Goblin Slayer sat motionless in the shadowed confines of the inquisitor's office— a heavy tension draping the room like a suffocating fog. The dim light from the brass lamps on the walls barely reached the corners of the room— casting long, dark shadows over the inquisitor's polished mahogany desk.
The faint hum of jazz music played from an old gramophone in the background— a haunting counterpoint to the growing unease within the teen's heart.
Across from him, the inquisitor reclined in his chair, the hood of his cloak shrouding most of his face, leaving only a thin-lipped smile visible. His smile, twisted with something akin to sadistic pleasure, gleamed faintly as he held up an ancient tome bound in cracking leather— the village records of Riverwood, Goblin Slayer's home.
His fingers glided over the pages with an almost reverent touch as though the very weight of the past, soaked in pain and loss, was something to be savored.
"Ah," the inquisitor sighed, his voice smooth and richly layered, like the insidious whisper of a serpent. "Your sister, Vivine Ashta. According to this account, had hair as dark as walnut and eyes of the deepest brown. Yet, here you are— gray of hair and red of eye. Most peculiar, wouldn't you agree?"
Goblin Slayer's fists tightened in his lap, his knuckles white beneath the gauntlets. Yet, he said nothing.
The inquisitor's smile widened, slow and deliberate, as though savoring each passing second of silence. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a more intimate, conspiratorial tone. "Tell me, boy. Did it never strike you as strange that you looked nothing like her? That, perhaps, your very existence was an anomaly in her world? More than likely, you were adopted. A stray, taken in by an unfortunate soul tethered to you by circumstance, not blood."
Goblin Slayer's eyes flickered, but still, he remained silent. His breath was shallow, his mind racing, yet outwardly, he clung to the silence like a shield.
The inquisitor leaned back again, folding his hands over his chest, his posture one of supreme arrogance. "But let us, for the sake of argument, entertain this notion of "family" you so desperately cling to. What is family, if not a reflection of one's desires? You claim she was your sister... your kin, but is she not, in truth, nothing more than a construct? An ideal—an embodiment of your need for absolution, a saintly figure onto whom you project your guilt and grief?"
The words cut deep, like invisible blades, chipping away at the walls Goblin Slayer had built over years of suffering. His silence began to falter.
"And yet, if this imagined bond were as unbreakable as you claim, why, I wonder, do the records tell a different story? They speak of her, yes, but not with the affection you cling to. No, they speak of her weariness. Her resentment. Do you know what such things do to a person?" His voice softened, almost tender, but with a cruel edge that sent a shiver down Goblin Slayer's spine.
"What a heavy burden you must have been. Did she ever tell you that? How you shackled her to a life she never wanted?"
"Y-You're not my brother…! N-Not anymore, you're not…!"
Goblin Slayer's breathing grew heavier, his fists trembling. The inquisitor had finally struck at something raw, something buried deep within.
"You waste my time," Goblin Slayer finally snapped, his voice strained— the words almost a growl. "This has nothing to do with a background check."
The inquisitor's eyes gleamed with triumph behind the hood, sensing victory close at hand. "On the contrary," he said smoothly, "it has everything to do with it. You see, the Empire requires stability in those it allows entry. A man broken by the weight of his past... a man whose mind fractures under the pressure of reality... is a danger, a risk. I must be sure you are not a threat to the public."
""High-risk liability"— that's the reason why the guild can't have someone like you be apart of us, Mr. Ashta…"
Goblin Slayer's eyes widened, his composure crumbling as the implication of the words sank in. His chest tightened, and a cold sweat broke out across his brow. The inquisitor had peeled back the final layer of defense, exposing the fragile core beneath.
"Ahh," the inquisitor cooed softly, his voice a velvet blade. "There it is. The truth—bare, raw, and trembling. You fear the past more than anything, don't you?"
The inquisitor's hand drifted to the side of the desk, pulling open a drawer with slow deliberation. From within, he withdrew a piece of parchment, worn and crumpled from many hands. He set it on the desk, then slid it toward Goblin Slayer with a slow, deliberate push.
"Does this look familiar?" The hooded man asked, with his tone rich with amusement.
