Guster stumbled along the narrow tunnel, half-supported by Scrag's surprisingly sturdy frame. Each ragged breath felt like a red-hot poker jabbing his lungs, and his vision swam in and out of focus.
Guster grimaced, the searing pain in his lungs making every lurching step feel like a herculean effort. Sweat trickled down his brow as he leaned heavily on the unexpectedly sturdy frame of his goblin guide, Scrag.
Guster wheezed, "How...much...further..." he rasped, forcing the words past a throat rawer than an overcooked bratwurst.
Scrag merely grunted, his bulbous eyes scanning the pitch-black tunnel like a pair of demented headlamps. Clearly, the strong, silent type.
Guster closed his eyes, focusing his echolocation senses. A series of rapid clicks escaped his chapped lips, rebounding off the cavern walls. The returning echoes painted a picture in his mind - the narrow tunnel would soon open into a spacious grotto, its air still and undisturbed.
A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It seemed Lady Luck had decided to cut them a break and provide a place to catch their breath...at least for now. Guster could practically taste the sweet, stale air of the empty cavern ahead.
With a weary grunt, he pressed onward, half-dragged by Scrag's waddling gait. Just a little further, then that promised respite would be theirs.
After what felt like an eternity of blind stumbling, a faint light appeared at the end of the tunnel. Guster blinked as they emerged into a small grotto, the air pleasantly fresh and untainted by the Festering One's rancid stench.
Guster brushed past the last of the crumbled rubble, his nostrils still stinging from the thick dust clouds. He took a moment to catch his breath, wincing at the fiery ache in his battered ribs.
"Well, that was a spectacularly messy bit of redecorating," he wheezed, flashing Scrag a bloodied grin. "But I'd say we've earned ourselves a bit of a respite, eh?"
The goblin, for once, didn't rise to the bait. He simply nodded, tongue lolling as he panted with exhaustion. Guster had to hand it to the little runt - he'd held his own surprisingly well against the Festering One.
He sagged against the cavern wall, finally allowing the bone-deep weariness to overtake him. As the adrenaline bled away, a phantom ache seemed to permeate every fiber of his being.
Overhead, an eerie blue luminescence flickered to life, bathing the grotto in an otherworldly glow. Ghostly runes shimmered in the air before coalescing into a semi-translucent window hovering before Guster's bewildered gaze.
**_Ｃｏｎｇｒａｔｕｌａｔｉｏｎｓ！_**
**_Ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅ ｓｌａｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｆｏｕｌ Ｆｅｓｔｅｒｉｎｇ Ｏｎｅ，
ａ ｔｗｉｓｔｅｄ ｆａｉｌｕｒｅ ｏｆ ｆｌｅｓｈ ａｎｄ ｍａｇｉｃ．_**
**_Ｆｏｒ ｓｕｒｖｉｖｉｎｇ ｔｈｉｓ ｇｒｕｅｌｉｎｇ ｏｒｄｅａｌ，
ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅ ｂｅｅｎ ｇｒａｎｔｅｄ ａ ｂｏｏｎ．．．_**
The ghostly text faded, replaced by Guster's updated status window:
## DING! Level Up! DING!
Mad Fister Guster,
Prepare to celebrate, because you've just HULKED your way through an epic victory! That putrid pile of ooze you pummeled into oblivion, the Festering One, clearly underestimated your fighting spirit.
Look at these Gains:
Level: 24 ➡️ **30** (That's a whopping 6 LEVEL UP! for your troubles.)
Unarmed Combat: 18 ➡️ **30** (Looks like those bare-knuckle brawls paid off! You're a punching machine now!)
Health: Restored 30% of your lost HP and Vitality. Get back in the fight faster with a health bump to **500 HP**!
Not too shabby, right? You're a whole new beast now, Guster. The question is, what monstrosity will you conquer next? Keep brawling, champion!
**Bonus Tip: Don't forget to loot that Festering One for any nasty (or maybe even awesome?!) trophies!
``
The notification's ghostly voice echoed through the grotto, sending an otherworldly chill down Guster's spine.
