Chapter 5
Avan crouched beneath the overhang, the faint drip of water tapping against the stone behind him. Purple torchlight flickered across the cavern, casting jagged shadows that twisted like restless spirits. His penknife, chipped but steady, rested in his hand, its weight a quiet anchor. At his wrist, the potential for the Origin Energy Shield lingered—a shimmering construct of gold and silver threaded with violet sparks he could summon when needed, not a permanent fixture. His other hand tingled, Origin Energy Projectiles coiled beneath his skin, ready to be unleashed. He’d spent hours here, patching up the gashes and bruises with Origin Healing—now Level 2—until his body felt whole again, the lingering ache in his ribs fading to a dull whisper. The dungeon’s low hum thrummed through the floor, a steady vibration that set his nerves humming. Beyond the overhang lay the Boss Room, and with it, the *Dungeon Guardian*—a Hobgoblin beast he’d glimpsed in fleeting rune-visions, its red eyes burning in his memory. He wasn’t charging in blind. Not after clawing his way this far.
With a slow breath, Avan stood, brushing grit off his knees. The golden runes carved into the archway ahead flared as he approached, their light syncing with the electric buzz in his chest, sending a shiver up his spine. He moved carefully, hugging the shadows along the wall, his boots silent on the rubble-strewn floor. The air grew thick, heavy with a metallic tang that coated his throat. The Boss Room opened before him—a vast, shattered chamber of ancient stone and swirling mist. Its ceiling stretched into shadow, swallowed by darkness, while the walls glowed faintly with rune-etched patterns, pulsing in rhythm with his own energy. Shattered pillars jutted from the ground like broken ribs, their bases choked with ash and jagged bone fragments. The mist hung low, curling around his legs, its chill seeping through his worn jacket.
Avan paused at the entrance, ducking behind a cracked boulder. His eyes narrowed, scanning the space with cold precision. Identification flared in his mind, sharp and clear: Ancient chamber, unstable footing, scattered cover—pillars, rocks, debris. The runes on the walls drew his gaze, their golden gleam flickering like distant stars. They felt alive, tied to the Origin Energy thrumming inside him—a resource he tucked away for later. His focus shifted to the center of the room. There it was—the *Dungeon Guardian*.
The Hobgoblin loomed above the mist, a grotesque colossus of muscle and menace. Nine feet tall, its frame bulged with raw power, its skin a mottled gray-green, cracked and rough like weathered stone. Fissures split its hide, oozing faint purple mist that twisted upward in thin, shimmering wisps. Its eyes blazed red, twin embers cutting through the haze, framed by twisted horns that curled from its skull like a warped crown. A massive bone club, studded with jagged shards, hung from its right hand, scraping the stone with each heavy step. Its left arm hefted a crude shield—dented metal glowing faintly red, as if heated by some inner fire. Tattered fur scraps draped its shoulders, matted with ash, swaying as it paced, its clawed feet leaving deep prints in the dust.
Avan’s heart kicked hard, but he clamped it down, studying the beast. Identification chimed again: Dungeon Guardian—Hobgoblin variant, brute strength, sluggish speed, cracked exterior, fissures vulnerable to precise strikes, resistant to blunt trauma. It was a tank, built to crush anything dumb enough to get close. But slow. That was his edge. The Hobgoblin’s head jerked, eyes sweeping the room, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. Its roar thundered through the chamber, a guttural bellow that rattled the debris underfoot, sending a splinter of bone skittering past Avan’s hiding spot.
“Stay sharp,” he muttered, barely audible. He shifted behind the boulder, mapping the terrain. The room was a maze of cover—pillars, rocks, the mist itself if he stayed low. His Origin Energy Projectiles could hit those fissures from range, chipping away without risking a direct fight. He could summon the Origin Energy Shield to block any wild swings or flying debris—he’d practiced enough to trust it, but maintaining it would drain him fast. And the runes… if he could tap them, boost his power, it might tip the scales. A risk, but one he’d take if pushed.
Avan edged forward, keeping the boulder between him and the beast. The Hobgoblin’s patrol was steady, its club dragging in a slow arc, gouging the stone. He darted to a fallen pillar, crouching as the mist swallowed his boots. The air buzzed louder here, a resonant drone that pressed against his skull. He peeked over the pillar’s edge, tracking the creature’s rhythm. It paused, head tilting, shield arm twitching upward. Avan froze, breath held, until it lumbered on, turning toward the far wall. He let the air out slow, mind racing through his plan.
Those fissures were his target—cracks where the purple mist leaked, weak spots he could exploit. Hit them right, and he might cripple it without a melee brawl. He flexed his fingers, Origin Energy sparking to life—golden threads streaked with silver and violet, sharp against the dimness. Mobility was key; he’d keep it off balance, use the room to outmaneuver it. The shield worried him—that glowing metal could block torso shots. He’d aim high—neck, shoulders, maybe the head if he got lucky.
Avan slipped to another rock, closer now, the Hobgoblin’s stench hitting him—damp fur, ash, and a sharp, burnt-metal edge. Its back faced him, horns glinting in the torchlight. He raised a hand, a single Origin Energy Projectile forming—a tight, glowing bolt. He held it, waiting, lining up the shot. The Hobgoblin spun, eyes flaring, and Avan dropped, the bolt dissolving into harmless sparks. Too damn close. He pressed flat against the rock, cursing under his breath as the creature growled, club tapping the floor, searching.
