The silence that fell in the wake of Gruk's death was a physical thing. It was heavier and more oppressive than the stench of the cavern, which was now a complex, throat-burning miasma of goblin-filth, old rot, and the sharp, chemical-lemon tang of catalyzed-acid and melted-flesh.
He stood, his small, Lvl 11 body a stark, green silhouette against the backdrop of the massive, slumped corpse of the [Tribe Bully]. His [E-Rank Chitin-Shiv] was still in his hand, dripping with the dark, thick blood of the brute. His chest was heaving, not from exertion—the "fight" had been over in seconds—but from the sheer, vibrating intensity of the kill.
He was a creature of 25 Intelligence. He analyzed. He planned. He executed. And his execution had been flawless.
He turned his head, his 20 Perception taking in the rest of the cavern.
Thirty-two, he counted. Thirty-two skeletal, cowering, utterly filthy goblins. Their long, pointed ears were flat against their skulls. Their large, yellow eyes were wide with a terror so profound it was almost religious. Their [Cowardice] passive was in full, glorious effect, a palpable wave of submission rolling off them.
Then, as one, they prostrated.
The thud of thirty-two bony foreheads hitting the grime-caked stone floor was the only sound.
They weren't just bowing. They were offering their lives, begging him not to melt them, not to gut them as he had their king.
His 25 Intelligence, a cold, vast, calculating engine, processed this new data.
They are not a threat. They are not an obstacle. They are... a resource.
They were a resource with an Intelligence stat of 3, a Strength of 4, and a complete inability to do anything other than starve, eat their own, and cower.
They were, he realized with a sinking, cold dread, his resource.
This was his kingdom. A throne of garbage, a larder of questionable meat, and thirty-two sniveling, useless, brain-dead subjects.
He had not just killed their jailer. He had applied for the job.
"Oh, nyango," he whispered, the Cameroonian slang a bitter puff of air. This was the cosmic-level "bad luck" he'd come to expect. His reward for winning was management.
He strode forward, his bare, clawed feet crunching on the bone-littered floor. The sound made the prostrate goblins flinch.
He walked past them, ignoring their trembling, and stood over the massive, cooling corpse of Gruk.
He had work to do. He was a [Field Scavenger (Lvl 3)] before he was a king.
He placed a foot on Gruk's back and yanked his [E-Rank Chitin-Shiv] free with a wet, sucking thock.
'Scavenge.'
His [Lvl 3] skill, augmented by 20 Perception, dove into the corpse.
[Activating Skill: Scavenge (Lvl 3). Target: [Goblin (Brute-Type) (Corpse)].]
[Perception Check (20) vs. Target Difficulty (7)... Critical Success!]
[You are meticulously disassembling the target...]
[You have activated the [Hidden Properties] search!]
Unlike the E-Rank Queen, this was easy. His shiv was a scalpel. He carved through the [Crude Bone-Plate] (what was left of it) and the thick, F-Rank hide. He was... butchering. The thought was gruesome, but his goblin instincts were, as always, unbothered.
[You have obtained [Goblin Meat (Poor)] x 8]
[You have obtained [Crude Bone-Plate (Scrap)] x 1]
[You have obtained [Nail-Studded Club (Poor)] x 1]
[You have obtained [Tough Goblin-Hide (Junk)] x 3]
[You have obtained [F-Rank Brute's Core Fragment (Poor)] x 1]
[...Hidden Property Found!]
[You have obtained [Etched Bone Locket (???) (Locked)] x 1]
He stopped. He wiped the gore from his hands onto his loincloth and picked up the last two items.
The [Core Fragment] was dull, a muddy-brown color. He [Appraised] it.
[F-Rank Brute's Core Fragment (Poor)]
Description: A low-grade core from a 1st Evolution Goblin (Brute). Saturated with [Goblinoid Essence (Brute-Type)].
Use (Consume): Provides a small boost to [Evolutionary Progress]. Will strongly influence evolution towards [Brute] and [Hob] paths. (Approx: +5% [Goblinoid Essence])
Risk: None.
