A fleeting shade shimmied its way over the polished obsidian throne, putting on quite the show.

Wait, what's this? Not sunlight, for the Goblin King's subterranean lair mocked the very concept of day.

Ah, but of course! It was a flicker of unease, a wrinkle in the ever-present smirk twisting Grothmog's warty face.

And just when you thought it couldn't get any better...

"More rumors, Your Majesty," rasped Gribble, a goblin so old his ears drooped like wilted lettuce. "From the Whispering Tunnels. They speak of a Madlord of Fury."

Grothmog, a mountain of emerald green flesh adorned with mismatched armor plates, snorted with such disdain, you'd think someone questioned his mother's recipe for rock stew. "Fury? From what? A particularly feisty cave cricket?"

Gribble flinched, his bony fingers clutching a scroll tied with a length of dried intestine. "They say... they say he crushes squirrels and stomps field mice."

The cavernous throne room, illuminated by the dancing flames of torchlight and crammed with haphazardly stacked treasure chests, fell silent.

Grothmog's beady eyes narrowed to mere slits, shooting daggers sharper than an assassin's best knives.

Squirrels were one thing. Annoying, yes, but easily dealt with by a well-placed boot. Field mice, however, were another matter entirely. They were Grothmog's self-proclaimed "ambassadors," a network of twitchy noses that kept him informed of goings-on in the upper world. Someone squishing his ambassadors? Unthinkable.

"Fetch me Gnab," Grothmog rumbled, his voice echoing through the cavern. A scrawny goblin with a single, oversized fang darted forward quicker than a scared rabbit.

"Track down this so-called Madlord of Fury. See what kind of fury we're dealing with. And bring me something shiny. Preferably not a toenail."

Gnab scurried off like a rat that just got a whiff of cheese, a manic glint in his single eye.

Grothmog slammed his fist, a gauntlet studded with rusty nails, on the armrest of his throne with such force, the entire cavern likely shifted a few inches to the left.

He wouldn't tolerate some upstart human, or worse, a particularly ambitious troll, disrupting his intel network. No, the Madlord of Fury would learn the true meaning of fury. And Grothmog would add another curious trinket to his ever-growing, serial killer-esque, and frankly disturbing, collection.

************************

Guster winced as he ripped a chunk of roasted mouse off the makeshift spit.

The thrill of the fight had faded, replaced by a gnawing emptiness. He wasn't built for this, this constant violence, this scrounging for scraps. He longed for a burger, a cold beer, anything familiar.

A shadow stretched across the clearing, long and menacing. Guster froze, the half-chewed mouse forgotten in his hand.

A cackle that sounded like a hyena choking on a hairball while being gelded erupted from the trees, assaulting the ears with its high-pitched, soul-grating abrasiveness.

A goblin, impossibly skinny and draped in mismatched armor plates that looked like they belonged to a particularly flamboyant beetle, hopped into view.

Guster tensed, his hand instinctively going to his side, where a jagged rock now served as his only weapon.

"You the Madlord of Fury they're all yappin' about?" the goblin sneered, his single, oversized fang glinting in the dying light of the twin suns. "Heard you like squishing things. Heard you like messing with Grothmog's business."

Guster swallowed hard, his throat suddenly drier than a desert. Grothmog? Just the utterance of that name sent a shiver slithering down his spine like an icy serpent.

It could have been that huge cricket he accidentally ate for lunch.

"Look," Guster stammered, trying to sound tougher than he felt, "I just... I was hungry."

The goblin laughed, a sound like nails scraping a chalkboard. "Hungry? You think Grothmog cares about hungry? He cares about respect! He cares about his INTEL!"

Guster blinked. "Intel?"

The goblin jabbed a bony finger at him. "Yeah, intel! Those mice you squashed? Grothmog's little messengers! Now you gotta come with me and explain yourself to the big cheese."

Guster stared at the goblin, then at the darkening forest. He had a feeling this "explanation" wouldn't involve a Powerpoint presentation. He glanced down at the rock in his hand, then back at the cackling goblin. This world, he thought grimly, just keeps getting weirder.

Guster wasn't known for his strategic brilliance. He was known for his fists, and right now, his gut was screaming "danger."

But sometimes, the simplest solution is the best.

With a flick of his wrist, the half-eaten mouse turned into a greasy projectile. It connected with a satisfying *splat* right between the goblin's eyes. The cackle died in his throat, replaced by a look of utter bewilderment before he toppled backward, face-first into the dirt.

Silence descended on the clearing, broken only by the chirping of crickets.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Guster stared at the fallen goblin, then at the mouse-greased mess on his hand. "Well," he muttered, "that escalated quickly."

************

Back in the goblin kingdom, Grothmog slammed his fist on the obsidian throne, sending a shower of obsidian flakes raining down on his unfortunate court jester. "A MOUSE?!" he roared, his voice echoing through the cavern. "That sniveling excuse for a scout got taken down by a MOUSE?!"

Gribble, the old goblin chronicler, whimpered. "It appears so, Your Majesty."

Grobthmog snatched a rusty battleaxe from the nearest pile of loot and hefted it threateningly. "This Madlord of Fury needs a lesson in respect! Gorstag! You're going in!"

A hulking brute, clad in crude plate armor that looked like it had been cobbled together from old soup cans, stepped forward.

His beard, a tangled mess of red hair and what looked suspiciously like old chewing gum, twitched with anticipation.

"Gorstag the Gritblade at your service, Your Majesty! What needs pulverizing?"

"That human!" Grothmog roared, pointing a gnarled finger at the sky. "Find him, smash him, and bring me back something shiny! Preferably not another toenail!"

