Pacificus resumed his journey, his long strides carrying him steadily through the night. The air was cool, the stars above casting a faint glow on the winding road ahead. He walked without rest, his thoughts consumed by the mission before him and the family he had left behind. But the night held more than just silence—there were dangers lurking in the shadows.
As he ventured deeper into the wilderness, the first sign of trouble came—a low growling sound, followed by the distinct rustling of something moving swiftly through the underbrush. Pacificus slowed his pace, his senses sharpening as he listens to the soft noises made by fast footsteps. From the darkness, small figures began to emerge—goblins. Their hunched forms moved with an unsettling speed, eyes gleaming with malevolent intent as they encircled him.
The creatures were ugly, with wiry limbs and mottled green skin that glistened in the moonlight. They clutched crude weapons—sharp sticks and jagged stones—raising them high as they prepared to strike. Pacificus eyed them warily, counting at least a dozen of the creatures as they closed in on him.
A tribe of goblins, he thought grimly. Trouble.
With a sudden screech, the goblins launched their attack. They moved quickly, darting forward with surprising coordination for creatures so small. But Pacificus was faster. He moved like water, his body flowing with grace as he sidestepped their crude spears and deflected the jagged stones they hurled. His skill at parrying was unmatched, a gift honed through years of practice and necessity. Every strike they attempted was met with a swift deflection, their force turned back upon them.
One goblin, more daring than the others, lunged forward with a snarl, its sharp stick aimed for Pacificus’s chest. Without breaking a sweat, Pacificus shifted his weight, catching the blow with the palm of his hand and redirecting it. The goblin’s own momentum sent it tumbling through the air, its screech of surprise cut short as it landed headfirst into the earth with a sickening thud. It lay still, planted into the ground like a rootless weed.
More goblins charged, but Pacificus’s movements remained fluid. He deflected their blows with ease, sending them flying in all directions. Each time one of the creatures landed awkwardly, its head would crack against the earth, and Pacificus would watch with grim fascination as the goblin's lifeless body released a fine cloud of spores into the night air.
Goblins, after all, were not so different from mushrooms. Their bodies, though flesh, held within them the capacity to reproduce through these spores—tiny, invisible seeds of life that drifted on the wind. When a goblin died, the spores would begin to form a circle of brown mushrooms wherever their corpse lay, a grotesque nursery for the next generation. These mushrooms, though seemingly harmless, would slowly feed on whatever organic matter they found—soil, decayed leaves, or even the bodies of fallen animals. With enough sustenance, they would eventually grow into small, grotesque goblins of their own, continuing the cycle of life and death.
But Pacificus knew more than most about these creatures. He had learned during his time as a farmer that these mushroom circles—the spores of dead goblins—were actually edible. They could be harvested and cooked, though few would dare to do so. The irony that something so deadly could also sustain life wasn’t lost on him.
The goblins, for all their savagery, weren’t without intelligence. They hunted by night because their skin and eyes were sensitive to light, making them vulnerable during the day. They lived in dark places—caves, tunnels, and shadowy forests—where the sun couldn’t reach. And their survival instinct was fierce, driven by the need to protect and feed their young. If a goblin came across a mushroom circle, it would gather meat to nourish the spores, ensuring the growth of the next generation. Once these tiny mushrooms consumed enough flesh, they would grow, transforming into goblins ready to continue the cycle.
Now, as Pacificus battled the goblins, he saw that same instinct in the wild, desperate eyes. They fought not just to kill, but to survive—to gather flesh for their young. But he had no intention of letting them succeed.
As another goblin lunged at him, Pacificus deftly parried its spear, using the creature’s own force to send it careening backward. It crashed into the ground, its skull cracking against the hard earth, and more spores puffed into the air. One by one, the goblins fell, their crude weapons no match for Pacificus’s skill and strength. With every parry, he sent them tumbling through the air, their bodies landing in unnatural poses, heads planted into the dirt like grotesque seedlings.
The fight was over almost as quickly as it began. The goblins lay scattered around him, some dead, others dazed and wounded. The air was thick with the scent of their sweat and the faint musk of spores drifting on the night breeze. Pacificus stood among them, calm and unshaken, his breathing steady.
