Greta set the crying girl back on her feet and took the turtle from her hands before it could wriggle free. She tucked it under one arm like a loaf of bread that refused to behave, the little creature’s legs paddling helplessly in the air. The girl sniffed, her lip trembling, but Greta’s hand on her shoulder steadied her.

  "There are more of them up ahead," Greta said. "Do not wander. Do not pick anything up unless I tell you to. And if something headbutts you, congratulations, you have been officially attacked by a monster. Try not to faint." Her tone made it clear she expected at least three of us to faint regardless.

  We followed her deeper along the narrow wall-cut path. The forest pressed close on our right, a dense upward climb of branches and roots that looked like the trees were fighting each other for space. The wall loomed to our left, solid and unwavering, the last civilized structure before the world dissolved into dungeon wilds.

  The clearing widened the farther we walked. Shapes moved in the tall grass. Dozens of Hammer Turtles waddled aimlessly through the undergrowth. Some bumped into tree roots. Others collided with each other and bounced off like confused pebbles. A few marched straight toward us with the fearless certainty of creatures that honestly believed they were apex predators. Their stubby legs thumped like soft drumbeats.

  Greta clapped her hands once. "All right. Each of you will kill one. When you are done, I will teach you how to collect materials from the corpse. After that, we will travel to the frontier Guild Hall in the Iron Zone. That means you will follow my footsteps exactly. But for now, stay here. Stay calm. Pick your turtle."

  A girl whispered, "Pick?"

  "Yes," Greta said. "Pick. Choose the little idiot you are ending today. They are all the same. Helmet on the head, no ability to bite properly, born confused, will die confused."

  A few kids cried harder at that. One boy muttered a prayer. Another muttered two.

  Greta gave an apologetic shrug and waved us forward. "Pick one and kill it. That is all. Do not overthink it."

  She pointed at me, the dwarven girl, and the orc boy behind us. "You three go together. Spread out but stay in sight. Do not run off. Find your turtles."

  The dwarven girl stepped forward immediately, planting her feet with the confidence of someone ready to wrestle a boar. Her braids bounced as she walked, her expression hard and focused. The orc boy cracked his knuckles, sniffed once, and nodded. His eyes were slightly red, but he held himself steady. He only hesitated when a turtle waddled toward him and bumped his boot with a soft tap, then blinked up at him like it expected a hug.

  I walked a few steps away until I found one. Or rather, it found me.

  The creature rotated toward me with agonizing slowness, each motion deliberate, as though it had felt my presence ripple across the clearing. For a moment I forgot how small I was. Forgot how ridiculous this was. Something ancient and familiar lit up inside my chest.

  The turtle lowered its tiny helmeted head. A shadow passed across its eyes, or would have, if it possessed eyebrows to lower menacingly. Instead, its glossy black beads reflected the sunlight in a way that suggested deep, terrifying wisdom.

  In that moment it was not a lump with legs.

  It was an adversary.

  It shuffled once, positioning itself with all the grace of a drunken turnip, but to me it looked like a warrior settling into a sacred stance. The ground seemed to thrum under its stubby feet. A breeze stirred the leaves above us. The sky felt suddenly larger.

  We stared at each other.

  A hero reborn in a tiny body.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  A monster forged in the heart of the dungeon.

  The forest held its breath.

  To me, in that moment, it looked like a challenger. A creature of the dungeon, born of mana, stepping forward to test me. My blood warmed. My heartbeat quickened. The memory of who I had been flared bright for a moment.

  And then it headbutted my ankle.

  Lightly.

  And bounced backward.

  The spark inside me dimmed instantly.

  It stared at me, confused, as if waiting for something dramatic to happen.

  Nothing did.

  "Right," I muttered, trying to salvage my dignity. "Of course. The least threatening monster I have ever seen. And I have seen slimes without cores."

  Still, a part of me clung to the excuse of technique. Size. Body mechanics. I shifted my stance like how we had been taught. I steadied my breathing. I balled my fist and swung at the turtle.