He sneered. +5% Goblinoid Essence. He was 80% Insectoid. Eating this would be like adding a drop of mud to a gallon of high-octane rocket fuel. It was junk. He tossed it aside.
Then, he looked at the locket.
It was a small, crudely carved piece of... femur?... held on a cord of dried sinew. It had been tied around Gruk's other arm, hidden beneath a rag.
It was warm.
He [Appraised] it.
[Etched Bone Locket (???) (Locked)]
Rank: ???
Description: A small locket, carved from an unknown creature's bone. It is sealed by a mechanism you do not understand. Faint, residual energy pulses within.
Note: Your [Appraisal (Lesser)] skill is insufficient. This object is far more complex than it appears.
A plot hook. A genuine,bona fide plot hook. He, a goblin, had found a fantasy-novel-quest-item on the corpse of a Lvl 7 brute. His 25 Intelligence filed it away. Interesting. And useless. For now.
He tied the locket around his own neck. It was his, by right of conquest.
He turned his attention to the throne. The pile of refuse, yes, but behind it... the hoard.
Gruk had been a classic "stupid evil" dragon. He'd slept on his treasure. And his treasure was... food.
Piles of it. [Tainted Roach Meat]. [Goblin Meat]. Half-eaten [Cave-Fungus (Edible)].
And... other things.
Glints of metal. Pieces of cloth. Junk.
This wasn't just a larder. It was a dragon's hoard of pure, unadulterated crap.
It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Mine," he rasped, his voice full of a sudden, deep satisfaction.
He began to [Appraise] everything, his Lvl 3 skill and 25 INT working in perfect harmony.
[...[Strange Metal Scraps (Junk)]... [Rusted Iron Shard (Poor)]... [Torn Sack-Cloth (Junk)]... [Dull Rock-Biter Tooth (Common)]...]
His [Field Scavenger (Lvl 3)] class was soaring.
[Class Level 3 -> 15% EXP]
[Class Level 3 -> 18% EXP]
He was, he realized, going to be here for hours, cataloging his new-found wealth.
He was so engrossed in his work, so lost in the pure, analytical joy of sorting trash, that his 20 Perception almost... almost... missed the new sound.
It was not the drip of the cave.
It was not the shivering of his new, pathetic subjects.
It was a snuffle.
A low, wet, snuffling-growl, echoing from the main tunnel entrance. The one Gruk had supposedly been guarding.
He froze.
His 20 Perception, now fully engaged, snapped to the sound.
Claws. Heavy. Click... scrape... click... on the stone.
A smell. His 19 Perception (with his Title) wasn't just hearing anymore. It was tasting the air. The new smell was vile. It was worse than the roaches, worse than Gruk. It was the smell of grave-rot. Of decay. Of ancient, festering meat.
The thirty-two prostrate goblins sensed it too.
Their shivering became a silent, mass convulsion. They didn't dare to stand. They just... whimpered, pushing their faces harder into the filth of the floor, as if trying to burrow.
Their 3 Intelligence knew one thing: Gruk, the Lvl 7 monster, was dead.
And the thing that used to fight Gruk... was here.
A shadow detached itself from the tunnel's darkness.
It was, he thought, the single ugliest creature he had ever conceived of.
It was a dog. Or, it had been, in some long-dead, twisted evolutionary past.
It was the size of a wolf, but its skin was a pale, leprous, hairless grey, stretched tight over a frame that seemed to have too many joints. Its front legs bent at a sick, unnatural angle. Its eyes were milky, blind, and covered in a rheumy film.
Its jaw was its primary feature. It was a long, tapered snout, unhinged like a snake's, and filled not with fangs, but with thick, triangular, bone-shearing molars. It was a creature designed, from the ground up, to crush bones and eat the dead.
It snuffled the air, its head weaving. Its milky-white eyes were useless. It was hunting by smell.
And the air was a buffet.
It smelled the 32 terrified, living goblins.
It smelled the mountain of hoarded, rotting meat.