The teen reluctantly glanced down, and his stomach twisted.
"… You… You need help, Mr. Ashta— more than you need to put that sword to good use."
It was his rejected application to the Adventurers' Guild.
"You see," the inquisitor continued, folding his hands again, "even the Guild, desperate as they are for fodder, deemed you unsuitable. They saw what I now see. And if the Guild had no confidence in you, what possible reason would the Empire have to trust you?"
Goblin Slayer's hands trembled in his lap, his gaze fixed on the paper. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a dull thud of despair.
The inquisitor's smile was razor-sharp now, his tone mockingly gentle. "But perhaps the Guild was wrong. Perhaps their test—outdated, flawed— failed to capture the depth of your true character. After all, their methods are crude, uninspired, wouldn't you agree?"
Goblin Slayer hesitated, his voice barely a whisper. "You... Really think so…?"
The inquisitor nodded, his expression one of false empathy. "Oh, certainly. I've read their psychological evaluations. Laughably antiquated. I can't imagine they'd be able to see beyond the surface."
For a moment, a flicker of hope ignited in Goblin Slayer's heart. But it was swiftly extinguished when the inquisitor's hand shot forward, releasing a pulse of energy— a ball of shimmering light that struck the teenager directly in the forehead.
His body tensed violently, his muscles seizing up as the world around him warped and blurred. His mind swam in chaos— the boundaries between past and present dissolving in an instant. His breath came in ragged gasps as the room spun out of focus, leaving only the inquisitor's smug face and the suffocating darkness of his own memories.
"W-What did you do to me…?!" Goblin Slayer's voice was strained, panic lacing his words.
The inquisitor said nothing at first— merely observing with cold amusement. Then, leaning forward ever so slightly, he whispered, "I am simply going to review your past. With you... As my witness."
The air between them shimmered, and Goblin Slayer's vision blurred as a cloud of shadow and light began to form.
Slowly, like a film reel unraveling, his memories projected onto the cloud, vivid and cruel. He had expected to be forced to relive that awful night— the night the goblins came— but instead, what he saw shook him to his core.
He saw himself as a young boy— six years old, fragile and small. His sister Vivine towered over him, her face twisted with fury, her eyes wild with frustration. She struck him again and again, her hand flying across his face, the blows heavy with pent-up rage. He cowered, trying to make himself as small as possible, his body trembling with fear as her words lashed out like knives.
"Why did they have to die?!"
"W-Why couldn't it have JUST been you?!"
The scene shifted, showing him as a slightly older child, around nine. This time, the memory was darker, more painful. Goblin Slayer stood frozen in the doorway of his sister's room, watching in horror as she sat on the edge of her bed, silently sobbing as she dragged a blade across her wrists.
"I HATE YOU!"
Blood trickled down her arms, pooling onto the sheets, her back turned to him, as though his presence meant nothing.
The inquisitor's voice slithered into the scene, his words dripping with venom. "You were never a source of comfort to her. You were her burden. Can you truly claim to love someone who despised the very sight of you?"
"I'VE ALWAYS HATED YOU!"
Goblin Slayer's breath came in ragged gasps as the memories twisted and morphed again. The final memory played before his eyes, and it shattered him completely.
Vivine was not defending herself against the goblins. No, her face was calm— too calm. She knelt over him, hiding him beneath the floorboards. And then, in one swift, fluid motion, she drew a knife across her throat.
"YOU WERE WHY THEY CAME FOR US!"
The sound of her blood gurgling in her throat, her body collapsing forward as life drained from her, was a noise that would forever haunt him.
The image of his sister's lifeless body, lying in a pool of her own blood, filled Goblin Slayer's mind as the haunting memory continued to play out before him, vivid and inescapable. He could hear the distant, guttural snarls of goblins as they poured into the room, their filthy hands pawing at Vivine's corpse.
"YOU'RE WHY I'M DEAD!"
Her body lay sprawled, motionless, as they desecrated her with horrifying ease— laughing as they tore away what little dignity remained in death. The sharp crackling of the floorboards, the rustle of her clothes, the stench of blood and rot— everything was seared into his mind, more real than any nightmare could ever be.