He glanced at the bodies, noting the faint circle of mushrooms already beginning to form around one of the fallen goblins. It would be easy to harvest them—goblin mushrooms were known to be hearty, even in the most barren of soils. But Pacificus had no time for such things now.
The night deepened, its quiet hum broken by the rustling of leaves and the distant cries of creatures hidden in the shadows. Pacificus moved cautiously, each footstep echoing in the stillness. After his encounter with the goblins, his instincts sharpened, warning him of more dangers that lurked nearby. His eyes scanned the path ahead, sensing something larger, more ominous.
And then he saw it.
A hulking figure loomed just ahead, partially concealed by the dense foliage. The creature's silhouette was massive, easily dwarfing Pacificus, its heavy frame outlined against the moonlight. It was unmistakably a troll—but unlike any he had encountered before. This troll moved with an unsettling grace, its broad shoulders hunched forward as it lumbered on four legs like some grotesque fusion of man and beast. Vines and leaves grew in tangled knots around its neck, cascading down its chest like a beard of living plants. Moss covered its back, blending its hulking form into the forest, while large, gnarled antlers, twisted and ancient, jutted downward from its head like branches from a dying tree.
The creature's enormous wooden club dragged lazily behind it, its thick, calloused fingers gripping the handle with an unnatural calm. Despite its menacing appearance, the troll did not charge or snarl. Instead, its eyes, eerily human-like, settled on Pacificus, observing him with what could only be described as curiosity. They stood there, neither making a move. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of the wind through the troll's vine-covered beard.
The troll showed no aggression. It simply watched him, its massive head cocking slightly as if assessing him, deciding whether he was worth its time. A strange mutual understanding seemed to pass between them in that stillness—neither creature wishing to disturb the other.
The troll's attention shifted from Pacificus to the remains of the goblins scattered nearby. Without a second glance at the man before it, the troll lowered itself on all fours, moving with an almost animalistic grace. Its long arms reached out, its disturbingly human-like hands—covered in rough, bark-like skin—grasping the nearest goblin. The goblin, still twitching from its earlier encounter with Pacificus, was plucked from the ground like a weed. The troll lifted it to its mouth, opening its jaws wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth. Its head was grotesquely large, almost disproportionate to its body, and as it bit down, there was a sickening crunch. The goblin disappeared into its maw with alarming ease, consumed whole in one swift bite.
Pacificus watched, equal parts fascinated and equally hungry. The troll devoured its prey without hesitation, its focus entirely on the goblin horde. And Pacificus was forgotten.
The troll's interest lay in the goblins, their fleshy forms providing an abundant feast for the creature. Pacificus had never seen a troll quite like this one. Most trolls were brute-like, with thick, ape-like bodies and savage tendencies. They roamed the forests and caves, terrifying travelers and villagers. But this troll—though monstrous in size and appearance—was almost peaceful in its consumption of the goblins. Its movements were slow, deliberate, its diet focused on the fungi that grew on the bodies of the fallen creatures. It was strange, eerily calm for something that was supposed to be terrifying.
As the troll continued its feast, Pacificus couldn’t help but compare it to the creatures of the Ever Resting Forest, the home of Gaia and Thanatos. Everything in that forest was larger than life, imbued with the essence of the gods themselves. The creatures that roamed there—whether goblins or trolls—were monstrous in size and strength, as if the very land itself willed them to be greater than the world outside. Compared to them, this troll—large as it was—seemed almost… small.
Pacificus felt a strange sense of displacement. The world outside the Ever Resting Forest seemed foreign to him now. The creatures, the land, the plants—everything felt smaller, less powerful, as though he had returned to a realm of shadows after living in the presence of giants. The goblins here were nothing like the ones he had fought within the Ever Resting Forest. There, the goblins were as tall and fierce as the troll now feasting before him. Here, they were little more than pests, barely a threat even in numbers.
