The cavern detonated.
It was not a sound. It was a force. A solid wall of concussive, oily-black flame that erupted from the bonfire, a thirty-foot pillar of roaring, greasy, tar-fueledhell.
FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMPH!
The heat was a physical, searing-hotslap that blasted the entire, cowering tribe off their feet. The light was a blinding, roaring, orange-blacksun that vaporized the shadows and illuminatedevery, single, terrified, yelloweye.
The entire, newly-acquiredmountain of roach-meat... vanished. Incinerated.
The air was sucked from the room, replaced by a choking, black, acridsmoke that smelled of burning tar and burning goblin.
Because Bruk (Lvl 5, STR 7, Klik's onlytank) was at ground zero.
He hadtripped the trap.
He was covered.
"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"
The roar was not a war-cry. It was a shriek.
Bruk was a living, flailing, nine-foot-tallgoblin-torch. He ran, he smashed against the walls, he rolled on the floor, his [Chitin-Studded Hide-Shield]melting and fusing to his arm, his [Nail-Studded Club]blazing like a brand.
The tribeshattered.
It was pandemonium. It was chaos. It was the end of the world.
They screamed. They clawed at the walls. They fledbackinto the crawlspace, a stampede of green-skinned, smoking, sobbingmisery.
And in this inferno, in this chaos, silhouetted against the roaring, greasyflame...
The new-comerswatched.
The threeant-likewarriorsstood in the tunnel-mouth, their metallic-chitinarmorgleaming in the firelight.
They watched the goblin-torch. They watched the stampede.
And their mandiblesclicked in unison.
Click-chitter-click.
(Translation: "...Weak. Chaotic. Pathetic...")
Klik stood by his newly-forgedthrone (the slag-crater of the Slug).
He was crippled. He was in agony. His new, fused-on [E-Rank Chitin-Plate] was searingly-hot from the radiant-heat of his ownalarm-trap.
His 34 Intelligence cutthrough the pain.
Triage.
Problem 1: Bruk is on fire.
Problem 2: The tribe is broken.
Problem 3: The enemy is here.
"You do not stop to mourn thechickenwhen theleopardis in thehut."*
But... Bruk was not a chicken. He was a leopard-cub. He was an asset.
Klik could notsave the food (vaporized). He could notsave the tribe (fled).
He had to save his tank.
"GRIK!" he roared, his acid-voicecuttingthrough the roar of the fire. "SNARL!"
The twoother "smart" goblins—Grik (LView 4) and Snarl (Lvl 3)—froze at the crawlspace-entrance. They were half-in, half-out, ready to flee.
"TO ME!" Klik commanded. He pointed his [E-Rank Chitin-Shiv] at the burning, screamingBruk.
"ASH! DUST!" he roared, mimingscooping and throwing. "SMOTHER! NOW!"
The two goblins looked at their burning, flailing, screamingcomrade. They looked at the three, terrifying, newant-monsters. They looked at their raw-pink, scab-armoredGod-King.
Grik's 4-INT mind made the choice. Fear-of-God was greater than Fear-of-Ants.
"FOR KLIK-GOD!" he shrieked, and chargedout of the crawlspace.
Snarl, seeingGrikmove, followed, her [Lesser Scent-Hunter] overwhelmed by the smell of burning-goblin.
They didn'tfightBruk. They tackled him.
They hit the floor—a mess of flailing, burning, screaming, tacklinggoblins.
"DUST!" Grik screamed, scoopinghandfuls of the charred, roach-ashfloor and dumping it onto Bruk's flamingbody.
TSSSSS…
The tar-firehissed, fought… and died, smothered under ash and bodies.
Bruk laytwitching, his skinblackened and blistered, his shield-armfused to the melted-chitin-shield. He was alive.
He was horribly, horriblyburned. But alive.
[Subject [Bruk] has survived [Tar-Fire (E-Rank)]!]
[Subject [Bruk] has acquired [Debuff: E-Rank Burns]! -10% to all Physical Attributes (Permanent)!]