**_"Ｆｏｒ ｙｏｕｒ ｖａｌｏｒ ａｎｄ ｔｅｎａｃｉｔｙ，
ｙｏｕ ｈａｖｅ ｂｅｅｎ ｇｒａｎｔｅｄ ａ ｎｅｗ ｔｉｔｌｅ．．．"_**
Another shimmering line appeared beneath 'Vermin Slayer':
_• Scourge of the Festering_
**_"Ｍａｙ ｔｈｉｓ ｎｅｗ ｍａｎｔｌｅ ｓｅｒｖｅ ａｓ ａ ｒｅｍｉｎｄｅｒ
ｏｆ ｙｏｕｒ ｇｒｉｍ ｖｉｃｔｏｒｙ ｏｖｅｒ ｔｈｅ ａｂｏｍｉｎａｔｉｏｎ．"_**
-
```
│ Guster, Level 30 │ │ The Culinary Alchemist, Scourge of the Festering │ │ Race: Human Class: Brawler │ Age: 22 │ Subclass: Alchemist │
The ghostly voice echoed once more:
**_"Ａｓ ａ ｒｅｗａｒｄ ｆｏｒ ｖａｎｑｕｉｓｈｉｎｇ ｔｈｅ Ｆｅｓｔｅｒｉｎｇ Ｏｎｅ，
ｙｏｕｒ ｓｔｒｅｎｇｔｈ ｈａｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ ｅｎｈａｎｃｅｄ．"_**
**_"Ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒｍｏｒｅ， ｙｏｕｒ ｖｉｔａｌｉｔｙ ｈａｓ ｂｅｅｎ ｆｏｒｔｉｆｉｅｄ，
ａｌｌｏｗｉｎｇ ｙｏｕ ｔｏ ｒｅｃｏｖｅｒ ｍｏｒｅ ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ ｆｒｏｍ ｂａｔｔｌｅ．"_**
The status window updated with:
Health Regen: +30%
Stamina Regen: +30%
│ Health: 500 (HP Regen +30%) │ Mana: 270/270
│ │ Titles │ │
• Vermin Slayer │ │ │ • Scourge of the festering │ │
│ Stamina: 400/400 (Regen +30%) │ │
┌───────────────────┐
│ Base Stats │
│ Strength: 25 (+30) Dexterity: 12 (+5) Endurance: 14 (+30) │ │ Agility: 10 (+3) Perception: 11 (+5) Resilience: 9 │
│ Durability: 12 (+17) Armor Penetration: 8 │
│ Attack Speed: 12 Mana Regen: 10 │
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
│ └───────────────────┘ │
```
**_"Ｍａｙ ｔｈｅｓｅ ｂｏｏｎｓ ｐｒｏｖｅ ｉｎｖａｌｕａｂｌｅ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｔｒｉａｌｓ ｔｏ ｃｏｍｅ．"_**
The ghostly voice fell silent, and the ethereal window dissipated like a morning fog burned away by the rising sun.
Guster expelled a ragged breath, his battered frame sagging with a mixture of relief and fresh aches. Somehow, against all odds, he'd survived the unsurvivable and emerged...changed. Stronger.
Bolstered stamina recovery would undoubtedly prove crucial in his future bouts of savagery, while improved healing meant he could endure even greater punishment.
But it was the spike in raw power, that primal essence of strength, that set his blood alight with anticipation. Just imagining the sheer devastation his fists could now unleash...
Yes, the culinary possibilities were limitless. Guster could hardly wait to sample the smorgasbord of new ingredients this twisted realm had to offer. After all, his appetite was far from sated.
A feral grin split his blood-caked features. "Well, that was unpleasant. But I'll be damned if it wasn't absolutely invigorating!"
He threw back his head and loosed a belly-deep laugh that echoed through the grotto. Scrag eyed him warily, no doubt convinced the strange human had finally lost what remained of his wits.
As the throbbing in Guster's skull gradually subsided, a new thought took root - a question tinged with both excitement and a shred of trepidation.
What other challenges, what other monstrosities, lay waiting in the depths of this bizarre world? And what unholy gifts might he acquire by overcoming them?
One thing was certain - the culinary alchemist's appetite had only been whetted. He could hardly wait to taste what fresh delicacies awaited on the other side.
Despite the exhaustion gnawing at his bones, a strange feeling bubbled up inside Guster. Here he was, battered and bruised like a week-old banana peel after a particularly enthusiastic breakdancing session, and yet… a weird sense of kinship bloomed towards the Festering One. Not that he felt sorry for the grotesque monstrosity, mind you. Pity parties were a dime a dozen in this new world, and Guster wasn't handing out tickets.
No, this connection ran deeper, darker, like a primordial secret handshake between freaks. More like a begrudging respect for a fellow freak in a freak show.
He eyed the faded murals on the cavern wall, those valiant goblin warriors frozen in eternal combat. "This world clearly has a thing against rejects like us," he mused, a sardonic chuckle escaping his lips. "Guess that just leaves one option, doesn't it, Scrag?"