As the troll tore into another goblin, Pacificus decided it was time to move on. He turned his back on the creature, its heavy grunts fading into the distance as he walked further into the night. He could still hear the wet crunch of bones and the squelching sound of goblin flesh being torn apart, making him hungry.
The Ever Resting Forest was his home. He is not just a farmer; he was a man marked by the divine. The creatures he now encountered, which would have filled the common folk with fear, seemed almost insignificant in comparison to what he had faced in his home. Yet, despite this strength, a deep, nagging sense of alienation followed him.
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And as Pacificus continued his journey southward, the weight of that realization settled heavily on his shoulders. He had left one world behind—now, he had to face another.
The night stretched on, its inky darkness punctuated by the faint glow of stars overhead. The distant sounds of nocturnal creatures stirred in the underbrush as Pacificus finished setting up his small tent. The fabric flapped softly in the evening breeze as he knelt by the fire, carefully arranging the mushrooms and vegetables he had foraged during the day's journey. The crackling flames danced, casting flickering shadows around his campsite, but the warmth did little to chase away the coldness creeping into his chest.
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As he stirred the pot, the rich, earthy scent of the mushrooms mingled with the fresh, green aroma of the vegetables, rising into the night air. Normally, this would be a comforting, familiar smell—a reminder of his days on the farm, of cooking meals for his family with love and care. But tonight, the smell felt hollow. The bubbling of the stew felt too loud, the fire too quiet, and the absence of the voice he longed to hear only deepened his solitude.
Merina.
He could picture her so vividly, as if she were just inside the tent behind him. In his mind, she would stir soon, rising from sleep, her soft eyes searching for him. He could almost hear her gentle voice, asking him how far they’d traveled, what they would eat, or simply commenting on the softness of the night air. But when he turned, the tent was empty. There was no familiar rustle of her movements, no sound of her light breathing.
His heart ached with the weight of that absence.
Pacificus sighed heavily, a sound filled with weariness and longing. His shoulders slumped as he ladled the stew into a small bowl, his hands moving with practiced ease despite the heaviness in his chest. He was a good cook—Merina had always told him so. She would laugh, her eyes bright with affection, as she praised his meals, while sharing stories. But tonight, as he took the first bite, the stew tasted bland. No amount of skill could change the emptiness that accompanied each spoonful.
He chewed slowly, feeling the warm, tender mushrooms dissolve in his mouth, their flavor rich but muted. The stew lacked the joy it once carried, the connection that made each meal special. Without her by his side, without Merina’s smile lighting up their small camp, the food felt like an empty ritual.
His mind drifted back to their shared moments—nights by the fire where Merina would tease him as she ate, telling him how he always added just the right amount of seasoning. She’d laugh and smile as she describes the designs that she plans for her next project. They would sit close, the warmth of their bodies mingling with the heat of the fire, sharing not just food but companionship, love, and comfort.
Now, all of that felt like a distant memory. The stew warmed his body, but it couldn’t touch the cold in his heart. He swallowed another spoonful, his gaze distant, lost in thought. The fire crackled softly, the only other sound in the otherwise still night. It was too quiet, too lonely. He wasn’t used to eating alone like this. Every bite seemed to remind him of what he was missing—the absence of her laughter, the soft hum of her voice as she spoke to him.
The stew might have been perfectly cooked, the ingredients gathered with care, but it lacked the one thing he couldn’t replace: her presence. Without Merina, the meal felt tasteless, no matter how much skill he put into it. He felt the weight of that loneliness pressing down on him as he ate in silence, each bite reminding him of what he had left behind.
He finished the bowl mechanically out of necessity. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Pacificus set the empty bowl aside and looked into the fire. The flames danced, casting their golden light on his face, but the warmth did little to fill the void inside him. He leaned back slightly, staring into the flickering embers, wishing—just for a moment—that when he looked up, she would be there.
But the tent remained empty. And he remained alone.
He sighed again, quieter this time, the sound almost lost to the night. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, trying to shield himself from the cold that wasn’t just from the air. The stars glittered overhead, silent witnesses to his solitude. And as Pacificus sat there, the fire slowly dying down, he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before he felt whole again.