Goblin Slayer's young face, peering up through the narrow gap in the floorboards, was twisted in silent terror. His small body trembled uncontrollably beneath the crawl space as he pressed his hands against his ears— trying to block out the sounds of what was happening above him.
But no matter how tightly he pressed, no matter how much he wanted to close his eyes and vanish into the darkness, the horrific scene unfolded before him like a grotesque theater.
Vivine's final words echoed in his mind— the memory of her true, callused words she used as their final goodbye. Words that lacked any indication of love, or even hope.
"Goodnight, Ren."
The goblins, uncaring and ignorant of the young boy hidden beneath the floorboards, continued their vile work. Their laughter was shrill and cruel, mocking the finality of death.
And through it all, Goblin Slayer's young heart shattered. The safety he had once known, the bond he had cherished with his sister, had been a lie. Her death had not been a heroic last stand, but an act of surrender.
As the memory lingered, the inquisitor's voice seeped back into his awareness, smooth and cold. "Look at her," he said softly, almost tenderly, as though he were guiding Goblin Slayer through some macabre lesson. "Does this look like the actions of a saint? A martyr? No, this is the ultimate cowardice— an escape, leaving you behind as nothing more than a remnant of her suffering. She didn't die for you; she died because of you."
Goblin Slayer trembled violently, his body locking up as the memory played in vivid detail. The inquisitor's words were sharp and cutting, pressing deeper into his fractured psyche.
"And this..." The inquisitor said, gesturing toward the scene, "this is your truth. Not the noble sacrifice you've concocted in your mind to shield yourself from the unbearable reality. Your sister— your precious Vivine— was a child herself, broken by despair. She loathed giving her future up for you, and thus hated the weight of your existence. In the end, she chose death over saving the both of you."
The young boy, barely old enough to comprehend what was happening, curled into a tighter ball in the crawlspace. His fingers clutched at the floor— nails digging into the wood as silent tears streamed down his dirt-streaked face. He could feel every ounce of her abandonment, every word she'd hurled at him over the years. He had always been a burden to her. The truth, now laid bare, twisted inside him like a knife.
But as if that wasn't enough, the inquisitor leaned closer, his voice now an insidious whisper. "You've lived your entire life believing that you were somehow responsible for her death— that you needed to avenge her. But now, you see, it wasn't the goblins who killed her, Ashta; it was your existence that did that— long before those little monsters ever first stepped foot into Riverwood."
The inquisitor's voice grew quieter, more dangerous. "You didn't survive that night because of her sacrifice. No, you lived because she couldn't bear the burden of you any longer. She left you, Ashta. Left you to face the world, to face the goblins— alone."
The images shifted again, showing the goblins scattering after their desecration— leaving behind only a ruined body and a broken child. Goblin Slayer's young self remained hidden beneath the floorboards, trembling in the shadows. And there, in the silence that followed, as the goblins left the village in flames, the boy was truly alone.
In the memory, the young boy crawled out slowly from the crawlspace, his bare feet sticky with blood, his small hands trembling as they reached out toward his sister's lifeless form.
Her eyes were still open, staring blankly at the ceiling— her face forever frozen in an expression of finality. He stood over her, the reality of it all pressing down on his small, fragile shoulders.
He had no words, no tears left to shed, only the hollow ache of loss and confusion gnawing at his insides, as he reached down with small, trembling arms to embrace the only intact part of her massacred corpse: her severed head.
'She died for me.'
The weight of that thought had lived with him ever since, festering in the darkest corners of his mind, shaping him into the man he had become— the man who lived only to slay goblins, to rid the world of the creatures that had taken everything from him. But now, as the inquisitor's words echoed in his mind, a new thought took root, even more poisonous than the last.
'She didn't die for me. She died to escape me.'
Goblin Slayer's adult form, sitting in the inquisitor's office, trembled violently— his hands gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles were white.
His breathing was ragged, his vision blurred with tears he didn't want to acknowledge. He couldn't look at the memory any longer, but it played on, relentlessly, as though the inquisitor had seized control of his very mind.
"Tell me," the inquisitor whispered, his voice slithering through the air like a serpent, "do you still believe she was your savior? Your protector? Or has the truth finally sunk in?"
