Goblins weren't known to be the strongest things in Arcaeon.

Being the most pathetic, early-stage foe came with a certain societal status in worlds like this one. Often, they became the targets of the cruelty of aspiring adventurers and the like. While they'd certainly be turned to cinders with only a simple spell of spark, or have their spindly limbs hacked to pieces with ease with just a few swings of the axe - but newfound members of the myriad guilds usually found themselves with little else than wooden clubs to bludgeon and beat the green creatures with.

This had the unintended consequence of most clashes with lesser heroes resulting in knock-outs, rather than deaths, for the goblins. Which of course was a joyous thing for the poor saps, especially considering the fledgling adventurers would receive their coveted battle experience and loot either way. It wasn't too uncommon for some particularly sadistic lot to abuse this, beating the greenskins to submission time and time again once they roused.

As another side effect of this fact, it became a somewhat common practice to equip the goblins in leftover gear, particularly by those veterans wishing to indirectly give their juniors a laugh with a silly hat or a fancy helm that'd be a little higher level from them, seeing as the goblins' inventory could be accessed when looting an unconscious one.

But, somehow nobody had tried a particularly sadistic trick before.

There was a known 'trash' item - a cursed helm, a crown of bent scrap metal that dug into its wearer's skull. The 'Fool's Corona'. Given its wonky, lanky look and annoying jingling from the myriad bells hanging off its jagged and downturned spikes, the hat was more akin to a jester's hat than a crown - which saw it no favors among heroes who much preferred themselves uncursed and non-jingling, causing most to leave it behind when encountered.

But this once, a reminiscing veteran of the highlands returned to their old stomping grounds to bask in some well-earned nostalgia, having saved yet another faraway land from certain peril. Seeing the roving goblins, milling about and picking their noses as usual amidst their ramshackle raiding camps, the hero was struck with a thirst for mischief. He still held a cudgel, after all, in case something - or -one - required subduing rather than slaying outright. Why not go back to an old habit for a spell, and beat a greenskin?

The poor cretin stood no chance against a plate-clad adventurer, even if he refrained from using magic or any of his martial skills. It was not long until it was crumpled to a heap, being relentlessly beat on by the non-lethal club to add further insult to injury. Speaking of, the adventurer having his bloodlust fully sated, promptly produced the scrap-metal crown from his pack with a jeering grin and settled it onto the unfortunate 'king' in a mock coronation.

Since nobody ever wore the thing, he could hardly be blamed for not knowing its effects. The Fool's Corona reduced all statistics of its wearer by a whopping -3, including their flat attack damage, health pool and so forth. For a goblin, this was a devastating loss; their health came at a measly 10, 20 at most if they had some experience under their belt or commanded some of their brethren. Their other statistics were rather low as well, with an intelligence of only 2 - shared with some smarter animals, but lower than an infant would generally be.

Of course, this should have meant the greenskin's intelligence went below zero.

But in that moment, when the Fool's Corona dug its metal talons into the goblin's scalp, the logic of the world was suddenly bent to its extremes - and it snapped.

A negative number was simply not possible. It couldn't be. There was no frame of reference, as even a rock or a tree had a zero for its intelligence quotient. Therefore, the scale broke, and in some strange and offputting manner looped back around.

Once again, there was no frame of reference. But this time, it was due to the resulting number being higher than anything else in existence.

But that was not all, either. Goblins had a peculiar trait, their one redeeming one some would argue - a passive skill known as Pack Tactics. The more they grouped, the more banded around a slightly larger one, the more they grew in relative strength with all their attack power counted together and shared.

Normally, this was manageable.

But a goblin's attack power was a flat and constant 1.

Now, it was somehow -2.

And once again, the logic of the world bent and snapped around this fact, unable to comprehend the value.

... And so, the goblin awoke to the sight of its previous foe.

With a strange clarity, it thought. It thought. Something beyond a simple base desire, or greed for someone's fancy hat or boots, or sheer animalistic boredom.

"... Wot?"

As the adventurer raised his club with a malicious grin, the goblin's head raced with myriad new thoughts; processes probably beyond the ken of man, maybe beyond the domain of the gods of the world.

And, it came to a conclusion.

It just had to stab him in the armpit. That was the weak point, seeing as the hero was wide open. So it did, with the flimsy and pitted knife it held.

The adventurer only managed a confused scowl before half of their face disappeared, turned to a mangled mess that flung across the open field with the rest of his torso. A massive chunk had simply decided to depart from the rest, centered on the knife's point. He managed half a gurgle, remaining eye upturned, before he collapsed - dead.

The goblin stood with an arm outstretched, paralyzed by shock. Until... Until it had another thought.

"... Strong now."

"Strongest?"

It looked to the hero's cape; a tacky, yellow thing with a white fur lining and purple silken inline, fit for a snobby wannabe royal or upstart rich snob. And it grinned, tearing it away from its mangled owner, not bothering to clean away the gore as it whipped it around its neck.

A feeling in the goblin's mind let it know it had risen in level tenfold, and that the cape alone was enough to raise its statuses thrice the amount they used to be. It was strong now.

"Get... Stronger. Become boss..? No, no..."

A manic cackle rose from its throat as it hoisted the club that had so tormented it just moments before like a royal scepter; with a raucous cry, it proclaimed:

"Become... KING!"