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After a few hours of restless sleep, Pacificus rose, shook off the grogginess, and resumed his journey. The sky was still heavy with the soft hues of dawn, the early light casting long shadows across the landscape as he trudged onward. The cool air of morning clung to his skin, a slight relief from the journey ahead, but something felt off. His eyes scanned the road ahead, alert yet weary, and his mind wandered to the trail of chaos behind him.
"Why are there so many goblins?" he muttered, his voice low, almost as if speaking to the air.
Behind him, the road was littered with the small, twisted bodies of goblins, their blue blood staining the dirt in an eerie, unnatural pattern. It was as though someone had splattered paint across the earth, the cobalt blue pooling in grotesque contrast to the greens and browns of the natural world. The sight was almost absurd—hundreds of dead goblins stretched out behind him like a grim tapestry of violence.
Pacificus had no qualms about dispatching goblins. They were more fungus than flesh, their bodies teeming with spores that spread like wildfire whenever one of them died. Their rapid reproduction made it almost impossible to truly cull their numbers, which is why he felt no guilt in cutting them down. In fact, their mushroom-like nature fascinated him in an odd way; they sprouted from the earth and returned to it just as quickly. They weren't like other creatures—creatures that lived and breathed and were part of the delicate balance of nature.
Wolves, for instance. Pacificus always spared the wolves. Their sleek forms and sharp eyes marked them as hunters, guardians of the wild. They played a crucial role in maintaining the balance of the ecosystem, keeping other species in check. He admired them for that. But lately, he’d noticed that even the wolves had become part of the goblins’ twisted machinations. Goblins, in their cunning, had taken to riding the wolves like beasts of burden. He’d seen packs of them—goblins perched atop snarling wolves, their crude weapons glinting in the morning light.
It was strange, almost grotesque, seeing such noble creatures being used in this way. But Pacificus was careful. Whenever he encountered a goblin-mounted wolf, he would do everything in his power to dispatch the goblin without harming the wolf beneath it. He was quick, precise—using his parry skills to redirect the goblins’ strikes and send them crashing into the earth. The wolves, once freed from their fungal riders, would often flee into the woods, wild and untamed once more.
But today was different.
These goblins weren’t just nocturnal hunters, creeping out under the cover of darkness as they usually did. No, these goblins were attacking him in broad daylight. The morning sun cast long shadows on their grotesque, hunched forms as they charged toward him with their usual ferocity. Their sharp stones and sticks were no match for Pacificus’s honed reflexes, but their persistence unsettled him.
Why were they so active during the day? It was against their nature. Goblins typically shied away from sunlight, preferring the cover of night to carry out their raids. But here they were, swarming the road in waves, their sharp-toothed grins bared as they hurled themselves at him. And there were so many of them—far more than he had ever encountered before.
Something wasn’t right.
As he walked, Pacificus glanced down at the trail of goblin corpses. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something unnatural about this sudden surge of activity. These creatures were driven, almost desperate. Their numbers seemed endless, and their willingness to attack in broad daylight was unnerving. His instincts, honed from years of living near the Ever Resting Forest, told him that something was deeply amiss.
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A caravan rumbled slowly along the road, the merchants and their guards wrapped in the steady rhythm of travel, the sounds of creaking wheels and hooves dull against the morning air. The sun was still low, casting a golden hue over the trees, but as they rounded a bend, they were greeted by a scene that stole the breath from their lungs.
The road ahead was drenched in blue.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of goblin bodies lay strewn across the path, their small, twisted forms broken and still, a gruesome tide of death stretching as far as the eye could see. Blue blood pooled and smeared across the dirt, staining the ground with the vibrant hue of their strange, fungal lifeblood. The caravan came to an abrupt halt, wheels jerking as they hit the uneven terrain of corpses.
"Gods above..." whispered a peddler, his face pale as he surveyed the carnage. He leaned forward from his perch, eyes wide with disbelief. "Did the goblins have a war or something?"
"Be vigilant, comrades," a mercenary guard on horseback barked, his voice thick with unease. His eyes scanned the tree line, muscles tense beneath his armor. "Watch out for trolls."