Goblin Slayer said nothing, unable to speak. His chest felt tight, as though a great weight was pressing down on him, suffocating him. He wanted to scream, to rage, to strike out at the man before him— but he was trapped, paralyzed by the flood of emotions surging through him.
The final memory began to fade, the image of Vivine's lifeless body slowly dissolving into mist. But the inquisitor wasn't finished.
"Ah, one more thing," he added with a mocking smile. "You see, I wasn't entirely truthful with you earlier." His tone grew lighter, almost cheerful, as if he were sharing some grand joke.
"I falsified the information of you always having gray hair, and those red eyes of yours. I'm afraid that's not quite accurate… According to the record, you used to have dark hair, with brown eyes. What you're experiencing is something known as "Canities subita," sometimes called "Marie Antoinette Syndrome"," The inquisitor's words dripped with amusement, as though explaining something trivial.
"It's a rare phenomenon— hair turning white from trauma, from prolonged stress. But it doesn't happen overnight, as the legends would have you believe. No, it's a slow, agonizing process. Your hair... It turned gray not from age or even genetics, but from fear. From despair. From living through the hell you brought upon yourself, and your sister— day after day."
He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over the teenager's ear. "Your sister's death... It didn't just mark the end of her life. It marked the death of your humanity. You are not the boy who survived a massacre. You're not even the boy who lost everything… You're just broken— your misery will one day end you, just like it did to your dear, precious Vivine."
Goblin Slayer's vision blurred as the final memory snapped back into place— the last, haunting image of his sister's body lying crumpled on the floor, her blood pooling around her. The goblins had left long ago, but the devastation remained.
The loss, the loneliness— it had become the core of who he was.
Trembling uncontrollably, the teen could no longer hold back the wave of emotion crashing through him. He grabbed his head with both hands— his fingers digging into his scalp as though trying to tear the memories from his mind.
The inquisitor leaned back, his smile wide and triumphant. "There it is," he whispered, watching as the fifteen year-old broke down before him. "The truth. You've always been alone, haven't you? Even when you had her, you were alone."
Goblin Slayer's breath came in ragged gasps as he shook his head, his voice a broken whisper. "N… N-No, that's not…! S-She wasn't…!"
But the inquisitor's laughter filled the room, drowning out any hope of denial. He leaned in one last time, his voice low and dripping with malice. "Your sister died like a coward, Ashta. She took her own life... Just to escape the fate your existence brought onto her…"
"… And quite frankly, from the looks of it… You'll inevitably die the same way as her: by your own hand."
The room was silent, save for the faint hum of machinery outside— a soft, metallic whirr that came from the steampunk structures scattered around the agricultural complex. The dark sky beyond the window glowed faintly, illuminated by the flickering of wind turbines— their spinning blades casting long, skeletal shadows against the glass.
Inside, the bedroom was a mix of rustic charm and mechanical elegance— vines clinging to iron pipes, gears embedded into wooden beams, and wall-mounted lamps with brass fittings that gave off a warm, golden light.
At Goblin Slayer's bedside, a glowing mechanical clock flickered softly— casting a dim green hue across the room.
The time read 3:00 a.m.
The teenager was sitting upright on the bed— his back pressed against the iron-wrought headrest, knees pulled tightly to his chest, and his face buried in his hands.
He wore only his black turtleneck, with the rest of him hidden beneath the blankets draped loosely around his legs. His breathing was heavy, though controlled, each inhale labored as if he was fighting to suppress the memories swirling through his mind.
'Die… I just want it to die… All of it… Just let it all die…'
On his lap rested his leather journal— its pages open, revealing erratic scribbles that mirrored his inner turmoil. The ink bled across the page in elegant yet unhinged patterns, as though an artist and a madman had collaborated. The first page was especially haunting, the script wild yet strangely beautiful— an intricate mess of thoughts, all compiled into one single message.
He stared at it, hands trembling as they hovered over the leather edges.
"You didn't survive that night because of her sacrifice. No, you lived because she couldn't bear the burden of you any longer. She left you, Ashta. Left you to face the world, to face the goblins, alone."
