The Goblin Disposal Unit
Before anyone could blink, Guster launched himself at the nearest Gnasher. The elite goblin guard, used to facing quivering peasants, went down like a sack of rotten turnips as Guster's fist connected with his jaw with the force of a particularly enthusiastic avalanche.
With a sudden burst of strength granted by his [Battle Trance ability], Guster whirled like a dervish, raining down a flurry of blows on the remaining Gnashers. One goblin attempted to block with his spiked club, but Guster's fists shattered the weapon with ease, the shards peppering the unfortunate Gnasher's face.
Pandemonium erupted. The remaining Gnashers, their limited intelligence finally registering the concept of "threat," charged at Guster. He met their attack with a feral glee that would have made a badger on PCP blush.
One Gnasher swung a wickedly spiked club, but Guster ducked, the blow whistling past his ear and taking a sizable chunk out of a nearby stalactite.
He retaliated with a devastating uppercut that sent the goblin flying into the wall, where he remained, a permanent decoration.
Seeing an opportunity, Guster activated his [Squirrel Style Spinning Flail technique].
With a primal roar, he spun in a tight circle, his backpack whirling like a makeshift flail. The remaining Gnashers were battered mercilessly, the force of the blows knocking them back and leaving them dazed.
From the fringes of the battle, the other princes watched with a mixture of horror and something suspiciously like popcorn cravings. They hadn't signed up for this particular brand of entertainment.
Prince Gnar, however, recovered first. With a bellow that could have woken the dead (which, in this particular case, wasn't a good thing), he charged at Guster, his massive axe singing a war song of dubious pitch.
Guster sidestepped the blow with surprising agility, then countered with a brutal kick that sent Gnar sprawling. The axe, no longer under its owner's control, embedded itself harmlessly in the rump of a particularly unfortunate Gnasher scout.
Sensing vulnerability, Guster's Rudimentary Cleave skill activated, and he unleashed a sweeping strike that caught Gnar and nearby goblin squad, sending them tumbling.
[The Scoundrels Stay… Scoundrelly]
In the midst of the chaos, the Shriveling Scoundrels huddled together, a small, nervous island in a sea of flying fists and goblin limbs. Scrag, watching his unlikely champion fight with a mixture of fear and awe, squeaked, "S-should we help him, my lord?"
Snivel, however, shook his head, a sliver of respect glinting in his eyes despite the general mayhem. "No, Scrag. This is the Mad Fister's cathartic release. We wait and see if there's anyone left to be a minion."
The battle raged on. Guster, fueled by a primal madness, seemed unstoppable. He dodged axes, weaved through kicks, and met every blow with a counter of his own that left a symphony of bone-cracks and surprised goblin yelps echoing through the cavern.
Grothmog, his remaining tusk throbbing in protest, finally managed to corner Guster. He swung his massive fist, but Guster’s vision blurred. Suddenly, he was in a grand arena, watching a legendary Brawler dispatch foes with effortless grace. As the vision faded, the techniques remained etched in his mind, ready to be used.
Guster felt a surge of energy through him. Without thinking, he slammed his fists into the ground, unleashing a shockwave that sent the Goblin King staggering back multiple steps. "Ground Pound... I did it," he muttered in amazement.
Guster retaliated with a devastating right hook to the Goblin King's jaw that would have made a professional boxer proud.
Grothmog staggered back, a look of disbelief contorting his face.
As Grothmog staggered, Guster's Night Vision Echolocation activated, allowing him to track the Goblin King's movements with ease.
Before he could recover, Guster delivered a final, brutal uppercut that sent the Goblin King crashing to the floor, unconscious and likely dreaming of sugarplums and less-deranged humans.
A translucent window appeared before his eyes:
"Congratulations! You have learned Ground Pound: Unleash a shockwave by striking the ground, causing area-of-effect damage."
Guster stared at his hands in disbelief, a grin spreading across his face. He was becoming more than a survivor; he was mastering the art of the Brawler.
One by one, the remaining Gnashers and princes fell, their cries for mercy swallowed by the echoing symphony of bone meeting bone.
Finally, silence descended. Guster, panting and bloodied, surveyed the scene. The cavern floor was a graveyard of groaning goblins, some twitching suspiciously, which could be a good sign or a very bad sign, depending on your outlook on the undead.