The caravan inched forward, the wheels of their carts thudding over the bodies, bumping and jostling as they rolled over the goblin corpses. It was a sickening sight—blue blood splattered the sides of the carts, dripping from the wooden spokes, leaving dark, gory streaks behind. The merchants and travelers kept their eyes forward, trying not to look at the bodies, but the sight was impossible to ignore.
And then, even stranger—deer.
Among the sea of goblins, a small herd of deer stood, their heads bent low to the ground as they gnawed at the corpses. Their soft, brown eyes blinked in the sunlight as they tore goblin flesh between their teeth, gnawing with an almost mechanical hunger. When the deer noticed the approaching caravan, they paused, ears twitching, before bolting into the forest, vanishing like ghosts into the trees.
"Aren’t deer supposed to be herbivorous?" one of the merchants muttered, his voice tight with confusion and fear.
"They must’ve thought the goblins were plants," another replied, shaking his head. "Because they’re green."
It was an unsettling image, these gentle creatures reduced to scavengers among the dead. The mercenaries kept their hands near their weapons, eyes darting between the forest and the horizon, wary of something more sinister lurking amidst the aftermath. Goblin raids were common, but this... this was a massacre.
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Meanwhile, Pacificus trudged on, his feet moving without pause. The road behind him was lined with the goblin bodies he had left in his wake, each one dispatched with cold precision. His eyes remained forward, his face set in quiet determination, though the strange occurrences around him continued to gnaw at the back of his mind.
The goblins had stopped attacking.
He noticed it first in their hesitation—the way they would emerge from the brush or creep from behind rocks, weapons at the ready, only to freeze the moment they spotted him. Their eyes would widen in fear, and then they would flee, their ragged forms disappearing into the shadows as if he were something far more terrifying than even the trolls they feared.
It was odd. Goblins were nocturnal creatures, typically slinking away from the light of day, but these attacks had come during the morning. And the numbers—they had been endless. The swarm of them, pouring from the trees like a tidal wave, desperate and reckless. It wasn’t natural. Pacificus couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. And now, even though they ran from him, the fact that they had attacked at all—at this time of day, in such numbers—unnerved him.
Perhaps it was because he traveled alone. Goblins were opportunistic, attacking lone travelers in the hopes of an easy kill. Had he been with a group, they might have hesitated. Strength came in numbers, a deterrent that even goblins understood. Like wolves or deer, even goblins respected the power of a herd. But Pacificus was alone, and they had seen an opportunity.
Still, their behavior gnawed at him. Something darker seemed to be at play.
As he walked, lost in thought, a new sight caught his eye, pulling him from his reverie. Ahead, lining the road like grim sentinels, were cages.
Massive, iron-barred cages, each one holding the hulking, twisted forms of trolls. Their enormous bodies were crammed into the confines, their beady eyes glinting with a dull, animalistic rage. Some were dead, their massive forms slumped against the bars, while others barely clung to life, their breath ragged and wet. Their thick, vine-like beards were matted with blood, and the scent of decay and rot hung heavy in the air. The ground beneath the cages was slick with their dark blood, pooling in sickening puddles.
Pacificus felt a wave of disgust wash over him as he passed the cages. The trolls were creatures of the wild, fierce and terrifying, but even they did not deserve such a fate. Their captivity, their blood spilled so callously, stirred something in him.
Hunters stood nearby, armed with bows and spears, their eyes sharp and predatory as they guarded their prize. They watched the trolls with a cold detachment, their faces hardened from years of chasing down such beasts. For them, this was a profession, a means of survival. Just like the predators of the wild, they hunted to live, to thrive. Or at least... that’s what Pacificus tried to believe.
He clenched his jaw and forced his gaze away, his hands tightening into fists. The sight was too much. It was one thing to take a life in self-defense, another to reduce creatures—living, breathing creatures—to mere trophies, caged and dying on the side of the road.
Pacificus marched on, trying to push the sight from his mind, but the image of the caged trolls lingered. The road stretched ahead of him, long and uncertain, but the weight of what he had seen clung to him, making his steps feel heavier with each passing moment.