[Subject [Bruk] has acquired [Trait: Fire-Scarred (Lesser)]! +20% Fire Resistance!]
Klik's 34 INT processed the distantnotification from his subordinate.
Apermanentcripple. Just like me. Perfect.
The firedied down. The cavern was plunged back into semi-darkness, lit only by the dying, greasyflames of the bonfire.
The threeAnt-Warriorsclicked again.
Chitter-chitter-click-skrak.
(Translation: "...Pathetic. Theleaderis thecripple. Thewarriorisbarbecue. Therestarerats....*")
Klik's Insectoid-Essencetranslated it perfectly.
His rage was a cold, clean, 34-INTthing.
He stood, his 14-STR and 16-AGI body screaming from the heat and the strain. His fused-onarmorgleamed in the dim, orange light.
He slammed his [Nail-Studded Club] (his crutch) onto the stone.
THUD.
It was a challenge. A signal.
The threeFormiansstoppedchittering.
They focused on him. The crippled, raw-pink, armor-platedthing that dared to stand.
This bought him time.
He dumped1 Mana.
"[Appraisal (Common) Lvl 2]!"
He targeted the leader. The one in the center.
[System: Analyzing... Target is E-Rank! Bypassing [Common] resistances...]
[Appraisal (Common) (Lvl 2) - Full Scan Complete!]
Race: Formian Skirmisher (Worker-Caste)
Level: 14
Rank: E-Rank (Lower)
Title: [Hive-Scout]
State: Aggressive, Assessing, Confident
Attributes:
STR: 15
AGI: 18
STA: 16
INT: 10
PER: 14
MANA: 5
Abilities:
[Chitin-Plating (Passive)]: (50 Physical Defense)
[Pheromone-Command (Lesser)]:Can issue simple, pheromone-based commands to other lower-caste Formians.
[Mandible-Shear (E)]:A powerful, close-range bite designed to sever limbs. (Inflicts [Bleeding])
[Net-Toss (E)]:Can project a Woven-Chitin Net to immobilize a target. (Inflicts [Snared])
Equipment:
[Iron-Tipped Spear (Common)]
[Woven-Chitin Net (Common)]
[Formian Plate-Armor (Common)]
Note:A standard, expendable skirmisher-drone of theK'lix-Thra Deep-Hive. Social, highly-aggressive, and expansionist. They are not scavengers—they are conquerors. They see this cavern, and you, as a new, un-claimed resource-node to be harvested for the Hive.
Klik's mindraced, his 34 INT processing the terrifyingdata.
AGI: 18. He was slower. (16 AGI).
STR: 15. He was weaker. (14 STR).
INT: 10.This was the key. It was not a beast. It was smart. It could be reasoned with. It could be tricked.
And worst of all… [K'lix-Thra Deep-Hive]. Expansionist. Conquerors.
This was not a random-encounter. This was an invasion.
This was world-buildingslamminghim in the face.
The Formianleaderclicked again, this time to his twoallies (Llvl 12, he assumed).
Chitter-click-skrak!
(Translation: "...Kill thecrippled-God. Theleader. Therestwillbreak. Takeall. For theHive...")
The three Ant-Warriors spread out. A perfect, textbook, 10-INT flanking-maneuver.
They raised their [Iron-Tipped Spears].
Klik's tribe was gone (fled).
His tank (Bruk) was a charred, whimpering mess on the floor.
His spearman (Grik) was staring, paralyzed with fear.
His tracker (Snarl) was hiding behind Grik.
He was alone.
He could not win. He could not run.
A head-on fight was suicide.
He looked at his pouch.
He looked at the pulsating, sulfur-yellow, bomb-core inside it.
Risk (Tinker): Difficulty 25. (Failed).
Risk (Consume): 90% Detonation.
He had one weapon.
He was crippled. He was in agony.
But his 34 INT was cold. It was furious.
"The only way to stop the leopard you cannot fight," his 34 INT whispered, "is to burn the forest down... with both of you in it."
He roared.
