Thane stood still, flail in hand, his breath shallow, his heart slow. The goblins arrayed across from him, ten strong, watched in silence. None dared make the first move.
The courtyard held its breath.
It felt like the moments before a gunslinger's draw—an old western standoff warped into something wrong and surreal. Instead of dust and tumbleweeds, there was rot: thick, ethereal fog creeping outward in purple tendrils, spilling from Thane like a poison made manifest. A slow, insidious plague with him at its center. The outbreak. The source.
Slowly, reverently, Thane began to swing his flail in a pendulum arc, the chain groaning with each pass. The head traced lazy paths through the air, like a censer swaying in the hands of a priest, spreading incense over the cursed. At each apex of the swing, the fog stopped falling directly to the ground. It leapt with the flail's arc instead—spilling sideways, hungrily spraying toward anything that lived.
And it was then that he felt it.
A tether in his chest.
It wasn't sight, or sound, or even thought—but presence. A gossamer network unfurled behind his eyes, like roots growing through black soil, glowing faintly with violet light. Each pulse of the flail stirred them, awakened them. He was no longer holding a weapon.
He was joined to it.
The understanding came slowly at first, like interpreting a dream upon waking. But then, in a single instant, it snapped taut—sudden and jarring, like a rubber band against bare skin. The weapon wasn't alive, but it echoed him. Reflected him. Amplified him.
And right now… he wanted violence.
He wanted them dead.
Thane's mind recoiled, horrified at the thought. He shouldn't desire this fight.
But his body and soul had already accepted it.
The rhythm of his swing changed. It was no longer a hypnotic back-and-forth. It was a spinning wheel, a propeller of war. Steel hissed through the air as he began a full rotation, the chain stretched taut with momentum, humming with power. He pivoted, right foot sliding into place, knee bending slightly to anchor the motion. His knuckles whitened as he fought the growing pull of centrifugal force, every turn feeding the hunger in his chest.
The fog rolled thicker now, heavy and implacable, blanketing half the courtyard. The lead goblin eyed it warily. With a slow, almost mocking gesture, it dipped a toe into the purple mist.
Nothing happened.
Thane blinked.
The goblin grinned.
Then the silence shattered. All ten goblins shrieked as one, high and triumphant, raising chipped blades and rusted spikes into the air. Their confidence burned like wildfire. There was no fear. Only hunger.
Thane's body locked.
His connection to the flail snapped like a frayed cord under too much strain.
Pain, electric and unnamable, tore through his chest. He gasped, stumbling as the violent storm he'd birthed raged out of his grasp. The flail jerked in his hand, spiraling out of control. His grip slipped.
And then—
Impact.
The head of the flail slammed into the stone floor with the force of a falling meteor.
The courtyard erupted.
The earth convulsed. A blast of force rippled outward. Shards of stone, jagged and merciless, rocketed through the air like arrows from a god's wrathful bow. Goblins screamed. Heads snapped back. Limbs crumpled. One fell without a sound, a fist-sized fragment embedded in its skull.
Slivers pierced flesh. Plates of stone skin cracked like broken pottery. The goblins staggered, some toppling, others staggering in shock and fury. The air reeked of blood and pulverized mortar.
Thane didn't hesitate.
They were dazed. Off balance. Bleeding.
He charged.
But just as his muscles coiled to strike, a wail froze him in his tracks.
It came from one of the downed goblins. A thin, piercing scream of such agony it made Thane's stomach turn. The creature convulsed violently, its limbs flailing in disjointed spasms before locking up entirely. A second later, it stilled.
Then silence.
Until another scream began.
And another.
The remaining goblins had noticed too. Panic bloomed in their yellowed eyes. They began scrubbing frantically at their wounds—clawing at cuts, scraping at the blood that now leaked across their skin. They weren't trying to close them.
They were trying to clean them.
The fog hadn't been able to breach their armor-like skin.
But now?
The stone was broken. The defenses were down. And death had seeped in.
The rot didn't devour. It corrupted. It wormed its way into every tear, every open wound, every failing barrier. The fog coiled through them like serpents in water, and there was no escape.
Thane stood motionless as the courtyard echoed with dying screams. Goblins collapsed one by one, thrashing in vain. The purple mist swirled lazily over their twitching forms, unhurried. Certain.
Then… stillness.
The mist began to settle.
The courtyard was quiet again.
Thane slowly lowered his flail, his chest heaving, the last wisps of fog curling around his boots like a loyal hound. He hadn't lifted a finger in the end.
But something inside him had.
Thane stood in the courtyard, unmoving, his flail limp in one hand. The last curls of violet fog slipped away, dissolving into the midday light like a bad dream he couldn't quite wake from. Stone and bodies littered the ground—some twisted, some split wide open, all still.
He didn't feel victorious.
The courtyard was quiet now. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but hollow, like sound itself didn't want to disturb the weight of what had just happened.
Thane stared down at his hand, fingers clenched around the flail's grip so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. He hadn't meant for it to happen like that. He hadn't meant to want it.
He blinked slowly, eyes dull, unfocused. The flail's echoes still thrummed faintly in his chest, like a heartbeat not his own. That thing inside him—whatever had reached back through the weapon when he reached forward—it hadn't just helped him fight. It had enjoyed it. Amplified his rage. His desire.
His bloodlust.
"I'm not like that," he whispered, unsure whether he was trying to convince himself or the weapon now dangling at his side.
He wasn't a stranger to anger, but this had been something else. Something primal. Consuming. The world had narrowed. Only the need to inflict pain present.