He glanced at the goblin, who was still huddled in a corner, eyes wide with a mix of terror and something that suspiciously resembled begrudging respect.
"What's wrong, Scrag? Goblin got your tongue?" He leered at the cowering figure. "Don't worry, I'm in a generous mood. That filthy tumor put up a decent scrap – it'd be a shame not to partake in the... spoils of victory."
"Yeah, you," Guster said, a playful jab at the air. "Time to embrace the crazy and turn this whole mess into our own twisted playground. After all, who says chaos can't be fun?"
Guster's voice, though raspy and worn, held a hint of manic glee. He thumped his chest, sending a fresh wave of pain through his battered ribs, but he ignored it. This new reality might be a dumpster fire of weirdness, but hey, at least it was an *interesting* dumpster fire. And who knew, maybe amidst the carnage and the slime, he might just carve out a little kingdom of his own. A gloriously messed-up kingdom, sure, but a kingdom nonetheless.
A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes. "Besides," he continued, a slow smile spreading across his face, "think of the souvenir potential! Imagine the bragging rights back home – 'Yeah, I wrestled a walking pile of ooze and not only did I survive, I even snagged a commemorative drool sample!' Can't you just picture the look on Mildred's face?"
The thought of his uptight neighbor, Mildred, turning a shade of puce green at the mere mention of Festering One-flavored slime sent a fresh wave of dark amusement through Guster. Maybe this whole ordeal wasn't so bad after all. In fact, it might just be the most gloriously bizarre adventure a guy like him could ask for.
He eyed the dried splatter of the creature's ooze clinging to his knuckles, then flicked it off with a nonchalant shrug. "Not exactly prime rib," he muttered, "but hey, desperate times call for desperate… snacks?" A deranged chuckle bubbled up from his chest, echoing eerily in the quiet grotto.
Scrag, who'd been staring at him with the wide-eyed terror of a particularly nervous hamster, flinched at the sound. Guster rolled his eyes. "Relax, Scrag. Big Guster's not exactly planning on going all 'slime time' on you just yet. Although," he added, a mischievous glint in his eye, "it might make a killer new war paint. Imagine the psychological warfare potential! Enemies would be running for the hills before I even landed a punch."
He thumped his chest with a grin, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain shooting through his ribs. Wincing, he grimaced. "Alright, maybe scratch the war paint idea. Unless you know a good goblin chiropractor? Because right now, I feel like I got kicked in the sternum by a particularly enthusiastic mule."
Guster scanned the cavern, his gaze falling on the faded murals. "So, this world doesn't exactly welcome the… aesthetically challenged, huh?" He snorted. "Well, two can play at that game. We'll show them what a couple of rejects can do. We'll build our own freak show empire! The Guster and Scrag Spectacular! Admission: fear and trembling."
He nudged the still-cowering Scrag with his elbow. "What do you say, Scrag? Up for a little revolution? Or are you content to spend the rest of your days polishing the, uh, underbelly of goblin society?"
Scrag, still wide-eyed but with a hint of hesitant curiosity replacing the pure terror, squeaked, "R-revolution? B-but the Goblin King... he's, uh, very big and has a lot of pointy sticks."
Guster barked a laugh, a harsh, humorless sound that bounced off the cavern walls. "Pointy sticks? Scrag, my friend, you underestimate the power of sheer, unadulterated madness! Plus," he leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a low rasp, "we might have a secret weapon in our possession."
He gestured towards a glob of the Festering One's ooze that clung stubbornly to his boot. Scrag's eyes widened even further, and he scrambled back a few paces.
"Don't worry, it's not like it's some kind of magical McRib that turns you into a drooling rage monster," Guster said with a smirk. "Although, that could be a fun experiment for later. No, this," he tapped the ooze with a finger, "this could be the key to unlocking some serious power. Imagine an army of goblins, Scrag, not just regular scrawny runts, but hulking, green juggernauts! We'd be unstoppable!"
A manic glint shone in Guster's eyes. He straightened his back, ignoring the fresh wave of pain, and puffed out his chest in a display of mock bravado. "We'll be the envy of every freak show in the land! We'll have spiked mohawks, fire-breathing goblins, and maybe even a goblin who can finally tell the difference between his left foot and his… well, you get the picture."
He nudged Scrag again, this time a little more forcefully. "So, what do you say? Are you with me, Scrag? Ready to trade in your mop and bucket for a flamethrower and a pointy hat? Because this revolution ain't gonna win itself."