He turned to the Shriveling Scoundrels, the only ones who hadn't attacked him – a fact he was willing to overlook,
...for now.
Guster, covered in grime and goblin paste, surveyed his handiwork with a manic grin.
"Well?" he bellowed, his voice hoarse. "Who lives and who dies? You choose... wisely."
Snivel, stepping forward cautiously, bowed low, his voice a squeak compared to Guster's booming declaration. "We choose… to serve the Mad Fister. You are our new king. And we come bearing… cheese puffs!"
He gestured to a scrawny goblin behind him, who was clutching a rather dented bag that looked suspiciously like it might contain more dust bunnies than cheesy goodness. Despite himself, a flicker of amusement danced in Guster's eyes. These goblins, for all their faults, knew how to grease the wheels of power, even if the grease came in a slightly stale, suspiciously green variety.
"Cheese puffs, eh?" Guster rumbled, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Well, that changes everything. Let's just hope they're not past their expiration date. Now, about this 'king' business…"
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He scanned the cavern, his gaze lingering on the twitching goblins and the unconscious Grothmog. "First things first," he declared. "We need to clean up this mess. And by 'clean up,' I mean figure out which goblins are still… well, goblin-shaped, and which ones are about to become a particularly unpleasant snack for anything with a pulse."
He glanced back at the Shriveling Scoundrels, a glint in his eye. "Anyone here good at sorting the… living from the not-so-living?"
Snivel straightened his back, a touch of pride creeping into his voice. "As a matter of fact, Mad Fister, we have a certain expertise in… discerning the recently deceased from the merely unconscious."
Guster's grin widened. Perhaps, just perhaps, this chaotic goblin kingdom wasn't entirely without its… redeeming qualities. With a deranged chuckle, he clapped his hands together.
"Alright then, Scoundrels! Let's get to work! And someone get me a cheese puff. Just… try not to breathe on it."
The cavern echoed with the groans of the wounded, the nervous squeaks of the Shriveling Scoundrels, and the booming laughter of the Mad Fister – the new, slightly unhinged, and demonstrably cheese-puff-loving ruler of this strange and savage land.
Scrag, ever the eager (and slightly terrified) minion, scurried towards the dented bag of cheese puffs held by the scrawny goblin Snivel had designated as the designated "cheese puff bearer." He winced as he peered inside. The puffs, a sickly shade of green, looked more like goblin snot than a celebratory snack.
"Uh, Mad Fister," Scrag squeaked, holding the bag out at arm's length. "These… don't look quite right."
Guster snatched the bag, his grin faltering for a moment. He peered inside, then shrugged. "Eh, close enough. Now, about sorting these…" he gestured at the groaning pile of goblins, "things."
Snivel, ever the opportunist, stepped forward, a sly smile on his face. "Leave it to us, Mad Fister! We Shriveling Scoundrels have a… unique talent for discerning the deceased from the merely unconscious."
Guster eyed Snivel with suspicion. "Unique, huh? You sure you're not just planning on pocketing a few extra 'unconscious' goblins for your own… uses?"
Snivel's smile faltered for a brief moment, then returned, even wider. "Of course not, Mad Fister! We are your loyal subjects! Besides," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "who needs more goblins to boss around? We have enough trouble keeping the ones we have in line."
Guster grunted in agreement. The thought of more goblins, especially the particularly dim-witted variety, didn't exactly fill him with joy.
A gaggle of Shriveling Scoundrels, armed with pointy sticks and nervous expressions, approached Guster and Scrag. Prince Snivel, stepped forward.
"Mad Fister," he bowed low. "The Shriveling Scoundrels are at your service. We shall separate the wheat from the… well, from the goblin chaff, as it were."
Guster turned back to the groaning pile. "Alright, Scoundrels. Show me what you can do. And try not to poke anyone in the eye with those… pointy sticks."
A scrawny goblin, the one who'd been clutching the dubious-looking bag of cheese puffs, scurried forward. "W-we at the Shriveling Scoundrels," he squeaked, "have a very specific method for… uh… discerning the recently deceased."
He pulled out a long, pointy stick and prodded a particularly still goblin in the shoulder. The goblin remained motionless.
"See?" the scrawny goblin chirped, a touch of pride in his voice. "No reaction! Definitely not with us anymore."