And it smelled the two freshest, most delicious things in the room: the cooling, blood-soaked corpse of Gruk, and the lingering, intoxicating tang of the acid he had used to kill him.
The beast's head snapped in his direction. It let out a low, guttural, huffing-growl. It hadn't seen him. It had smelled him. It had smelled the [Acid Gland] inside him.
He [Appraised] it, his blood turning to ice.
[System: Mana Cost: 1. Target acquired. Current Mana: 11/12]
[Scanning... Target is high-level...]
[Appraisal (Lesser) (Lvl 3) - Full Scan Complete!]
Race: Grave-Hound (Lesser)
Level: 10
Rank: F-Rank (Peak)
Title: [Cavern Scavenger]
State: Hunting
Attributes:
STR: 13
AGI: 16
STA: 14
INT: 4
PER: 18 (Smell-Based)
MANA: 2
Abilities: [Bone-Crushing Jaw (F)], [Leathery Hide (Passive)], [Acid-Resistant (Minor) (Passive)]
Note:A subterranean predator that feeds on carrion and breaks bones for their marrow. Its leathery hide is tough, and its biology, adapted to eating rotted-flesh, gives it a natural resistance to acids and toxins. It is dangerously fast.
The blood drained from his face.
His 25 Intelligence processed the data in a nanosecond, and every single result was bad.
It was Lvl 10. He was Lvl 11. He was stronger, right?
Wrong.
AGI: 16. His was 15.
It was faster than him.
STA: 14. His was 15. They were evenly matched.
STR: 13. His was 13. They were evenly matched.
This was not a Lvl 7 glass cannon. This was a Lvl 10 optimized predator.
And the final, killing blow:
[Acid-Resistant (Minor) (Passive)].
His [Acid Spit]. His ace-in-the-hole. The glorious E-Rank weapon he'd built his entire strategy around... was useless.
This was a counter. This was the universe, in its infinite, cruel wisdom, specifically designing a monster to kill him.
The [Grave-Hound] took a step into the room. It sniffed the air, its head low, its entire body tensed. It was trying to decide which meal to eat first.
Gruk's corpse... or the small, green, acid-scented one.
This was it. The real boss fight. The real test for the new king.
His [Colony-Killer] title felt very, very far away. His 25 Intelligence was screaming. His [Chitinous Buds] felt very, very small.
He had one [E-Rank Chitin-Shiv], 15 Agility, and a tribe of thirty-two useless, whimpering shields.
The Grave-Hound huffed, its decision made. It ignored him.
It took a step towards the largest meal. Towards Gruk's corpse.
His hoard. His loot.
A primal, possessive, goblin-instinct flared in his chest, so hot and so sudden it almost choked him.
MINE.
He didn't think. He acted.
"HEY!" he shrieked, his reedy voice cracking.
The sound was so alien, so unexpected, that the Grave-Hound flnched.
It stopped. It turned its blind, milky-white head towards the sound.
It had been challenged.
It opened its jaw, revealing the rows of flat, shearing molars, and let out a deafening, wet snarl.
It charged.
The speed was unreal.
Its 16 Agility was not a number. It was a blur.
It crossed twenty meters of cavern floor in less than a second.
He had no time to [Trap Craft]. He had no time to think.
He only had time to react.
His 15 Agility, pushed to its absolute limit, saved him. He didn't dodge. He fell, a desperate, graceless sideways-lunge, his 25 INT screaming at him to move.
WHOOSH!
The wind of the creature's passage ruffled his pointed ears. The stench of its grave-rot breath was a physical, gagging slap.
He hit the floor, rolled, and came up on one knee, his [E-Rank Chitin-Shiv] in his hand.
The Hound, its 4 INT surprised by the miss, over-committed. It skidded on the grime, its claws scraping stone, and crashed into the garbage-throne.
"Idiot!" he hissed, half in terror, half in triumph. It's faster, but it's dumber. It can't corner. It can't-.
The Hound whipped around. Its unnaturally-jointed body didn't turn. It contorted. It was on him again, instantly, its 16 Agility allowing it to recover with a speed he hadn't thought possible.
