The thick, humid stench of the slums faded behind him as Grk moved from the twisting alleys into the bustling center of town. Here, life was cleaner, safer, and shielded from the grime of the world he came from. But he felt the stares; townsfolk gave him wide-eyed glances, shuffling out of his path as he slithered through the streets. His rough skin shimmered in patches where the dim light caught, giving him an almost eerie gleam that set him further apart from the refined surroundings.
In one hand, Grk clutched his Scrap Gun—a cobbled-together piece of junk to anyone who didn’t know better. A mishmash of metal plates, exposed screws, and cracked piping, it looked as though it might fall apart if someone so much as breathed on it wrong. But for Grk, it was his pride. A weapon that took years of scavenging and ingenuity to craft, pieced together from discarded scrap and fragments no one else had the patience to see value in. To him, it was a masterpiece, perfectly suited for the job at hand.
He’d heard about this potion shop for weeks. Rumor had it that this shop had potions that weren’t just effective but reliable, brimming with concoctions powerful enough to heal the deepest wounds, boost strength, and even temporarily extend the limits of magical prowess. Priceless to any adventurer or mercenary—and to Grk, a treasure trove waiting to be unearthed.
The building stood apart from the slum shanties he knew, an impressive two-story structure with gleaming white walls and windows so clear they could have been illusions. A fortified door marked its entrance, flanked by two watchful guards in chainmail, each holding a spear. They bore the insignia of the town’s knights, more than enough muscle to dissuade anyone with thoughts on stealing anything. But Grk had something special today. He kept his eyes low as he approached, looking every bit the out-of-place slum-dweller. He’d practiced his plan over and over in his mind, each detail sharpened to precision. His first target was the pair by the door, the first line of defense.
Grk made his move fast, lifting the Scrap Gun and pulling the trigger before they even saw the weapon. With a metallic thud, a torrent of shrapnel burst forth, metal fragments spinning through the air with deadly speed. One guard cried out as the spray of shards shredded into his armor, cutting through the chainmail and biting into flesh. The other barely had time to react before a jagged piece embedded itself in his shoulder, forcing him back, clutching his wound in shock. Grk knew he had seconds. He slithered forward, pushing past the groaning guards with his weapon reloaded, his eyes scanning for the next obstacle. The interior of the shop was dimly lit, its high shelves crammed with glass bottles of various colors, potions and elixirs glowing faintly in the gloom. Each bottle represented wealth, power, survival—all the things Grk had lacked his entire life.
The two guards stationed inside were quick to react, bristling with purpose as soon as they heard the crash from the doorway. Unlike the guards outside, these two were well-armed and ready for trouble. Their armor shone beneath the magic lamps that illuminated the shop, casting sharp glints off the silver-plated metal and giving them an almost ethereal gleam. Each carried a sword strapped at the hip, polished to a deadly shine, their grips firm as their eyes settled on Grk with steely focus.
One of the guards—a tall man with a fierce glare and scars etched across his face—snarled a command to his partner and broke into a sprint toward Grk, sword drawn and raised. His eyes burned with determination; he was clearly no stranger to close combat. Each of his steps echoed in the shop, heavy and rhythmic, his focus trained entirely on the intruder as he rushed forward, intent on driving his blade through the slugman’s bulky chest.
Grk didn’t flinch. His steady gaze met the guard’s, his massive form crouching slightly to brace himself. In one fluid motion, he raised his Scrap Gun, his fingers tightening around the worn grip as he aimed. He could see every detail—the sweat glistening on the guard’s brow, the creak of his leather straps, the tension in his muscles as he prepared for the killing blow.
Grk squeezed the trigger, and with a deafening blast, the Scrap Gun exploded to life, releasing a concentrated volley of metal shards. The air seemed to warp around the weapon’s force, and the guard had no time to react as the shards ripped into his chest. The polished silver of his armor buckled under the brutal impact, blood spotting the metal as jagged pieces tore through, finding the gaps and piercing deep. The guard stumbled, a look of shock crossing his face as he staggered back, clutching his chest where blood was now seeping through his fingers. He gasped, his grip on the sword loosening before he finally dropped to one knee, his breathing shallow and strained.
