Of course, Rhode spotted the body first.

There was an obstructed nook, tucked away in the corner of the nursery. A boot laid out on the floor, sticking out from behind a dainty cabinet. It was narrow and tall, with high, swan-neck legs. It was a display case, and there were artful little arrangements behind the glass pane, rows and wreathes of baby teeth: hundreds of them in sets, or mixed to form mosaics of gentle, fat animals and a single quaint, rustic cottage. Rot clouded the edge of the window, and stained the corners of the interior with orange film wherever it took root.

The goblin had slumped against the wall. He sat crooked, bent with the comfort of a drunk. The lantern peeled away his dignity suddenly. His eyes were glassy, and his face locked in an expression of resigned disappointment. The linen of his tunic was clean and proudly well-maintained. The symbol of his service was a humble, but exquisitely stitched clock tower. The embroidery ran up in an ocher stripe along his left breast, from hip, nearly to shoulder. His flesh was pale and plastic – and at first blush, Rhode might have forgiven himself for mistaking the body for wax doll.

“Sorry, buddy,” he whispered. “It’s never fair, is it?”

He spotted the blood next. There were speckles of it, dark flecks on the uniform. There was more, a slick hand, a wet patch on the sleeve. But the color wasn’t right for goblin-blood. The hue was vivid and violet, congealing to an ugly bruise of a purple-brown.

Villain Intunmeroon-whatingooodnessnamewerehisparentsthinking’s voice hissed from the room behind. “Light!” he demanded.

Rhode ignored the request. He swept the lantern about face, and backed slowly towards the fallen soldier.

“Checking on something,” the homunculus replied. He spoke loudly, halfway to shouting.

Instead of risking a crouch, his knees crooked just low enough that he could reach out and lay a hand on the soldier’s head. Rhode knew it was possible that this man was still alive. He should be able to check the man’s vital signs by placing his fingers alongside a vein or artery.

But Rhode didn’t. He wasn’t a doctor. He was carrying a stool.

“Casualty,” he said instead. This time, he spoke more quietly. He moved forward, and away. Although he stepped to desperately avoid the dental cabinet, he otherwise held his shoulder to the wall.

There was a servants’ door on his right: half camouflaged to match the wallpaper, so short and narrow that it might pinch a goblin to thread it. Leftwards was back towards the covered storage.

Forward in the dark, a cased opening, framed by simple round pilasters and through to another adjoining room. Within, a bare dining table turned at an angle. A row of display cases, a few with shattered glass faces. An overturned vase, down sideways on the hardwood floor – glazed cardinal red, with delicate zinc-white flowers. A second goblin, facedown and still in the black and orange, their neck bent at a fatal angle.

Despite everything, despite himself, Rhode began to smile. Broadly, oafishly. He felt guilt, but could not hold on to it. An ebullient mood filled him up, rising like cold spring water up from his belly up to the base of his skull.

He adjusted the stool in his grip. He heard the creak of a floorboard. He took one last step forward.

“Hoo. This is going to suck,” the homunculus whispered to himself.

But his grin was so wide, his cheeks hurt.

When the third Hero appeared, they did so without flourish or fanfare. Their body was huge and ungainly, with frightful proportions. Their face, a near exact match of Rhode’s own, just like Edilberto before them.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Twins. Now triplets.

The Third’s head popped out from behind the cover of the right jamb. Their skin was ghastly pale from blood loss, and the dim phosphorescent blur which trailed an afterimage of their every motion by a fraction of a centimeter.

“He- crap,” said Rhode. The kitchen knife which whipped towards his head smacked handle first into the stool he held in its way. The blade spun wildly away out of his vision, and he ignored the yelp of a surprised goblin.

The Third's arm was long and lanky. Grossly disproportionate, but in a completely different way than Rhode's own. The other monster's pitch was practiced and fluid, forceful like the crack of a whip.

<<चले जाओ, CGI सुअर!>> the homunculus shouted. They vanished behind the wall again.

"In the smoking lounge!" cried out Goodeman Douk.

"I'm fine!" Rhode called out. "Hold back! Give me a second!"

Warily, he held the lantern out to the side and stepped further left. He raised the stool as a shield.

<> he tried again.

A second knife flew out. The point gashed into the wooden seat face, but at enough of an angle that it bounced away too.

<<राक्षस, दूर रहो! Shoo!>> the Third called from out of view. Their voice was weak and ragged.

Strangely, it had been easy to spot the other homunculus in the dark. Their anemic pallor was so white it was almost luminous. Their arm was naked and bleeding from a forearm gash. Their body was wrapped in an embroidered bedsheet.

<> Rhode chirped calmly.

Ignoring the clinking of metal being rummaged through, he edged his toe ahead, sliding his shoes over the carpet in tiny, measured steps.

<>

Rhode blanched as the third knife embedded itself into his defensive seating appliance. The blade wobbled with the spring of good steel.

<<तुम्हें लगता है मैं डरा हुआ हूँ? Hah? मैं तुम्हें चुनौती देता हूं, come close मै तुम्हें मरूँगा!>>

The Third stuck an iron fire poker out from their hiding place and shook it threateningly, but Rhode was fixated on something else. He froze in confusion, then peered in growing suspicion.

“What did he say?” Tinc demanded.

“I said give me a second, man. You want my help? Respect the process,” Rhode coughed.

A casual swing of his stool shattered an incoming long-necked glass bottle into a spray of shards that he mostly avoided.

<>

There was a long pause. Tinc hissed at Rhode to ask what was happening, and Rhode shushed him back.

Slowly, hesitantly, the Third hero stepped into view. There was a flat, emotionless expression on its slack face. But there was another visage laid overtop it, painting its features a different shape.

<> asked a soft voice.

<> Rhode beamed. <>

The third hero stared at him with widening eyes. They regarded the metal rod in their hand and lowered it slowly. The light threw its head back in exasperation and the flesh followed after it just a hair’s breadth behind. A throaty, unhinged laugh wracked their body.

<<अरे क्या?!? Oh my god. मैं ही क्यों, you’re American. Of course you are. I am in Hell.>>