He had no time. He raised his shiv.
The Hound snapped, its bone-shearing jaw clamping down.
He stabbed. He aimed for the mouth.
CLACK!
His E-Rank shiv, his ultimate weapon, slammed into the Hound's thick, triangular molars. The sound was like two rocks smashing together.
A jolt of pure, kinetic force shot up his arm, making his 13 Strength feel like a child's. His wrist screamed in protest.
[Your [E-Rank Chitin-Shiv] has struck [Grave-Hound Molars]!]
[Your weapon's [Piercing] damage is ineffective against [Shearing] damage!]
He had tried to stab a guillotine.
And he had failed.
The Hound, in its lunge, didn't just bite. It swiped.
Its thick, heavy-clawed front paw, a weapon in its own right, raked across his chest as it snapped.
He tried to pull back. He was too slow.
SLAAAAASH!
He was thrown. He flew backward five feet, tumbling over the stone floor, his body exploding in a supernova of pain.
He landed in a crumpled heap, the wind knocked out of him.
"G-gaaah..." he wheezed, his vision whiting out.
A new status.
[You have been struck by [Grave-Hound Claw]!]
[Your [Chitinous Buds (Dormant)] have activated!]
[Damage Deflected: 3!]
[You have suffered [Heavy Lacerations]!]
[You are [Bleeding (Minor)]!]
He looked down. His chest... his chest was shredded. Four parallel gashes, deep and weeping, ran from his shoulder to his hip. The only reason his ribs weren't exposed... was his buds. The hard, dormant plates under his skin had caught the tips of the claws, turning a fatal blow into a mauling.
The pain. It was... unbelievable. He'd felt the acid. He'd felt the core-overload. This was worse. This was flesh. This was trauma.
His Lvl 11, his 15 Stamina, his God-tier INT... none of it mattered. He was hurt.
The Grave-Hound huffed. It had tasted his blood. It knew where he was.
It began to stalk forward. A slow, confident, clicking advance. It knew it had won.
He tried to get up. His body screamed. His vision swam.
No. No. Not here.
His 25 Intelligence, a cold, bright, furious light in the midst of the pain, took over.
It's slow. It's confident. It's stupid.
It thinks I'm meat.
He forced himself to his hands and knees. His [E-Rank Chitin-Shiv] was still clutched in his hand.
The Hound was ten feet away. Snuffling.
It's blind.
It's following theblood.
He looked at the floor. His blood was pooling.
He looked at Gruk's corpse.
His mind, a 25-INT supercomputer, ran a million calculations. And one, desperate, insane plan came out.
He put his free hand on the floor, ignoring the scream from his torn chest muscles.
"Skill..." he wheezed. "Mana... now."
[Activating Skill: [Trap Crafting (Lesser)]!]
[Cost: 2 Mana.]
He didn't have time for a snare. He didn't have time for caltrops.
He grabbed a handful of the filth on the floor. The grime. The rotten meat from Gruk's hoard.
[Improvise (Lvl 2) Check (Int 25) vs. Difficulty (5)... Critical Success!]
[You have created a [Smell-Bomb (Junk)]!]
The Hound was five feet away. It reared back, opening its jaw for the killing, bone-crushing bite.
"Eat this," he spat.
He threw the ball of concentrated, rotten filth with all his might.
'Junk Tossing (Lvl 2)!'
He didn't aim for the Hound. He aimed past it.
The ball of filth zipped past the Hound's head and SPLATTERED against the far cave wall, twenty meters away.
The sound... the smell...
The Hound froze.
Its 18 Perception (Smell-Based) was overwhelmed.
It had been tracking one scent. His blood.
Now, there was a new scent. A powerful scent. A delicious scent, of pure, concentrated rot.
Its 4 INT broke.
It twitched. It huffed. It was confused.
It turned... away from him... and took a step... towards the new smell.
It worked.
He was shaking, not from fear, but from the pain and the sheer, idiotic audacity of his plan.
Now.
He didn't stand. He crawled.
He crawled into the pool of his own blood, his [E-Rank Chitin-Shiv] in his hand.
