Magic surged forth, not like a spell but like a rupture in existence itself. The air split apart with a sickening, wet crack, the twisting groan of ancient wood reverberating through my ribs. Something tore as a force slammed into me, raw and unyielding, burning cold and seething hot at once. My lungs seized, my vision fractured into jagged shards of color and void, and the magic dug in, sharp as splintered bark, burrowing deep, latching onto something unseen. It wasn’t just hitting me—it was ripping through me.
A second presence. Another body. Another soul. The force wasn’t just binding to me—it was reaching, dragging. For one agonizing moment, the world folded, a pressure, impossible and immense, pulling at reality itself, as if something buried had been unearthed too quickly, too violently. The dungeon around us groaned, walls bending inward, torches flickering, shadows lengthening, before something snapped.
I gasped, knees nearly buckling as the force vanished as quickly as it had come. The weight in my chest lifted, the pressure in my skull released like an unclenched fist, and in front of me, bouncing on his heels with frantic energy, was Thumbs. He let out an ecstatic whoop, feet stomping wildly against the ground like he couldn’t contain the sheer excitement surging through him. His beady eyes darted around before locking onto me, and in the next second, he launched himself forward.
I barely had time to react before wiry arms and clawed fingers latched onto my back, his weight suddenly a very real, solid thing clinging to me. “Rod! Thumbs back! Thumbs back!” He bounced once, then twice, before scrambling up my shoulder in a way that suggested he had no interest in standing on his own feet ever again
"Master?" His voice was small, like a child lost in the dark. "I’s confused. Dark dark dark! And no golds. All golds gone. Why gone?"
I let out a breath, my body still trembling from the aftermath of Malikap’s magic, my pulse an unsteady drumbeat in my ears. I should have felt relief. I should have felt triumphant. Instead, my hands curled into fists at my sides because even as Thumbs clung to me, solid and warm and alive, Malikap’s magic still lingered.
"No leave, no leave again," he begged, pressing his face against my chest, his voice muffled. "Thumbs Good Gobbie. Good. Be good. Not bad." His fingers curled into my clothes, clawing for something solid, something real. His heartbeat pounded wildly against me, erratic, too fast. His breathing was shallow, hitching, filled with the kind of terror that came from something far worse than physical pain—something deeper.
My arms hovered awkwardly before, finally, I placed a hesitant hand on his back. He flinched, then melted against me, shaking like a leaf in a storm. I didn’t know what to say. What had I done? What had I lost? The silence that followed was heavy, thick with an emptiness that pressed into my chest, hollow and unrelenting. The chamber felt colder now, the air thin and biting. The torches along the walls guttered weakly, barely casting enough light to keep the dark at bay. The once-magnificent stone pillars that had gleamed under Aurentum’s radiance now stood in dull, muted shadow, their carvings worn, older, as if centuries had passed in a single moment.
I swallowed hard. {Rod.}
The voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp. Aurentum’s crystal hovered behind me, its glow fainter than before. It flickered, as if the price paid had drained something from it, too.
{We must move forward.} Move forward. As if everything was normal. As if nothing had changed. As if something crucial hadn’t been taken from me, from Thumbs, from this very place. But the thing was the price I had paid would now hang over my head. And I didn’t quite like that.
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I clenched my jaw, gripping Thumbs a little tighter, feeling the weight of his small, shaking form in my arms. His breathing had slowed, but his hold on me hadn’t loosened. Already we had entered the boss chamber, which was a shock to me because, by my count, I had skipped a room or two. The giant goblin king sat on a makeshift throne, his hulking form hunched forward, watching. I could practically feel Thumbs shivering against me, his small fingers still latched onto my gear.
I pulled out my bow and readied an arrow, but I didn’t take aim. I knew this fight hadn’t gone the way it was supposed to last time, and I wasn’t sure if that was the influence of the mini-djinni or something else entirely. This time, it needed to go smoothly. An Aerlyntium orb bounced up and down behind the goblin king’s throne, its glow reflecting off the uneven stone. My eyes flicked between it and the king, my grip on the bow tightening as I tried to predict what his first move would be. I immediately cast scan.
Enemy Entry 0024: Hob "Kingsley" GrendelKing
- Weaknesses: Shadow, Fire, Ice
- Resistances: Lightning, Holy, Earth, Poison
Description:
King of the goblins, son of Grendel. This monstrosity shouldn't even be alive, yet it outlived its grandmother's wrath and now controls the goblins of the third tribe. The outcast scallywags under his rule are too ignorant to realize their kind is being set free beneath their feet in the sewers. He harbors an extreme hatred for humans, and now he knows you are here.
- Level: ???
- Health: 1000/1000
- Potency: 25
- Defense: 7
- Magic Defense: 3
- 500 Gold (40% chance)
- Ring of Grendel’s Strength (20% chance)
- Cloak of Shifting Shadows (20% chance)
- Amulet of Abyssal Wisdom (10% chance)
- GrendelKing’s Battle Axe (10% chance)
His battle axe rested across his lap, its blade engraved with runes that pulsed faintly—a sickly glow, like something alive and waiting. I had seen him before, read about him in the prison room’s notes. The son of Grendel. I should have left, should have turned back and let my mana pool recover, but I didn’t. Now I was here.
Kingsley shifted, thick fingers curling around the hilt of his axe as he lifted his beady eyes to me. His crooked crown, tilted slightly on his head, caught the chandelier’s dim glow. Then, he grinned. It was a human smile, but the wrong kind—the kind that didn’t belong on a face like his.
"You stink of filth, human," he said, voice low, guttural, and heavy with amusement. "Sewer rot and cowardice. You think your little toy will save you?" I nocked an arrow, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He never needed one.
His massive form surged up from the rug in a single motion, axe already swinging—a blur of steel that moved faster than it should have. I dodged, barely, and the axe slammed into the floor with enough force to send a shockwave ripping through the stone. The marble cracked, fractures splintering beneath my boots as dust shot into the air, thick and blinding. I leapt back, raised my bow, and let an arrow fly.
It hit, but it did nothing. The arrow buried itself in his chest, right above his gut, but Kingsley just snorted and yanked it free, rolling it between his fingers like a splinter before flicking it aside. "That tickled," he mused, and then he charged.
His bulk moved faster than it had any right to, and the moment he lunged, I knew two things: I couldn’t let him close the distance, and one hit would end this fight. His footfalls shook the floor, each impact sending spiderweb cracks through the stone. I wove between the statues, breath tight, movements sharp, but he was already adjusting. He swung, predicting my path before I could change it. I dropped into a slide, narrowly escaping as the axe cleaved through a stone pillar like butter. Debris exploded behind me, the force alone sending me skidding across the marble.
I flipped onto my back, another arrow already drawn, and fired—aiming lower this time, for his knees. The arrow struck, sinking deep into thick flesh. Kingsley grunted and slowed—not much, but enough.
{You have dealt 60 damage.}
He exhaled sharply, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before his hand shot down. He ripped the arrow free. No hesitation. No flinch. Blood welled at the wound, dark and sluggish, but he barely seemed to register it. The moment of pause was over. He tensed, his body shifting into another charge.