Goblin King: My Innate Skill Is OP

”Brother!” Elene chirped again, tugging at my arm like nothing was wrong.

But something inside me snapped.

My hand shot up and closed around her throat before I even realized what I was doing.

Her eyes widened in shock.

She gagged, clawing at my fingers, desperately trying to pry me off. I didn’t let go. My grip stayed locked, iron-strong, while I watched her face twist in panic, her lips opening and closing without sound.

Mum gasped sharply.

Dad froze for a second, horror flooding his features. Even Doctor Thompson staggered back, his professional calm cracking like glass.

”Eli!” Dad roared, his voice breaking with fear and rage. ”What are you doing!?”

He lunged forward, but I shifted my weight, dragging Elene with me as leverage. My other hand shot up, two fingers extended, pressing close to her eye.

”Stay back!” I snarled. My voice was low, guttural, and raw, every word scraping through the pain still burning in my chest.

Everyone froze. My fingertips hovered a breath away from blinding her.

”If you take one more step,” I warned, each syllable cold and deliberate, ”I’ll rip it out.”

Dad halted mid-stride, his fists trembling at his sides. He looked torn apart, caught between saving his daughter and protecting her from me.

”Eli, stop,” Mum pleaded, her voice cracking, her whole body trembling. ”It’s us—your family. What are you doing?”

I didn’t answer her.

My eyes drifted upward, past their pale faces, fixing on the sterile white ceiling above.

”Hey,” I muttered, flat and hollow, ”if this is supposed to be an illusion... at least make it believable.”

Mum’s breath hitched.

”Who are you talking to?” she whispered, her voice laced with fear.

”Shut up, bitch!” I roared before I could stop myself. The words tore out of me, sharp and venomous, fueled by rage I couldn’t contain.

Mum recoiled, horror etched across her face, but I didn’t care. My grip on Elene tightened.

”You’re not even real,” I spat.

Tears streamed down Mum’s cheeks. ”We are real! Eli, it’s us—I swear, we’re real.”

But I turned away, refusing her. My voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

”No. None of you are. This is a trick.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doctor Thompson retreat toward the door. His calm was gone, replaced by urgency as he muttered something about calling for help. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, leaving us in a tense silence.

I looked back at Elene. She was still in my grip, gasping and clawing weakly at my wrist. Her nails dug into my skin, her face flushed crimson. Her pupils were rolling upward as her body fought for air.

I scoffed, a bitter sound rattling in my throat.

Some part of me hated myself, but another part—darker, broken—whispered that I had wanted this moment for longer than I dared admit.

Because if this was just an illusion, then she was the core of it.

And if she wasn’t real, what did it matter if I crushed her throat?

But then... her expression shifted.

Her lips curved in that damned smile. Not fake, not forced—the same genuine smile I had known since childhood.

And that made no sense.

Why would she look relieved?

Why would she look so sad if she had ever wanted me gone?

It didn’t fit.

The thought cracked something in me.

And that made memories bleed through the haze.

I remembered being close to my sister, even after my body began to fail. I was younger, but I still tried to take care of her in small ways: fetching things, telling jokes, just being there even when I had no strength left. And she always looked out for me. She’d sneak me snacks when I couldn’t get out of bed, slip coins into my hand when I wanted something Mum wouldn’t buy, and she always...always...took my side.

Even when my sickness got worse, even when I couldn’t keep up with her anymore, I thought we were still close.

But things changed when she went off to university.

She visited less. And when she did, she wasn’t the same. Her laughter was muted, her words clipped, and there was a look in her eyes I couldn’t explain. Pity, mixed with something colder.

Eventually, she began treating me like I was a burden. Like I was a weight dragging her down.

It cut deeper than any knife. She was my sister. My only real friend.

The one person I thought I could count on.

But suddenly, I was something to avoid.

Still, I wanted her smile back. I bent myself trying to win her over again, convincing myself if I was just patient, if I was good enough, we’d return to how we were.

Then one day, she came with a small parcel neatly wrapped in foil, tucked inside a lunchbox. She wore a sheepish look, like she was sneaking candy into class.

”I brought you something special,” she said, setting it on the tray beside me.

I blinked, confused. Patients weren’t supposed to eat outside food. Everyone knew that. But when I asked, she smiled and whispered, ”Don’t worry, I got permission. I told them you’ve been craving real food.”

I should have been suspicious. Hospitals didn’t bend rules like that. But I was too eager, too desperate for her attention.

So I let myself believe.

She opened the lunchbox. The smell hit me instantly—mashed potatoes with gravy, my favorite. My eyes stung with tears. She sat with me while I ate, laughing at my stories, brushing my arm with her hand. For a moment, it felt like old times.

I devoured every bite. It was so good I didn’t even question why she was watching me so closely the whole time.

When I set the spoon down, she leaned forward, brushed her fingers through my hair, and smiled.

”Good job, Eli.”

And that’s when I felt it—the stiffness crawling up my arm.

At first, I thought it...