I was still getting used to the feeling of inhabiting another creature, even after defeating several goblins and the larger hobgoblin. I still moved as if I was wearing a costume that didn’t quite fit, or wielding a sword that wasn’t quite balanced right. My claws felt too short, my gait too clumsy and my stature was too low to the ground compared to my life before entering the dungeon. Admittedly I didn’t dislike the power that came with each meal, but the form I found myself in was less than desirable. As I prowled in the shadows, I continued to probe at the boundaries for the goblin’s body and my own capabilities. Searching for the limits, trying to understand the strengths I had obtained.

What did I gain from the goblin and hobgoblin? From the wolf? Was there a way to combine their senses and abilities in this goblin’s body to push it to the edge?

I decided to test the limits of my agility by darting around the narrow pathways of the dungeon’s tunnels, using my enhanced senses to weave through stalagmites and imaginary obstacles. This was more than the goblin itself was capable of - each step was wolf-like guided by a combination of senses. The goblin skin felt different from my own flesh, but at the same time it was better than being without a body to inhabit at all. My ability to infuse the host with my own power, as well as the abilities of creatures I had previously inhabited or consumed meant I was already pushing the boundaries of the goblin’s capabilities.

I continued to move through the dungeon, my thoughts drifted back to what I actually knew about dungeons. My brief exposure to them had taught me about the dungeon cores and the bosses that protect them, about monsters and their ecosystems, but the Abyssal Pit was different. As with all s-rank dungeons, this dungeon was alive, ancient and layered with a deeper sense of purpose. Each creature I encountered wasn’t just a mindless beast - they were the product of a deeper world that was confined to the dungeon, one I had barely begun to understand.

The goblin memories that had imprinted on me offered whispers, fragmented thoughts from the goblin’s perspective. Primal fears and instincts that were bound to the soil and stone. Goblins were far from adventurers, but they understood the dungeon, they had an innate understanding of how the tunnels connected, something I could only begin to comprehend. I began to view the Abyssal Pit not as a prison, or a maze. But as something more profound, a little world that had been forsaken by its creator.

The goblin I had taken as a host wasn’t particularly strong, but it held memories of deeper places I had yet to explore. Places so dark they dared not to venture into, filled with malice that even the hobgoblins feared. In that darkness there were secrets, each passageway was intentional. Meant to direct outsiders deeper into its depths, pulling them towards something hidden far below, lost to the passage of time.

I stopped as I caught the scent of another pack of goblins. This was an opportunity to test just how much I passed as a goblin, strength and power was great. But if I could actually convince others that I was one of their own, I would be a lethal weapon. I shuffled forward, averting my gaze and adopting a slack, sloppy posture, mimicking the goblin’s mannerisms.

Three goblins were gathered around a small campfire, chattering in low tones and gnawing on scraps they had scavenged. I could feel my heart beginning to race, a predatory sensation swelling inside my core. This felt like a huge risk, I had no idea if I could pass for a goblin in this state - or if there was a tell tale sign that I was something else I hadn’t thought about.

One of the goblins, a scraggly creature that kept a crude club close, noticed me first. Its yellowed eyes squinted, suspicious but not alarmed. I grunted at him, a low guttural tone that I understood from my host meant a truce, a common greeting to strangers that I meant no harm. They grunted back in return, the three of them returning to their pitiful meal.

“See anything?” one of the goblins snorted, his voice scratchy.

The language was broken and basic, but thanks to scraping together the fragments in my host’s mind I was able to make sense of it fairly quickly.

“No,” I replied in kind, my voice sounding gravely and foreign. “Just hunger. Looking for big food.”

They nodded in agreement, still watching me carefully, but I seemed to have put them at ease. I edged closer, I could feel the hunger growing ravenous. I wanted to eat them. I needed to.

They fell into more relaxed conversation, talking about their “chief” who had recently commanded a hunting party to the next floor of the dungeon. That word made me pause. A chief? There were leaders among goblins? In most dungeons they acted on instinct and to survive, they were the furthest thing from organised. This revelation made my curiosity peak.

The goblin with the club scoffed, crossing his arms. “Boss tell us stay put. But no reason to hunt here. Everything dead. Or Hiding. Safer Below.”

“Safer,” one of the others muttered in response. This goblin had sharper teeth than usual. “Minotaur close. Boss think he clever. But minotaur… Minotaur everywhere…” His voice dropped to a whisper, clearly fearful of the beast as he looked over his shoulders.

I shared the goblins' fear of the minotaur. To us it was an unstoppable juggernaut, its presence reverberating through the walls like a heartbeat. It was a force of nature that we were powerless against. I was lucky to escape it the first time, but even with my newfound power I would struggle to survive another encounter.

The goblins continued to chatter around the campfire, complaining about the lack of food, the strange commands of their chief, and the ever present threat of the minotaur. I listened intently, gathering every drop of information they spilled. It was a gamble, but I began to connect the dots of a plan - a way to manoeuvre through the dungeon without having to fight every creature I encountered. With enough guile, I could manipulate the goblins into escorting me deeper into the dungeon while shielding me from any unexpected threats.

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The idea was tempting. Gather a group of goblins and command them to venture deeper into the dungeon. They would draw attention away from me, while I was free to move unseen, using them as a puppet master from the shadows of safety. With each goblin I consumed, I would grow in power, I could become their chieftain, leading the pitiful creatures to serve my ends.