Guster grunted, unconvinced. He eyed the stick with suspicion. "That could just be a really good nap. What if you poke someone who's just… playing possum?"
The scrawny goblin, whose name tag (if he had one) identified him as Scamp, looked flustered. "Well, uh… then we have a secondary method! We… uh… check for a pulse?" He fumbled with the still goblin's wrist, his own brow furrowed in concentration.
Suddenly, the "dead" goblin let out a bloodcurdling scream and swung a fist at Scamp, catching him square on the nose. Scamp yelped and stumbled back, clutching his bleeding appendage.
Guster roared with laughter. "See? Not so dead after all! Maybe we just need to wake them up a bit!"
Scrag whimpered.
The Shriveling Scoundrels descended upon the goblins with a mix of nervous excitement and practiced efficiency.
They prodded, poked, listened to breathing (or lack thereof) with surprising effectiveness, and even resorted to tickling unconscious goblins (a surprisingly effective, if somewhat humiliating, method).
Guster, meanwhile, wandered through the cavern, occasionally delivering a well-placed kick to a particularly twitchy goblin to "encourage" a definitive response.
Groans of protest erupted from the wounded, only to be silenced by a well-placed threat from Guster.
Scrag, emboldened by a newfound sense of purpose (and the faint hope of a cheese puff, even a green one), joined in with a fervor that surprised even himself.
*******
The cavern echoed with the rhythmic thumps of Scrag and another Scoundrel goblin, rhythmically bashing unconscious goblins with what looked suspiciously like rolling pins. Guster, wiping a splatter of goblin goo off his cheek with the back of his hand, watched the scene with a hint of amusement.
Suddenly, a nervous squeak cut through the din. It was Nibbles, a scrawny goblin with oversized ears that twitched constantly, his beady eyes darting around like a frightened insect. He scurried towards Prince Snivel, his movements a blur of nervous energy.
"Prince Snivel," Nibbles hissed, leaning close and whispering urgently into the prince's ear. "Gribb… Gribble… escaped! With a squad of Gnashers!"
Snivel's eyes widened. Gribble, Grothmog's groveling servant? This wasn't good news. He glanced at Guster, who was watching the goblin-bashing with a raised eyebrow, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features.
Thinking fast, Snivel cleared his throat and scurried over to Guster. "Mad Fister," he said, his voice slightly higher than usual, "allow me to introduce Nibbles, our resident information broker. He seems to have… news."
Nibbles, squirming under Guster's intense gaze, bowed low. "Y-yes, Mad Fister! It appears… Gribble, the… uh… former attendant of Grothmog, has… uh… absconded with a small contingent of Gnashers."
Guster's eyes narrowed.
"Interesting," Guster rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. "And you, Nibbles, what do you know about this… absconding?"
Nibbles gulped. The Mad Fister's gaze was like a physical thing, pinning him in place. "N-nothing, Mad Fister! Just… rumors. Whispers in the tunnels."
Guster snorted. "Whispers, huh? Well, Nibbles, if you want to keep whispering information in the shadows, you might want to prove your… worth." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Let's see your skills. Send your best agents to follow Gribble and his little band. Find out where they're going, what they're planning. And keep me informed… without Gribble ever suspecting he's being tailed."
Nibbles' eyes widened to the size of rat holes. This was a tall order – tailing an elite squad of Gnashers wouldn't be a cakewalk, unless that particular cake was laced with goblin laxatives.
But the thought of disappointing the Mad Fister made him sweat even more than a minotaur at a vegan barbecue.
He straightened his back, a hint of determination replacing his usual nervousness.
"Y-yes, Mad Fister! Consider it done! My rats…" He gestured to a swarm of twitchy rodents scurrying at his feet, "… they'll follow Gribble to the ends of the earth, or at least this cave system, whichever comes first and requires less cardio."
Guster surveyed the rats, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. Perhaps this Nibbles, with his nervous energy and his army of rodents, could be a valuable asset.
"Very well, Nibbles. Your rats had better not disappoint, or you'll be joining them on the menu at the Mad Lord's next feast."
Nibbles gulped audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing like a yo-yo.
As the Nibbles and his rat-whisperers scurried off, Guster couldn't help but chuckle. This whole situation was about as sane as a fever dream.
But in a world where goblins fought over scraps and rats acted as spies, a little madness was practically a job requirement.