He dangled.
The [Improvised Cloth-Scrap Rope]—a monument to his own desperate, questionable genius—cut into his small, green palms. It was holding. For now.
Below him, the [Tribe Bully] snored. Each wet, bubbling gurgle was an earthquake. The smell was a physical assault, a thick, sour musk of unwashed goblin, old blood, and fermented filth that made his eyes water. He was so close that he could see the individual lice crawling through the monster's greasy, matted hair.
His [Cowardice] passive wasn't a debuff anymore; it was a full-blown existential crisis, screaming at every nerve ending: [YOU ARE A MORON. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. FLEE. FLEE, YOU IDIOT.]
"Shut up," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "I'm working."
He began to lower himself, hand over trembling hand. The rope, made of his own and another goblin's discarded underwear, was not rated for this. He felt the knots strain.
He was halfway down. His bare, clawed feet were dangling just inches above the Bully's massive, slumbering head.
And the [Cave Rot] flared.
It wasn't just the background itch. It was a sudden, localized explosion of agony. It felt like a dozen red-hot needles were being shoved into his forearm.
His body jerked.
His claws spasmed, his grip loosening. He almost let go.
A pathetic, high-pitched eep escaped his throat before he clamped his jaws shut, biting his own tongue so hard he tasted the coppery tang of goblin blood. The new, sharp pain in his mouth barely registered against the fire in his arm.
His involuntary spasm, his desperate little dance of agony, was just enough. His foot brushed against a loose piece of refuse lodged in the garbage-throne. A small, dry bone—a goblin's finger, maybe—was dislodged.
It fell.
Clack... skitter... plop.
It landed directly on the [Tribe Bully]'s broad, meaty shoulder.
The snoring stopped.
The silence that fell was more terrifying than any noise. It was absolute, heavy, and full of intent.
He hung there, frozen, a tiny, diseased, itchy piñata of bad decisions, waiting for the bat-swing that would end him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. His 14 Intelligence and his [Cowardice] were in perfect, horrified agreement: This is the end.
The Lvl 7 brute grunted.
A massive, three-clawed hand, each finger as thick as his arm, rose from its lap.
He watched, paralyzed, as it moved in slow motion.
It wasn't reaching for him.
It lazily... swatted... its own shoulder, as if brushing off a bothersome fly. The finger-bone was flicked away, disappearing into the gloom.
Then, the Bully rolled over, turning his massive, greasy back towards him.
The snoring resumed, a wet, rattling sound, now even louder than before.
He hung there for a full ten seconds, his brain completely offline. He had been given a second chance. A stupid, undeserved, miraculous second chance.
He didn't waste it.
He let go of the rope.
He fell the last two feet, his [Perception] and scavenger-instincts taking over. He bent his knees, twisting in mid-air to land on the softest, most disgusting part of the garbage pile. He hit with a wet, silent thwump, the sound completely masked by the monster's snoring.
He was on the throne.
The stench was apocalyptic. He was standing ankle-deep in the monster's pantry of half-eaten everything. He didn't care.
He scrambled on all fours, past a gnawed-on ribcage and something unidentifiably slimy, to the back of the throne.
And there it was.
The [Glow-Cap Spore-Cluster].
It was the size of his head, pulsing with a soft, clean, ethereal blue light. It was an object of pure, profound beauty in a sea of absolute, concentrated crap.
[Passive: [Analysis] activated!]
[Target: [Glow-Cap Spore-Cluster]]
[Core Properties Identified: [Potent Antiseptic], [Purifying Agent], [Fungal Spores].]
[Mission Objective Confirmed.]
He grabbed it. It was soft, damp, and surprisingly heavy. He fumbled with his new loincloth-belt, shoving the entire cluster into it. It was a lumpy, awkward fit, but it was secure.
Now, the escape.
He looked up. His rag-rope was dangling, a pathetic lifeline.
He crouched, his 5 Strength coiling in his short legs, and jumped.
He caught the end of the rope. His feet dangled, kicking the garbage pile.
He began to climb, hand over hand, his debuffed 6 Agility making the movement clumsy and desperate.
Itch.
He ignored it. He climbed.
ITCH!
His arm flared again, but he clamped his teeth and pulled.
He was halfway up, just below the safety of the crawlspace, when he heard a sound that was, in its own way, more terrifying than the Bully's grunt.
Rrrrrrrrip.
He looked up. The knot he'd tied... the one using the [Diseased Rag]... the fabric wasn't breaking. It was disintegrating. The [Cave Rot] on the rag was eating itself.
"Oh, you have got to be—"
The rope gave way.
He fell—but only an inch. He was already in motion.
He didn't fall; he lunged, a desperate, panic-fueled leap born of pure terror. His claws, his non-itchy hand, scrabbled at the lip of the crawlspace hole.
SKRAAAAAAPE!
His claws caught stone. For a heart-stopping second, he dangled by one hand, his feet kicking in the open air, the Lvl 7 monster snoring peacefully below him.
With a pathetic, dying-animal squeal, he hooked his other arm over the ledge and hauled his sore, filthy, terrified body into the pitch-black safety of the tunnel.
The last, tattered remains of his [Improvised Cloth-Scrap Rope] fell away, landing as softly as a spider's web on the Bully's back.
The monster didn't even twitch.
He lay on the cold, damp stone of the crawlspace, his chest heaving, his heart trying to hammer its way out of his ribs. He was covered in filth. He was shaking. His debuffed arm was a universe of pain.
But in his loincloth, he could feel the soft, heavy, pulsing lump of the Spore-Cluster.
He had it.
He had won.
"Okay," he panted, his voice a ragged gasp. He began to crawl, as fast as his trembling limbs would carry him, away from the main cavern. "Time to get... un-stupid."
He had to get back to his alcove. He had to eat the mushroom.
The mission clock on his display read: 23:14:02... 01... 00...
He was, he realized, starting to really, really hate this simulation.