  My tiny fist bounced off harmlessly. The turtle blinked, unbothered.

  I tried again. The impact stung my hand more than it affected the creature. Somewhere in my memory, a hundred warriors wept in disappointment.

  Fine. I would punch it again. Harder. Faster.

  I accomplished absolutely nothing.

  The turtle blinked once. Twice. Then attempted a bite with all the ferocity of a warm spoon touching my skin.

  "This is humiliating," I said.

  I punched it again. And again. I tried an overhead strike. A sideways strike. A ridiculous wind-up strike that would have been embarrassing even if it had worked. My arms trembled from effort.

  The turtle headbutted me again as if to say, politely, that I was wasting both our time.

  I sighed, long and deep.

  "I am sorry," I told it. "Truly. But this is the job."

  Then I kicked it.

  The turtle made a sad squeak. The kick flipped it onto its back. Its legs flailed in helpless little circles.

  I stomped on it.

  Nothing.

  I stomped again.

  Still nothing.

  In my mind, I was delivering decisive finishing blows. Crushing plates. Shattering armor.

  In reality, I was a three-year-old stepping repeatedly on a creature roughly the size of a fruit basket.

  I stomped a third time, harder, driving my heel down with every ounce of strength I could muster. Then a fourth. The turtle’s squeaks weakened, each one tugging unpleasantly at my conscience.

  On the fifth stomp, the shell finally cracked. The body inside yielded, turning into something soft and shapeless before the life left it.

  I stood breathing hard, sweat dripping down my forehead as if I had just slain a beast of legend. My chest heaved. My legs trembled. I had fought against giants. I had stood atop mountains of corpses. I had erased entire swarms with a gesture.

  And now I had conquered a turtle.

  A very small turtle.

  By turning it into jelly.

  The disconnect hit me like a slap. But underneath that embarrassment was a quiet, unexpected feeling. Satisfaction. Not pride, but something simpler. A reminder that even the smallest battles mattered because they were just steps along my new path.

  I stood breathing hard, staring at the small broken shape. Something tight twisted in my stomach. I had killed demons in my first life. I had obliterated hordes of monsters with spells that lit the sky. I had ended horrors that people had no names for.

  But this was the first time I had ever killed something with my own body. My own hands. My own heel. And apparently the body of a three-year-old was only strong enough to do it by stomping on the poor creature until the shell finally caved.

  It felt small. And sad. But deeply real.

  I turned around, ready to feel a little proud that I had managed it at all. A girl stood behind me, eyes wide with pure horror, hands clasped over her mouth as if I had committed a war crime.

  "Oh," I said. "I… did it."

  She burst into tears.

  I winced, picked up the corpse by the back edge of its broken shell, and walked toward Greta, leaving the girl sobbing behind me. I did not look back. I did not trust myself to.

  Greta’s voice carried across the clearing. "Good! The rest of you remember to bring your corpses here when you are done so I can show you how to harvest. Hammer Turtles are mostly useless, but even something so useless can have some useful parts."

  The dwarven girl ended hers in one clean stomp, the shell cracking under her heel like it had been waiting for the mercy. She did not flinch. She did not hesitate. She simply dispatched it with the grim efficiency of someone who understood that doing the job well was its own kindness.

  The orc boy took one swing, eyes squeezed shut as if bracing for heartbreak. His fist connected squarely with the shell. The turtle died instantly. When he opened his eyes and saw the motionless body, his shoulders slumped. He looked genuinely sad, not with regret, but with the weight of having done something he wished had not been necessary.

  He picked the turtle up with both hands, cradling it gently despite its shattered shell, and walked back toward Greta without a word.

  All around us, other kids were shouting at their turtles, chasing them in circles, or apologizing mid-swing. One boy collapsed dramatically after his first punch, convinced he had committed an atrocity. Another girl kept bowing to the corpse she had just created while muttering a prayer.

  It was chaos.

  Sad, squeaky, pathetic chaos.

  And somehow, the true beginning of our lives as real adventurers.