Gorstag flashed a smile that could only be described as a tooth apocalypse. His mouth unhinged like a bear trap, revealing a colony of teeth that appeared to have been reclaimed from various scrapyards, mines, and stunt shows gone awry. Each gnarly incisor, molar, and battered bicuspid looked like it got the losing end of a battle with an industrial-strength sledgehammer. If smiles could be classified as natural disasters, this one just achieved "extinction-level event" status.

"Shiny things and pulverizing? Sounds like a Tuesday to me!" He lumbered out of the throne room, his heavy boots echoing through the cavern.

********************

Back in the clearing, Guster had finished cleaning the mouse grease off his hand with a clump of grass. That was when a booming voice split the air: "You there! Warrior!"

Guster turned to face a mountain of a creature, easily twice his height and built like a walking refrigerator.

Above the brute's head floated the ghostly numbers "Lvl 22" in Guster's vision.

He was clad in mismatched armor that looked like it had been salvaged from a particularly bad garage sale, and he brandished a massive greatsword that looked like it could cleave a troll in half.

"I am Gorstag the Gritblade!" the creature bellowed, spittle flying from his lips. "You have been killing my scouts!"

Scouts? Guster blinked. Those… those poor bunnies? This world really was twisted. "Uh, yeah," he admitted, trying to sound confident. "They looked like they were carrying the plague or something."

Gorstag's face contorted in confusion. "Plague? What plague? Those were my scouts! Fuzzball and Cottontail!"

Guster's jaw dropped. "You mean… those weren't particularly vicious killer rabbits?"

"Killer rabbits?" Gorstag roared, his confusion giving way to fury. "They wouldn't hurt a fly! Except maybe that one time with Reginald the housefly. But that was an accident!"

Guster stared at the enraged mountain of a man, then back at the clearing scattered with twitchy noses and twitchy tails. A slow grin spread across his face. This world might be insane, but at least it was funny insane. He cracked his knuckles. "Then I guess you're my next quest,"

Gorstag bellowed in reply, spittle flying once more. He raised his greatsword high, his face a mask of rage. "Prepare to meet your doom!"

Guster, however, didn't flinch. In fact, he almost felt a surge of excitement.

He'd never fought anything quite like this before. But thanks to those "unfortunate" scouting rabbits and various critters, his Unarmed Combat skill was now a staggering Level 15!

His hands blurred, a whirlwind of bone-crunching strikes fueled by both rage and a strange, exhilarating sense of purpose.

With an ear-splitting roar, Gorstag charged, greatsword leading the way in a brutal overhead chop. But Guster's hands blurred, deflecting the massive blade with a deft strike to Gorstag's wrist.

The brute stumbled back, a look of shock and pain flashing across his features.

Recovering quickly, he threw a wild haymaker. "I'll crush you, insect!" Again, Guster weaved like a snake, retaliating with a lightning-fast combo of jabs and elbows to Gorstag's armored midsection. With each blow, Guster could feel his Unarmed Combat skill rising, the rush of power intoxicating.

Winded, Gorstag backpedaled, gasping for air. His eyes narrowed with hatred. "This isn't over, worm!" He feinted left before spinning with a mordstrike - his blade a whirling horizontal arc of steel.

But Guster dropped into a crouch, the blade whistling harmlessly overhead. In a split second, Guster remembered the desperate maneuver he had learned from the vicious squirrels.

"Squirrel Style Spinning Flail!" Guster shouted, inputting the spin command followed by the attack command. He spun on his heel, his backpack whipping around him like a makeshift flail. The impact connected with Gorstag's face, sending the brute staggering back, clutching at his bloody, broken nose.

Seizing his chance, Guster closed the distance. He unleashed another devastating combination of strikes, each one fueled by the warm glow of his rapidly rising Unarmed Combat skill.

Gorstag, the mighty Gritblade, crumpled to his knees, a bloody mess. He stared up at Guster with a mix of terror and awe. "W-what manner of monster are you?" he stammered, his voice thick with disbelief.

After Guster's whirlwind of bone-crunching strikes left Gorstag a bloodied heap, the numbers "Lvl 22" flickering above the fallen brute's head winked out. In their place, a new series of ghostly digits materialized in Guster's vision:

You have defeated Gorstag the Gritblade!

+500 XP

A warm glow briefly enveloped Guster as the experience rushed through him. When it faded, a notification had appeared:

Ding! You are now Level 18!

+5 Durability

+2 Strength

But that wasn't all - a second notification popped up immediately after:

New Skill Unlocked: Battle Trance

[ Battle Trance (Active Ability) - Unlocked at Level 15 Unarmed Combat

Effect: For the next 40 seconds, your unarmed attack speed is tripled, critical strike chance is increased by 25%, and unarmed strike damage is doubled. However, your dodge chance is reduced by 50%.

Cooldown: 5 minutes ]

Oooh, what's this? Guster grinned as windows blinked into existence, explaining his shiny new skill's benefits. Increased attack speed, damage resistance, the wooziness seemed to lift.

Guster felt a strange new energy coursing through his limbs. He flexed his fists experimentally as the arcane knowledge of this new ability downloaded into his mind.

He grinned savagely down at Gorstag's battered form.

He gave the fallen brute a spin-kick to the face. Just because.

Gorstag went crosseyed and crumpled with a pitiful moan.

"That was for those poor bunnies, jackass."

Experience frothed over Guster in an unstoppable torrent now. If this crazy world wanted a remorseless killer...well, it had found its man.

( The adventure continues! If you're hooked, hit that 5-star button and let others know There's more to come...)