air, and I instinctively pulled my hospital gown tighter around me, shivering. My bones ached from the chill, and not just from the cold.
I took another sip of the coffee and exhaled slowly.
This would probably be the last time I ever got to drink coffee. Or see this view. Or breathe this kind of air.
Because I only had a few days left to live.
Stage four brain cancer.
Glioblastoma multiforme... or was it multivax? Multi-what? Honestly, I didn’t care enough to remember. The fact that I even recalled the first word felt like a miracle.
The doctors said it could be any day now. Just days until I left this world.
I looked around again, and it all felt surreal.
In such a short time, I’d be gone. And, truthfully, I didn’t know what to feel.
Scared? Angry? Relieved? Maybe a bit of all three.
There wasn’t a single emotion I could hold onto. It was all just noise—like a storm raging inside me. A storm I couldn’t escape.
Maybe that’s because I’d already lost my sense of attachment to this world.
No. I couldn’t even call them that anymore. Strangers, maybe. Acquaintances with matching DNA.
They ditched me the second the bills started stacking. Said my treatment was too expensive. Washed their hands clean of me like I was some failed experiment.
No calls. No visits. Not even a text to ask if I was okay.
They were probably relieved. One less burden.
I clenched my fists, the anger bubbling up, but even that emotion felt distant. Too heavy to carry now. I was too tired.
Do I resent them? Of course I do.
I could understand if they couldn’t afford the bills. But what I couldn’t understand was why they had to cut me off completely. Like I never existed.
My eyes welled up, but I swallowed it down and planted my feet firmly, grounding myself. I couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.
It didn’t matter anymore. Death was inevitable.
The wind brushed against my face, but it didn’t feel the way it used to. It no longer felt refreshing. It felt cold. Hollow. Like the world itself was pushing me out.
My immune system had tanked weeks ago. Every breeze felt like a winter storm.
I looked around again, trying to soak it all in—the trees alive with color, leaves dancing in the wind; the sky, painted in a perfect shade of blue; children racing by, their laughter echoing like music I’d never hear again.
It should’ve felt beautiful. Fulfilling.
But instead, it made me feel bitter.
I squeezed the coffee cup tighter, the paper creaking beneath my grip. My knuckles turned white. My breathing grew uneven.
I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
I had tried to be calm. To act like none of it mattered. But I couldn’t pretend anymore.
So I yelled—raw, broken, desperate:
"Why? Why did I have to be so unlucky? Why me? Why do I have to die —with so much I haven’t even done?! What did I do to deserve this?!"
A few heads turned. I didn’t care.
Overwhelmed, I lowered my head. The tears broke through, unstoppable now, streaming down my face.
I wanted to ask a pretty girl out.
Hell, I wanted to see the end of One Piece.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
The tears wouldn’t stop.
I knew nobody could change my situation. But some part of me hoped—desperately—that someone, somewhere, might hear me.
A sharp scream tore through the air.
My head snapped up, heart stuttering.
I blinked away the tears and looked around for the source.
A truck. An emergency truck. Barreling through the park at full speed. Its wheels tore up the grass, swerving violently left and right like it had lost control.
Was the driver drunk? Asleep? Having a seizure?
It was headed straight for me.
Panic gripped my chest. My heart pounded against my ribs.
"No... no, no, no..."
I couldn’t believe it. Of all the ways to die, this?
I wasn’t going to die . Not today. Not .
I tried to push myself off the bench, fighting the weakness in my limbs.
A white-hot bolt of pain slammed through my skull like a sledgehammer.
I gasped, clutching my head. My vision blurred. My body froze in place.
No. Not now. Please—not now.
I forced my eyes open. The world was moving in slow motion. The truck was still coming. Faster. Closer.
Was this really how it ended?
I closed my eyes, letting the cold sweat mix with my tears.
But it seemed like the world hated me.
Maybe... maybe I’d get another shot in the next life.
I’d watched too much porn for that. Let’s be real.
But in the face of death, all those thoughts felt meaningless.
I clenched my teeth and braced myself.
No pain. No shattering bones. No screaming.
Endless black, like floating in space.
Then I heard it—a voice.
Deep. Resonant. Like Gandalf crossed with Morgan Freeman.
Kind of epic, really.
"You have been given a chance to start a new life in another world as a goblin."
Of all the things I expected to hear after death, that wasn’t on the list.
Not a hero? Not a knight? Not even a farmer?
Who the hell was speaking? God? Satan? Jeff Bezos?
"What the hell is going on?" I asked aloud.
"You have been given a chance to start a new life in another world as a goblin. Do you accept?"
That wasn’t an answer.
"You have been given a chance to start a new life in another world as a goblin. Do you accept?"
"You have been given a chance to start a new life in another world as a goblin. Do you accept?"
"You have been given a chance to start a new life in another world as a goblin. Do you acc—"
"Screw you, Gandalf!" I snapped, frustrated.
The voice was like a damn NPC stuck in a dialogue loop.
I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.
Wherever this was, it wasn’t heaven or hell. It didn’t feel like a dream, but it sure didn’t feel real either.
Could life have been a simulation? Was death the logout button?
Maybe I had finally cracked the code to the biggest question in existence.
Or maybe I was just going crazy.
Either way, the only consistent info I had was that I’d been given another shot at life.
But... I wasn’t in a position to be picky, was I?
Goblins were cannon fodder in every fantasy story.
The first things heroes slaughter for XP.
But what if I didn’t have to be cannon fodder?
What if I was the exception?
I paused. Just for a second.
And then I made my decision.
If there was one thing dying taught me, it was this: time is precious.
Use it wisely—or it runs out.
Oh wow. I just said "previous life" like it was nothing. Look at me—already adapting.
So yeah. If this was my second chance, no matter how ridiculous it looked, I’d take it.
Anything was better than rotting in a hospital bed.
And if goblins were supposed to be weak...
Then I’d be the goblin who wasn’t.