So, there is still a trapdoor somewhere, he thought, a familiar unease creeping back into his chest.
Yet it turned out his worries were misplaced, for the outcome defied his expectations. To his quiet astonishment, upon their arrival, the village goblins were startled, but not hostile. When the mother explained the situation, not a single voice of protest arose.
“Well, I mean… just because he’s human doesn’t mean we should leave him to die,” one goblin muttered. At that statement, silence reigned. No argument. No violence. No exile.
For the first time since his rebirth, a profound sense of belonging settled within the Great Sage.
Maybe… I was born in the right place, after all.
In the end, the mother goblin carried the infant to the village elder to ask for his judgment. This elder, an older goblin, bore a face intricately mapped with deep wrinkles, his frame hunched with the weight of years and accumulated wisdom.
“If you’re willing to take full responsibility for raising the child, then I see no reason to object,” he stated, his voice rasping yet calm. It was clear that the goblin who had rescued the Great Sage held significant trust within the community, especially given the elder’s immediate acceptance of her petition.
“Just one matter,” the mother goblin said, raising her brow. “Are there any among us who truly understand how to raise a human?”
The elder scratched at his chin with a clawed hand, thinking.
“I believe they are not so different from us. Human infants require milk, just as goblins do. While I cannot guarantee the sufficiency of ours, no other method comes to mind.”
“Milk, huh? Then, I’ll just feed it mine,” the mother said with a shrug, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
G-Goblin milk…? The Great Sage’s thoughts faltered for a moment. Wait, hold on. One of my disciples, in my previous life, was obsessed with goblin biology… Didn’t he give me a paper once?
He riffled through his memory as fast as his newborn mind could manage.
Yes, in his research, he discovered that goblin milk is almost identical in composition to human milk. If that was accurate, then I should be fine.
With that, the sage’s concern was assuaged. Admittedly, he still wasn’t thrilled about the idea of drinking goblin milk, but such trivialities as pride and squeamishness were irrelevant now. Survival demanded pragmatic acceptance. This humble, and perhaps crude, settlement now represented life itself.
“More importantly,” the elder said, shifting his gaze to the infant wrapped in cloth, “Arèsa, has the child been given a name yet?”
“Name, huh…” she mused aloud. “Not yet.”
“Then, give him one. He deserves that much,” the elder said gently.
“You’re right… Let’s see… What should it be…?” she murmured, cradling the baby closer as her expression softened with affection.
Arèsa, the Great Sage noted quietly. So that’s her name.
She began to think, her eyes narrowing in contemplation.
The Sage, of course, had borne a name in his former life—one chosen by his parents, imbued with meaning and dignity. But he had already resolved that this new existence would be a fresh journey. His old name belonged to the past; this second life demanded a new identity and path.
“Me! Me! I have an idea!” the little goblin shouted, raising her hand with a proud grin.
“What is it now?” the elder asked, raising a brow as the child goblin bounced on her toes.
“Because he’s so tiny, we should call him Beanie! It’s cute, right?” she chirped proudly.
What kind of a name is that?! the Great Sage balked, his inner voice more flustered than it had been in centuries.
“Delarosa…” the elder sighed, rubbing his temples. “Humans may start small, but they grow far larger than we do. And more importantly, that name is far too silly. I will let that pass, but I won’t accept the name.”
“Ugh!” Delarosa groaned, arms flopping at her sides in exaggerated disappointment.
The Great Sage let out a small sigh of relief. So that’s her name—Delarosa. I’ll have to remember that.
Then, Arèsa’s eyes lit up with inspiration. “I’ve thought of something. How about Belamus?”
“Ohh… quite the grand name,” the elder murmured, stroking his beard with thoughtful interest. “Why that one?”
Belamus? The Great Sage’s thoughts stirred at the word. In Goblin speech, it means “great” or “distinguished.” A weighty name indeed. But why choose that for me…?
Arèsa glanced down at the baby cradled in her arms, her voice soft yet imbued with certainty.
“When we found this child alone in the forest, he didn’t cry. Even now, held by a goblin like me, he hasn’t shed a single tear. I believe he’s destined for greatness. Maybe… just maybe, he’ll grow to accomplish something truly significant for both goblins and humans.”
The elder nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the infant’s serene expression.
“Well now, when you put it that way… not only is he calm, but he looks serene as well. Yes, he appears to possess the makings of someone exceptional. I don’t know what his fate will be, but if it brings benefit to our people, I shall welcome it with open arms.”
“Yeah,” Arèsa agreed with a quiet smile.
“Then, it’s settled. This human child, Belamus, will be accepted as one of our own,” the elder declared, his voice ringing with quiet finality. “Arèsa, you’re to raise him with care and full responsibility.”
“I will,” she said firmly.
So, they’ve pinned high hopes on me, have they? the Great Sage mused, a touch of ironic amusement creeping into his thoughts. Well, perhaps it’s only right. I owe my life to these goblins. Maybe I should live in a way that measures up to their expectations.
And so, the Great Sage—now named Belamus—began his second life, raised among goblins in the heart of the forest.