Scrag remained silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. The image of a fire-breathing goblin did hold a certain appeal, and the idea of not being the lowest rung on the goblin social ladder was tempting. Finally, he took a deep breath and squeaked out, "A-alright, Madlord. But only if I get to keep my lucky bucket. It's got sentimental value."
Guster threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, full-bodied laugh that echoed through the cavern. The sound was devoid of malice, for the first time since his arrival, laced with a hint of camaraderie. "Deal, Scrag. Now, let's get out of this stinkhole and find ourselves a fire-breathing goblin. This revolution ain't gonna wait for us to finish our sightseeing tour."
"Y-yes, Mad lord!"
"Right then," Guster grunted, pushing off from the cavern wall with a grunt of effort. "Let's see if we can't find a way out of this dumpy pit. I'm ready for a change of scenery."
Scrag perked up at that, his beady eyes glinting with a flicker of hope. "O-oh, yes, please! Away from this terrible place!"
He scurried ahead towards a cramped passage, hunched nearly double but plainly eager to put as much distance between them and the Festering One's resting place as possible. Guster followed at a more sedate pace, rolling his aching shoulders.
---
The passage was even tighter and more claustrophobic than the Whispering Tunnels. Guster hunched over, his broad shoulders grazing the cramped walls as he squeezed through the narrow confines.
"You sure know how to show a guest a good time, Scrag," he grumbled, ducking to avoid a particularly low-hanging stalactite. "Prime real estate you've got here. Cozy, if you don't mind the occasional bat guano shower."
Scrag scurried ahead, his bulbous eyes wide in the inky gloom. "J-just a bit further, Madlord! Promise!"
"Brilliant navigational skills you've got there, Scrag," he called out, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Where are you leading us this time? A cozy little goblin-sized broom closet?"
Up ahead, Scrag's muffled voice barely carried over the scraping of their boots on stone. "J-just follow me, Madlord! This passage should take us up and out, away from the tunnels!"
The goblin's assurances did little to assuage Guster's growing sense of unease. With every labored step, the tunnel seemed to contract around them like the gullet of some subterranean leviathan. Guster couldn't shake the feeling they were heading deeper into trouble, not away from it.
A muffled thud and a high-pitched yelp up ahead confirmed his suspicions.
*chuckles* So this scruffy little goblin named Scrag, who was probably as clumsy as a newborn deer on an ice rink, was leading the way, completely oblivious to the fact that his echolocating friend Guster, who got that nifty ability from snacking on some bat monsters, knew they were headed straight into trouble.
But instead of spilling the beans, our friend here was just letting Scrag prance along, convinced they were about to hit the goblin jackpot. You know, because who doesn't love a bit of dramatic irony before a good old-fashioned battle royale? It's almost like Scrag is the opening act for a really twisted comedy show.
"Son of a bread basket," Guster growled, only to find Scrag sprawled on the cavern floor, having tripped over an exposed root...again. "Need me to get you one of those baby harnesses? Maybe a nice pair of reins?"
Scrag scrambled back to his feet, dusting off his tattered tunic. "N-no need, Madlord! I'm quite alright, j-just a bit of a stumble, that's all!"
As Guster hauled the goblin upright with surprising gentleness, his gaze fell upon their new surroundings.
After what felt like an eternity of blind stumbling, they finally emerged into a larger cavern.
The dank air carried the faint tang of smoke and...something else. Something sickly sweet, cloying.
Guster blinked in the sudden torchlight, his gaze falling upon a sight that made his blood run cold.
"You've got to be joking..." he muttered under his breath.
Grothmog, the Goblin King, sat on a crude throne of crudely lashed bone and dragontooth, surrounded by his elite Gnashers – hulking, heavily armored goblins known for their brutality even among their warlike kind. A savage grin split the king's features, revealing a single yellowed tusk protruding obscenely from his lower jaw.
Scrag whimpered, his diminutive frame trembling violently. "We... We took a wrong turn, Madlord."
"No kidding," Guster muttered through gritted teeth. He scanned the throne room, making a quick assessment. Half a dozen Gnashers in full plate, armed to the tooth. Grothmog himself, while lacking the raw bulk of Gorstag, radiated a feral cunning that set Guster's instincts on edge. Bad odds, but nothing the culinary alchemist hadn't faced before.
Guster's lips peeled back in a tight, savage grin, adrenaline flooding his veins anew. If this was the next challenge this demented realm had to offer, so be it. He'd overcome worse...and he could already feel his culinary juices flowing.
(The adventure continues! If you're hooked, hit that 5-star button and let others know. There's more to come...)