From Goblin Slave To Giga-Daddy: A Goblin's Guide to Getting a Harem-Chapter 37: Danger is Calling!

"WE NEED TO MAKE MEAT AND SOUP FOR THEM."

The booming declaration came from Lyra's grumpy goblin, who unsurprisingly was named... Grumpy.

He spoke in goblin tongue, thick with a gravelly accent that made it sound like he gargled gravel every morning while hating his life.

Rae understood him perfectly, which was weird. Even for goblin-speak, the guy sounded like a pissed-off lawnmower.

Still, Rae liked him. There was something comforting about his unfiltered rage.

Maybe it was the honesty. Or maybe Rae just respected anyone who looked like he was one broken spoon away from declaring war on the campfire.

Grumpy was stomping around with his usual existential fury when another goblin emerged from Celeste's tent—Laila.

She carried a tray stacked with raw meat, herbs, and vegetables, all delicately arranged like she was auditioning for Masterchef: Goblin Edition.

Rae was fairly certain Celeste had picked everything, but Laila was clearly taking credit, walking with the self-importance of a four-foot-tall duchess.

"AH, SHE COMES. WE SHOULD HELP HER."

Grumpy grunted again, glaring like Laila had personally insulted his stew.

"Why?"

Rae asked, in full goblin language. He was proud of that sentence. No stammer, no wrong syllables—fluent gobbo, baby.

"B-Because sh-she... sh-she won't... ask f-for help..."

Came the nervous squeak from another goblin, this one named Stool—Adrian's unfortunate companion.

Poor guy looked like anxiety in a burlap sack. Rae half-expected him to drop dead from stage fright every time someone made eye contact.

"She thinks she's better than us."

Added Thunder, Bryce's goblin, who looked like he ate soup for every meal and slept in a cooking pot.

He was the chill one of the bunch, always waddling over to Bryce like a puppy with a beer belly—especially whenever Lyra came around.

Smart move.

Thunder had seen what happened to Bryce's pride, and he wasn't about to lose his goblin butt to a muscle mommy.

Rae glanced at the goblins, then at Laila, then back at the goblins.

'What a bitch.'

He thought, not even bothering to hide the smirk.

"Look at her outfit."

Rae muttered, arms crossed as he watched Laila strut around like she was born with a silver fork in her mouth.

"She dresses like an aristocrat. Hmph. Maybe she hates us."

He squinted. Even her apron looked expensive. Embroidered edges? Polished tray? Who the hell did she think she was—Goblina von Richbitch?

"Hehehe... It's just you who dresses like a caveman, Rae. Hehehe~"

The jab came from Maya, Melissa's goblin companion. Like her human, she radiated calm mom-energy with just a dash of smug.

You could almost imagine her knitting sweaters and serving herbal tea between verbal slaps.

The other goblins snickered.

Rae looked down at himself—and winced. There it was. His good ol' loincloth. Just a square flap of fabric and misplaced confidence.

He looked less like a noble goblin warrior and more like a failed mascot for a prehistoric burger chain.

Shame tapped him on the shoulder. He brushed it off, puffed out his chest, and raised his fist.

"We are goblins! And we should never forget our roots—our struggle—our pa—HEY! Wait, guys?!"

Mid-speech, the others had already walked off to help Laila with the cooking like it was some Michelin-star kitchen.

Rae's voice echoed into the void, met only by the sound of a vegetable being chopped with passive-aggressive precision.

His teeth clenched. Traitors. Every last one of them.

He gave it a beat, then sighed and dragged himself toward the food prep party like a goblin sentenced to community service.

"I hate this bunch," he muttered.

Not that he had a better bunch waiting for him anywhere else.

...

As the sun dipped below the trees, the heroes trickled back into camp, dirt-streaked and dead-eyed.

Laila rushed to inspect her mistress for any sign of injury—her relief was obvious when she found none.

One by one, the companions peeled off, retreating to their respective tents like soldiers returning from a war they hadn't won.

Rae sat cross-legged at the edge of his tent, glaring at the soup pot bubbling lazily over the fire. He could smell herbs, meat, and betrayal.

Alex passed him with equal disdain, snorting through his nose like a bull too tired to gore anything. Without a word, he stripped off his filthy tunic and collapsed onto his bedroll.

Apparently, hacking through a hundred corrupted beasts like they were weeds in a demon-infested garden wore a guy out. Go figure.

Near the fire, Bryce, Grumpy, and Thunder were already slurping soup like it was the only good thing left in life.

Rae watched them for a moment, considering joining them—until a shadow moved outside his tent.

A head poked in. A smile followed. A very familiar, dangerously wide smile.

"Hey, hey, hey..."

It was Lyra.

Rae gulped. Her presence was like a weather shift—sunshine with a 90% chance of chaos.

Behind her, around the fire, Rae spotted three heads peeking over their bowls. They stared at him with pity—the kind of look you give a man walking toward the gallows while humming a tune.

One by one, they shook their heads and quietly returned to their soup.

He was a lost cause. And everyone knew it.

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There's a treat for you guys on the next Chapter, don't miss it!