The inquisitor's words haunted him— left him questioning all that he had known about himself, and of his older sister.
'What I saw in there… Was any of that even real? Was I actually seeing through the truth of my past, or… Or was the intention of that bastard's spell? To confuse me, or even just to show me some sort of twisted interpretation of what I'm feeling? It could even be a manifestation of those nightmares I've been having…'
'… Or am I just lying to myself again?' He grimaced, as he reluctantly began addressing the possibility that had sent him spiraling earlier. 'What if… What if Vivine wasn't as kind as I remember her to be? What if what we had wasn't as I thought it was? What if… What if she really did resent me, for having to look after me instead of focusing on herself? If she didn't have to look at me, she could have left Riverwood…'
'… But does any of that even still matter?' He asked himself— bitter, cynical feelings seeping into his mind. But before the bitterness could take root, another voice— his own— responded immediately.
'Yes… Yes, it does. All of it matters— it always has.'
He squeezed his eyes shut, holding onto that thought— grounding himself in its truth. 'I… I can't continue pretending as though the pain doesn't exist. I have to take action before it grows unbearable.'
With that thought, something solidified within him. A fragment of stability in the chaos. Goblin Slayer took in a deep breath, his chest rising as his crimson eyes flicked to the other side of the room. High Elf Archer lay curled beneath her own blankets, her figure barely visible save for the faint outline of her face in the dim light. She was sleeping soundly, unaware of his internal struggle.
He looked at her for a long moment, a soft exhale slipping from his lips. His pain wasn't his alone anymore, not with them around. His suffering affected others now— another truth that anchored him, as painful as it was to admit.
Slowly, his gaze drifted back to the journal on his lap, his fingers tightening around the edges of the worn leather. 'There are so many things going on inside my head… I don't think… I would even know where to begin to process them… Where do I even start?'
The silence pressed in on him, and his thoughts lingered back to what the slime monster had once told him.
"I've gotten pretty good at looking like a human, acting like one. But the emotions? The complicated stuff? That's still... Beyond me."
"Music helps, though. It's the only thing that gets me close to feeling something real— other than joy and hate. Those are easy."
'But… I'm not like Remi. I don't understand music— I can't read it, much less write it. I don't think music is a viable medium for me.' The teen thought intialt reasoned to himself, before furrowing his brow as a thought crept into his exasperated head. 'But what if… What if I just start writing whatever I want down? The words don't even have to make sense to anyone, other than myself.'
A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips— faint and fleeting. 'Yeah… After all, I've read plenty of books— free style writing shouldn't be out of my competency,' Goblin Slayer reassured himself, while growing somewhat nostalgic, as he began remembering his childhood love for literature.
He had always been fascinated by stories of heroes and adventures, dreaming of the day he'd become one of them— an adventurer.
But as the smile faltered, his head lowered, a familiar thought returning to gnaw at him. 'Was all of that just entertainment for me? Or… Or were those stories merely an escape from my reality?'
He lingered on that thought, the silence stretching out, before he finally let out a long, heavy sigh. His fingers moved slowly, turning to the second page of the journal, with his mind still trapped in the mire of his own doubts.
The teen's body shifted slightly, as he reached over to adjust the dim brass lamp on the wall beside his bed— his fingers fumbling with the knob. It was a simple mechanism, yet he still struggled with it.
Satisfied with the dimmest setting, he sat back while letting the soft light fall over his journal. With deliberate care, he reached for his silver-nubbed ink pen— the cool metal familiar in his grip. He began to write, slowly, methodically, pausing between each word, as though testing the weight of his thoughts before committing them to paper.
The sentences he wrote weren't just statements, they were poetry— fragments of his soul laid bare, each word more painful than the last. His grip tightened on the pen as he continued— his hand shaking with the effort of forcing his emotions onto the page.
The room seemed to spin around him, with the weight of his thoughts overwhelming, suffocating. Sweat trickled down his forehead, as his heart pounded in his chest, as if trying to break free from the agony that consumed him. His breathing grew ragged, with each inhalation becoming a struggle, as he closed the journal with trembling hands— the words too much to bear.
