He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly hit by the need to cry so much. There was this overbearing need to both vent at the frustration that he was in this mess and weep at the hopelessness of it.

He was, for all intents and purposes, stranded in here, left to either fight or die, most likely both, and he had no way of knowing how to get out.

It was both hilarious and terrifying, which reflected in his crying being replaced by laughter.

He was in a very shitty game, and that was basically it. He could take offence or problems with it, or just accept it and move on. He definitely didn’t seem to be able to go back.

Maybe dying would get him back? He didn’t want to try that option.

He glanced at the dead Goblin in front of him. The ones in the tutorial disappeared when they were dead, but this one was most definitely still present, and still very much un-alive.

These Goblins only had a loincloth and a weapon to their name, and he came in and killed them. He had to get a hold of himself already.

It was incredibly likely that they would just kill him if he didn’t do this, so surely his actions were justified, as a form of self-defence. In which you repeatedly stab your much smaller attacker. Courts would have a field day with that.

He got up, rubbed his eyes dry, or drier, considering his hands were now equal parts sweat and blood as well, then walked to the bow.

He grabbed it and the bow simply disappeared into the inventory with another notification.

[Bow incompatible with current class]

And that was the end of that, he was supposedly a support and could never hold a bow, let alone fire one. He picked up the arrows that were within reach, hoping he could actually do something about them if given enough time and information about the nonsense world he was in, then picked up his now third dagger from the other dead Goblin.

He considered his options. In the forngle, there were bound to be scavengers, and he wasn’t keen on meeting any of them.

The small river would be easy enough to wade through, but he first cleaned his hands and face off the grime that accumulated.

He also checked on the nick that he received from the Goblin and hoped that it wouldn’t get infected. It was a really small cut and already seemed to be closing slowly, far faster than a wound should.

Really, a nonsense world.

He picked up the backpack he managed to carelessly drop while fighting the Goblins, secured it on both of his shoulders instead of the one he previously carried it on, just to avoid the same scenario, and then moved onwards.

He checked on his mana bar, and it showed 44.

He didn’t like that. Shields didn’t really use a lot of mana, but he used the spell too much. He needed to get better at all of this if he were to make it out alive.

That, or acquire better skills.