Just as I stood to test the boundaries of my influence, a low rumble reverberated through the walls of the cave. The unmistakable sound of heavy, slow footsteps that resonated as a drumbeat. The piercing sound of horns scraping against the ceiling.

It was the minotaur.

I had heard it first, but the goblins quickly tensed as they stopped nattering. They cast frantic glances at each other before scurrying up to the nearest tunnels. But I stayed still, the minotaur was still too far off to sense us directly. I focused on its rhythm and direction instead, its ferocity was a living deterrent to all but the most foolish or desperate. I wanted to learn how to bypass, or even manipulate it. If I could do that, it would be even more valuable than controlling the goblins.

The last goblin was frozen in fear, so I used that to my advantage. I issued a command in a low his, an air of authority in my voice. “Stay,” I ordered. “Boss needs this entrance. Hold here.”

The goblin glanced around, clearly torn between obeying and fleeing. It finally nodded, fear overriding any instinct for it to question my authority. I watched it shiver as the distant footsteps faded away, its mind occupied with terror. Their lack of intelligence made them easily to manipulate, and this goblin now served as another pair of eyes to watch for the minotaur’s approach.

I turned and left through another tunnel that looked abandoned, the goblin now between me and the minotaur. Even if it failed to follow me when it spotted the minotaur, it served its purpose in obeying my orders.

As I ventured further into the tunnel, an odd sensation hit my claws, almost as if the stone floor pulsed with life. There were strange, ancient ruins faintly etched into the next cave I found myself in. Covered in layers of moss and grime, but they pulsed dimly as if they were breathing. These markings weren’t just scars left by another creature, these symbols spoke of something deeper. Something mystical that no monster could comprehend.

I crouched down, running my claw along one of the symbols, something stirred deep within me. Like a distant memory, something forgotten yet undeniable. I recalled my father’s words, spoken in the quiet confines of his chambers. He would often tell stories to his children, believing it would make us scholars. He spoke of Draegoth’s power, how the kingdom was built not on strength, but of ancient power - secrets that had rooted us firmly in power and made us feared.

Central to those stories was the Eclipse Stone.

If my father was to be believed, the stone was a relic from the old Gods. Forged in the age before men took their current forms. A relic bathed in its own shadowed light, that glistened like the stars. Only those of Draegoth blood were rumoured to be capable of awakening its power. But the power granted came at a terrible cost, no price a mortal could bear without sacrifice.

‘Is that what happened to me?’ I thought to myself, recalling my father’s ominous warning.

I had dismissed the legends as myths, exaggerated tales to intimidate those foolish enough to challenge the crown. But looking down at my monstrous hands, I couldn’t deny what had happened. Was this the power of the stone? Of my bloodline? Or some twisted event as a result of the dungeon?

A bit further along the corridor, I found myself drawn to another set of runes that were arranged in a spiral pattern. They glowed slightly brighter, as if responding to my presence. My father’s words flickered to the forefront of my mind.

“Only in darkness will you see the path to power. Only through sacrifice will the gate be revealed.”

The runes were etched in the ancient script of Draegoth. Remnants of our ancestral language, that few in the court could still read. I traced my claws along the symbols, understanding them at an instinctual level as if a part of me already knew these words.

The message described the dungeon’s core, a place of concentrated power, said to be the Eclipse Stone itself. I recalled the tales of warriors who had sought to wield the power, losing their minds or reappearing as twisted shadows of themselves. None had ever returned unscathed.

In the deepest recesses of my memory, I could almost feel the dark energy throbbing with a pull that now felt disturbingly familiar.

I pulled my claw from the rune, the stone’s magic hadn’t just transformed me. It had bound me to this place, tied my fate to the dungeon itself. I shivered at the realisation of just how deep that bond might go.

Was this why my father had cast me down here? Had he known I would be drawn to the dungeon? Was this all part of some unspoken punishment? Or a test of my worth? What I had deemed to be a death sentence, was it in fact a trial or a saving grace?

I clenched my fists, the latent power I had stolen from the hobgoblin simmering under my skin. I was beginning to understand. This dungeon held more than creatures to hunt, it was a trial. A forge where I could take what I needed, honing my own power and clawing out with my own strength.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely. A curse that reduced me to a monster, punishment for the supposed betrayal to the bloodline. Perhaps I wasn’t the first to fall prey to it’s magic, or perhaps it affected each of us differently.

I understood now what the runes had meant. Darkness was my path to power. And the monsters I consumed or inhabited were my gateway. The dungeon itself was a proving ground, that had been put in place generations ago. Whether I embraced the power, or wallowed in the curse was Draegoth’s dark secret.

But I wouldn’t wallow. I would use this power to my fullest, I would consume everything within these walls to grow stronger. Forging myself into the ultimate weapon that even King Valthar would have feared in his prime. This was my path forward - a way to reclaim my legacy and to ascend beyond mortal comprehension.

I would delve further into the dungeon, further enhancing myself. Eating the weak until I was the strongest creature in the Abyssal Pit. And then I would claw my way back to the surface and lay down my claim on the kingdom.

On my Kingdom.

Perhaps I would also find answers, what my ancestors had planned this trial for. What they had gone out of their way to prepare such a power for. Did they have an enemy even King Valthar couldn’t face? He was the peak example of Draegoth, without equal. Or so it was recorded.

Either way I had a renewed conviction, I wasn’t going to let the power of the stone dominate me. It was now my weapon.