He played dead.
The Hound took two steps... then stopped. It sniffed again. The new smell was far away. But the blood-smell... the acid-smell... was right here.
It turned back. Its 4 INT had re-booted. The closer meal is better.
It lumbered towards him, its blind, white eyes staring through him. It was done playing.
He didn't move.
It lowered its head, its massive, bone-shearing jaw opening wide, to scoop his head from his shoulders.
Closer...
Closer...
Now.
His 25 Intelligence had calculated the one weak-spot his [Appraisal] had implied.
[Bone-Crushing Jaw]. [Leathery Hide].
But what about the ears? What about the neck?
He exploded upwards.
It was not a move of 15 Agility. It was a move of 25 Intelligence. A move of pure, calculated, desperate timing.
He surged under the unhinging jaw, his entire body screaming in protest.
He was inside its guard.
He raised his [E-Rank Chitin-Shiv].
The Hound snapped its jaw shut, missing him by an inch.
He was at its throat.
He stabbed.
His shiv, the sliver of E-Rank chitin, sank into the "leathery" hide. It was tough. It was like trying to stab a tire.
SHHRRRK!
It tore a 3-inch gash.
The Hound SCREAMED, a high-pitched, pig-like squeal. It thrashed, trying to dislodge him.
He hung on, his claws digging into its hide, his other arm wrapped around its neck, his 13 Strength nothing against its 13 Strength.
It was shaking him, shaking him like a rat. His vision blurred. His [Bleeding] wound tore wider.
He was going to die.
No.
He had one more weapon.
He was hanging onto its neck. His mouth was inches from its auditory-canal—a large, pulsing hole in the side of its head.
He drew on his Mana. His [Acid Gland] clenched.
He spat.
P-HTOO!
His [Acid Spit (Lesser)] missed the hole. It hit the [Leathery Hide] of its neck.
TSSSSSSSSSS!
The Hound squealed as the acid sizzled... and... didn't penetrate.
[Target is [Acid-Resistant (Minor)]!]
It wasn't working!
He was out of options.
He was about to be thrown...
...and his 25 Intelligence, his beautiful, perfect 25 Intelligence, saw it.
The other weapon. The one he'd just seen.
The [Etched Bone Locket (???) (Locked)] was dangling from his neck.
And it was glowing.
A dull, angry, pulsing red.
The [Grave-Hound], in its thrashing, snapped at him again.
Its jaw clamped down.
Not on him.
On the locket.
CRUNCH.
The [Bone-Locket] shattered between its molars.
And all the noise in the cavern... stopped.
A wave of energy, pure, silent, and black, erupted from the shattered locket.
It was not an explosion. It was an un-making.
The Grave-Hound's head...
...imploded.
It just... vanished. The wave of black-purple energy consumed it, disintegrated it, erased it.
The Lvl 10, E-Rank-resistant, 16-Agility, apex-predator collapsed in a heap. Its body was pristine. Its head was gone.
[...A-Rank energy signature detected... [Curse of Obliteration]... Fading...]
[You have slain a [Gave-Hound (Lesser) (Lvl 10)]!]
[Experience Gained: 65 EXP!]
[Level 11 (87 + 65 = 152)]
[EXP Threshold Reached! YOU HAVE LEVELED UP!] (Cost 110)
[Level 11 -> Level 12]
[You have 42 EXP remaining. (42/120 EXP)]
He fell off the headless corpse, landing hard on the stone.
He was covered in his own blood. His chest was on fire.
He was... alive.
He had won.
...Because his loot... had a booby-trap.
He stared at the headless corpse, his 25 Intelligence completely, utterly, finally... silent.
He had no plan for this.
He had survived, not because he was smart, but because he was lucky.
He was a Lvl 12 goblin, bleeding out, and he had just inherited a Kingdom of Filth and a tunnel full of whatever that Grave-Hound had been running from.
He looked at his new subjects, who were now literally unconscious, having fainted from pure, accumulated terror.
This...
This sucked.
His rule, he decided, was off to a terrible start.