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The second guard hesitated, a flicker of fear flashing in his eyes as he took in the sight of his injured comrade. He gripped his sword tighter, jaw clenched, and adjusted his stance, grounding his feet with a practiced balance. He was readying himself, calculating the next move, his gaze shifting warily between Grk and his fallen partner. This guard was more cautious, his gaze sharper, his stance wide as he weighed the threat of the Scrap Gun.
But Grk wasn’t about to let him have the advantage. Before the guard could fully assess his move, Grk shifted his aim, the Scrap Gun’s barrel swinging to meet the guard’s gaze. There was a heartbeat of silence, the faint whir of Grk’s contraption filling the tense space between them, and then he pulled the trigger again.
Another brutal blast erupted, filling the room with a spray of metal fragments. The shrapnel hit the guard with unforgiving force, embedding deep into his armor, punching through as if it were little more than cloth. The guard’s face twisted in agony, his teeth clenched as the jagged pieces tore into his skin, his arms, and his chest. Blood seeped from dozens of punctures, each one adding to the growing stain on his armor.
He staggered back, his sword slipping from his grip, clattering to the floor as his strength failed him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed in a heap, breaths coming in ragged gasps as his eyes flickered, the fire of determination now dimmed with pain and shock. Grk stood still for a moment, his grip still firm on the Scrap Gun, his breathing calm and unhurried. The room was silent, save for the faint crackle of cooling metal and the labored breaths of the downed guards. The faint glow of the magic lamps cast long shadows, dancing across the blood-spattered walls and the shards of scrap littering the floor.
Satisfied, Grk lowered his weapon and glanced around the shop. His eyes flicked back to the shelves of potions, rows of glass vials glowing with faint, magical light. It was time to get what he came for. Grk quickly began snatching potions off the shelves, stuffing them into a satchel slung over his shoulder. A deep red vial here, a shimmering blue there—each one carefully selected as his hands moved with calculated speed. Outside, the cries of bystanders and the clanking of additional guards’ armor signaled his narrowing window of escape. He grinned, a low rumble of satisfaction escaping his throat. He was almost done.
A sudden clang echoed from the doorway. The first pair of guards, injured but still clinging to duty, were back on their feet, leaning heavily on each other as they glared at him through bleary eyes. Reinforcements from the town watch were arriving, their shouts growing louder. Grk shoved one last vial into his bag and turned, but he knew he needed to make an exit fast. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a molotov, a rough glass bottle stuffed with a rag and filled with alcohol he’d kept hidden within his Spirit Dimension. He lit the rag with a flint spark and hurled it toward the shop entrance just as the guards burst through.
The bottle shattered, and fire erupted, licking hungrily up the doorframe and spreading to the shelves nearby. The blaze caught quickly, spreading with unnatural speed as it fed on the potions and alchemical ingredients lining the walls. The guards staggered back, cursing as the flames forced them to retreat, thick smoke billowing out and blocking their view.
Grk didn’t wait to admire the chaos. With a satisfied smirk, he ducked out of a side window, squeezing his small frame through the narrow space and landing on the street outside. Alarms rang through the town as knights and guards rushed toward the burning building, their cries echoing through the air as citizens scattered.
He slithered into the shadows of an alley, his bag clinking with the stolen potions, the acrid smell of smoke still clinging to him. His pulse quickened as he wound his way back toward the slums, away from the wealth and order of the town’s heart, back to where he belonged. There, his loot would be safe, each bottle hidden away in his Spirit Dimension, awaiting the time he’d need them. As he vanished into the darkened alleyways, the shouts of the knights and the roar of the flames faded behind him, replaced by the familiar murmur of slum life.