And now?
Now it was over.
And all he felt was cold.
The wind shifted. Carrion birds circled above. He didn't notice.
Thane sank down onto the edge of a broken stone, staring at the cracked courtyard tiles, at the flail beside him.
He should be checking for more threats. He should be moving. Thinking. Something.
But he couldn't stop seeing it—his own hands, swinging, destroying, and that wicked bloom of satisfaction that had followed. Even now, his stomach clenched at the memory. Not from guilt. It had been him or them. He knew that. He did.
So why did it feel like he'd just lost something anyway?
Thane wasn't sure how much time passed.
It couldn't have been long—the sun still hung high above the courtyard. The sense of loss had dulled but lingered, like a shadow just out of sight.
He drew a slow breath. "Alright. That's enough. I'm not doing the whole self-pity thing again."
Thane intended to keep his promise.
It was time to get serious.
System: Congratulations, sir. Your first true victory. No luck, no assistance, and no retreat. It was solely you—unquestionably so. You have achieved a flawless victory over a contingent of feral stone goblins. Your Dungeon Sense has now activated. It will guide you to their lair: The Feral Cave. A timer has been added to your HUD to ensure the matter is resolved promptly. Completion of this mandatory quest will be rewarded appropriately. Loot has been adjusted to facilitate a timely success. Best of luck, sir. The system rewards great effort.
"Wow, guess you were listening," he muttered. "That's not creepy at all."
Guess I shouldn't talk out loud. Don't want the system to get any ideas. He read over the message again, then glanced at the timer hovering in his HUD.
T - 5:00:00 hours
Five hours. Not exactly generous.
Before the panic could settle in, a small detail caught his attention. Loot has been adjusted.
He looked out over the courtyard. Goblin corpses lay scattered like broken puppets, each glowing faintly in spite of the harsh midday sun.
Guess I'll find out soon enough what "adjusted" really means.
Carefully, Thane picked his way through the rubble toward the nearest body. He had zero interest in touching the mangled pile of shredded meat.
I wonder if I can loot without actually touching it…?
He took a steadying breath and raised a hand toward the body.
"Loot".
And just like that—it worked.
Not only did it work, it worked on everything nearby. Like triggering a magical vacuum cleaner for corpses.
A chime sounded and he glanced at his HUD.
Loot acquired: 2x Jerky, 1x Biscuit.
Then another.
Loot acquired: 2x Jerky, 1x Biscuit.
And another. And another.
It kept going.
By the fifth time, Thane sighed. "Okay, we get it," he muttered, watching the ticker keep up its pace like an overexcited cashier scanning the same three items.
By the time it finally stopped, his inventory boasted:
22 strips of suspiciously oily goblin jerky
11 rock-hard biscuits
1 warm water flask
1 dull bloodstained knife
Just as he was about to open his now slightly plumper inventory, a final notification popped up:
Loot acquired: Gauntlets of the Hateful Insect Chitin (G.O.T.H.I.C).
"Oh," Thane blinked, "Right. The centipede." He shuddered involuntarily. "Definitely repressed that."
His stomach growled in response.
"Alright, alright," he grumbled. With barely a thought, he flicked a few strips of jerky and a biscuit from his inventory into his hand. They appeared with a faint shimmer and no regard for plating or presentation.
The jerky was tough. The biscuit was worse. He munched through both like a man resigned to prison rations and survival. Still, food was food.
While chewing, he quickly toggled the setting to stack identical loot in his HUD—blessed silence—then pulled up the gauntlets in his inventory and gave them a proper look.
Name: Gauntlets of the Hateful Insect Chitin (G.O.T.H.I.C)
Type: Heavy Armor
Rarity: Rare
Description: Large blood red chitinous gauntlets reaching to elbows. Highly shock resistant. Highly cut resistant. Low magic resistance. Clawed finger tips penetrating damage. Heavy.
Dimensions: Variable, 50 lbs.
Requirements: Level 40, Heavy Armor Class
Stat Bonus: +10 all physical stats
Special Effects: Claws ignore 25% damage mitigation from armor
Set Bonuses: None
Thane squinted at the glowing panel, his jaw slowly working through the last bite of jerky.
"Level forty... Heavy Armor Class… well that sucks."
He let out a dry huff and dismissed the window with a flick of his fingers. The gauntlet's information vanished with a shimmer, leaving only faint disappointment behind.
There was nothing for it.
Still chewing, Thane made his way across the rubble-strewn courtyard. The fog had finally thinned to nothing, leaving behind cracked stone, shattered goblins, and the memory of his own brutality. He didn't let himself dwell on it.
He stepped over a shattered goblin blade, ducked through the ruined gate, and followed the faint tug of dungeon sense past a tangle of overgrown brush. The sharp scent of crushed weeds clung to him as he emerged into a sparse, flat stretch of grass—quiet, save for the wind.
Halfway across, he paused.
The earth here had been disturbed. A wide, shallow groove carved into the soil. It looked almost like a trench—haphazard, but unmistakably shaped by violence. He traced it with his eyes back toward the courtyard wall, remembering the moment the centipede had rolled toward him like a living boulder.
"Right. That happened."
He reached the edge of the trees, where dappled light filtered through the leaves and shadows danced across the underbrush. The faint pulse of dungeon sense was stronger now, like a second heartbeat under his skin.
He rested his hand on the rough bark of the nearest tree and let out a slow breath.
And stepped into the forest.