With shaking hands, he placed the journal on his bedside table— his entire body aching as he slid deeper into the blankets. Curling up into a tight ball, his knees pressed against his chest, the teenager closed his eyes.
Silent tears trickled down his face, slipping from the corners of his closed eyelids and soaking into the pillow beneath him.
As the clock struck four, Goblin Slayer had finally succumbed to sleep— his body exhausted from the emotional turmoil. He didn't stir as High Elf Archer silently crept across the room— her bare feet barely making a sound against the wooden floor. Dressed in a simple white shirt and black shorts, she moved with the lightness of an elf, with her sharp emerald eyes focused on his bedside.
She stared at him cautiously while watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. Biting her lip, she carefully reached out— her fingers deftly stealing the journal from its place. With the leather-bound book clutched to her chest, she silently made her way toward the private bathroom connected to their shared room.
The dim light flickered on as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Her heart pounded in her chest— a mix of excitement and guilt swirling inside her— as she read the name written on the backside of the front cover.
'Ah, there we are! So, Orcbolg! Your real name must be "Ren Ashta", huh? How oddly befitting,' she thought mischievously, though the thrill quickly faded the moment she opened the journal to its first page.
Her breath caught in her throat, eyes widening as she took in the chaotic scribbles, the madness of the words etched into the page. One word, circled over and over, burned into her mind:
DIE.
A chill ran down her spine, her fingers almost dropping the journal as she stared at the haunting phrase. Her heart sank, with guilt flooding her chest as the bathroom seemed to spin around her. She stood frozen, her eyes glued to the page, and her mind racing.
'Die?! What the hell is that even supposed to insinuate?!' Her mind scrambled, as she continued to stare bewilderingly at the ominous word. 'What's supposed to die? Goblins? The inquisitor?! Us?!'
The knot in her stomach tightened, her foot tapping anxiously against the cold tile floor, as a sudden thought creeped into her worried head. '… Himself?'
Flinching inward, High Elf Archer felt a shiver running down her petite body, as she nervously swallowed the lump in the back of her throat. 'I… I could just put his journal back— pretend I didn't see any of it… Or I could keep reading… Push forward and see if my… Suspicions are true…'
'… Besides… I'm already this far in,' she added, her resolve hardening, as she flipped to the second page. 'Fuck… Don't let this be a suicide note.'
But as she read the next page, the shift in handwriting was stark— the elegant chaos replaced by something more controlled, more deliberate.
Take me back and we'll start again.
The dream of back then, leaves no time to say that we lived so freely until that day.
Where a hand once held mine and the laughter, soft as breath.
Smiles on our faces— we both lie.
Drink deep until the colors become faded; until the blood rainbow above grows shaded.
If I fall, will you reach for me? The shadows engulfing what we both used to be.
All I've ever known is this lonely, emptiness inside me.
We laugh until the scorn begins to undo— so hear our cries, for love that's shattered and died.
And every wish I've made, I've made them for you. Using words that I hope one day will reach you.
Cry out, knowing what we've had has died— flames of heartache will set our memories alight.
Let's say goodnight.
It was poetry, of sorts, and though it wasn't the confession she had feared, its meaning still eluded her. Frustration gnawed at her as she read it again— trying to find some hidden truth, some connection.
But nothing came.
She sighed heavily, with her grip on the journal tightening. What she had read was unsettling, but it wasn't a cry for help— not that she could tell.
'Maybe it's supposed to be symbolic of something happening in his past?' She thought to herself. 'There's more to it than these words will show… But either way, there's one thing for certain: I can't let Orcbolg, or anyone else know, that I've read this. Not yet.'
Closing the journal, High Elf Archer leaned against the bathroom wall— her brow furrowed in thought. 'I'll just have to keep this to myself, for now. I'll wait, watch, and see if anything more comes to light.'
Annoyance flickered within her, as she thought frustratingly to herself, 'Why does any of this even matter to me to begin with?! We're not even friends— he's no different than a quest giver, that's all.'
Muttering under her breath, she flicked off the bathroom light and quietly returned the journal to its place beside his bed. As she stood over him one last time, her eyes softened. "Little shit," she whispered, before slipping back into her bed— the room once again swallowed by the quiet hum of the machinery outside.