"GRIK! BRUK! SNARL! TO ME! NOW!"
His voice, the acid-hiss of their God, cut through their terror.
Grik grabbed his spear.
Snarl crawled from behind him.
Bruk… Bruk groaned, pushed himself up with his good arm, his shield-arm a melted-ruin, his body a blackened, smoking wreck… and crawled, dragging himself, towards his King.
He was crippled. He was horrifying.
He was loyal.
The three Formians charged.
Their 18 Agility was a blur. Click-clack-click-clack-CLICK!
They crossed the cavern in three seconds.
The leader leapt, a perfect, insectoid lunge, his [Iron-Tipped Spear] aimed directly at Klik's chest.
He was too fast.
Klik didn't dodge. He couldn't.
He stood his ground. He let go of his club-crutch.
He reached into his pouch.
And he pulled out the [Volcanic Gastropod Core].
THWACK.
The spear-tip hit... not Klik's chest.
It slammed into the pulsating, sulfur-yellow, unstable-bomb-core that Klik held in front of him.
A scream of static-energy.
The Formian-leader froze.
His 10-INT mind screamed. His 14 PER smelled the ozone, felt the catastrophic, E-Rank (High) thermal-energy.
He was holding a spear... that was touching a volcano.
He was paralyzed. His antennae vibrated in terror.
His two allies skidded to a halt behind him.
The cavern was silent, save for the dying, greasy crackle of the fire and the agonized, whimpering moans of Bruk.
Klik, his raw-pink, skinless face inches from the Formian's black, chitinous visage, spoke.
He spoke not in goblin-hisses.
He spoke in their own, chittering, 80%-Insectoid-Essence language.
Click... skrak... tsssk...
(Translation: "...You... move...")
He pushed the bomb-core harder against the spear-tip. The Core flared, angry-yellow.
Click...
(Translation: "…We… BOOM...")
He grinned, a horrible, raw, bloody grin.
"...Me... die. You... die. All... die. Good... spoils... GONE. All... ASH...")
The Formian-leadershuddered.
It… speaks… theTrue-Tongue?! It… is…Hive?!
This crippled, pink, skinless, weakthing… was Insectoid?
And it was insane.
It was notbluffing.
Its 34-INTfurypouredoff it in waves. This creaturewoulddetonate them all.
The Formian's 10-INT calculated.
Spoils... vs... Total-Annihilation.
This was a badresource-node.
Slowly...agonizingly-slowly... the Formianleaderpulled his spear-tipback.
An inch.
Chitter... click...
(Translation: "...Not... worth... this. Not... worth...ash...")
He lowered his spear.
He looked at the crippled, burned Bruk. He looked at the spear-wielding Grik.
He looked at Klik.
He hissed, a mark of deep, profound contempt.
Skrak-chitter-click!
(Translation: "...We... watch. We... wait. You... are... meat. You... are... wounded. You... will fail. The Hive will... take...")
The Formian-leaderscraped his spearacross the stone—a territorial, insultingmark.
He turned, deliberatelyslow.
Click-clack-click...
The threeAnt-Warriors, the Skirmishers of the K'lix-Thra Deep-Hive, retreated.
They disappeared back into the black, smoky, gapingdarkness of the main tunnel.
...Click-click-scrape...
...Gone.
Klik stood there. His arm, holding the bomb, was shakingviolently from the strain.
He hadn'tbreathed.
He exhaled, a long, ragged, painfulhiss.
He slumpedback, catching himself on his throne.
He looked at his Kingdom.
The fire was dying.
The food was gone.
His tribe (all 31 of them) was peeking out of the crawlspace, staring at him like he was a ghost.
His tank (Bruk) was moaning, horriblyburned.
His King's-Hand (Grik) was staring at him with pure, undiluted, religiousterror.
And a new, intelligent, expansionist, civilized* enemy was now hisneighbor.
"The monkey has escaped the leopard,""only to find himself in the python's tree."
He looked at the bomb in his hand.
This wasn'tover.
This wasn'teven the beginning.
This was hell.