Time stretched, taut and quiet, until the Hobgoblin’s focus drifted. Avan rose, wiping sweat from his face. His energy reserves held steady—he’d rationed them under the overhang, sipping that bitter moss water for a final boost. One last check: penknife secure, shield potential primed, projectiles ready. He glanced at the runes, their glow steady, tempting. If he could reach them in the chaos, channel that power… it might be his ace. No turning back now.
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Avan’s heart thudded, but he forced it steady, summoning a single Origin Energy Projectile—a tight bolt of gold and silver laced with violet sparks. It drained him instantly, a sharp pull on his reserves, but he held it, waiting, breath shallow. The Hobgoblin’s back was turned, its shield lowered, horns glinting in the torchlight. Perfect. He exhaled, loosing the bolt in a silent arc through the mist, aiming for a fissure near its shoulder. The projectile struck, a burst of light and shadow, purple mist erupting as it grazed the crack, drawing a guttural snarl. Black ichor oozed, and the creature spun, roaring, its red eyes locking onto him, club raised. The surprise worked, but barely—it staggered, off-balance, but not down. Avan grinned grimly, already sprinting to another pillar, the mist swallowing his retreat. “Got your attention,” he muttered, voice low, adrenaline surging. The fight was on.
The Hobgoblin charged, club swinging in a brutal, downward arc, its roar shaking the chamber, debris rattling beneath Avan’s boots. He dove, rolling behind a boulder as the club crashed into the pillar he’d left, stone exploding in a shower of fragments. A shard caught his calf, slicing through his pants, warm blood trickling down his leg. Pain flared, but he ignored it, popping up to fire another Origin Energy Projectile—gold and violet streaking through the haze, hitting a fissure on its thigh. More mist sprayed, and it roared, slowing, but its shield snapped up, blocking his next shot, metal ringing like a gong. Avan ducked, the club’s next swing obliterating his cover, rubble pelting his back, bruising his shoulders. He scrambled, heart pounding, weaving through the mist, firing a bolt at another fissure on its arm—another hit, more mist, but the energy drain hit hard, his hands trembling, sweat stinging his eyes.
The battle stretched into a brutal rhythm of hit-and-run, Avan darting between pillars and rocks, using the mist and debris to obscure his position. Each projectile drained him, his reserves dwindling, but he pressed on, targeting the fissures—shoulder, thigh, neck—each strike drawing purple mist and a bellow of rage. The Hobgoblin’s shield caught most torso shots, its metal glowing hotter, but Avan aimed higher, clipping a horn, grazing its jaw, each hit chipping at its armor. Its club swung again, a wide arc that caught a pillar, sending it toppling toward him. He dove, the pillar crashing behind, pinning his leg for a moment. Pain exploded, sharp and crushing, and he grunted, wrenching free, *Origin Healing* (Lv. 2) flaring to seal the skin, leaving a raw, bloody gash but steadying him. Blood soaked his pant leg, but he pushed forward, firing a bolt at its chest fissure—another hit, more mist, but it barely slowed, its fury growing.
Seconds felt like Hours, the dungeon’s hum a relentless drone, the mist thickening, obscuring his vision. Avan’s energy reserves sputtered, his hands shaking, a shallow cut on his forearm from a claw graze bleeding freely. He summoned the Origin Energy Shield, its golden and silver glow laced with violet flickering as the Hobgoblin’s club smashed down, the impact jolting through his arm, the shield holding but draining him further. He stumbled back, dodging a claw swipe that tore his jacket, raking his side, blood seeping through torn fabric, pain burning sharp. Another projectile struck its neck, purple mist rising, but the creature roared, its eyes blazing brighter, its movements wilder. It was relentless, its shield catching another shot, metal sizzling, but Avan pressed on, firing, dodging, bleeding, always at the edge—heart racing, lungs burning, legs screaming.
Then, the shift came. The Hobgoblin’s fissures glowed red, its purple mist darkening to a violent crimson, and it roared, a sound that shook the cavern, walls cracking, debris raining. *Identification* flared: Berserk State—enhanced speed, strength, aggression, lower intellect, increased vulnerability. It moved faster now, its club a blur, shield forgotten, horns slashing through the air. Avan dove, the club smashing a pillar, stone fragments shredding his arm, blood dripping as he rolled, pain a constant drumbeat. A claw caught his shoulder, tearing deep, blood gushing, and he cried out, stumbling, nearly falling—another blow grazed his thigh, splitting skin, blood soaking his pants. He was on the brink, energy low, wounds bleeding, vision blurring, but he forced himself up, firing a desperate bolt, striking a fissure, mist erupting.
The Hobgoblin charged, faster, wilder, club swinging in a frenzied arc. Avan ducked, rolled, but a tendril lash caught his back, ripping through his jacket, blood streaming as he crashed into a pillar, pain exploding, black spots dancing in his eyes. He slid to the ground, pinned against the stone, the creature looming, club raised for the final blow. His penknife skittered from his hand, his energy nearly gone, blood pooling beneath him—leg, arm, shoulder, back, all raw and bleeding. Fear gripped him, cold and sharp, but he fought it, instincts kicking in. “No way,” he rasped, voice breaking, and his hand brushed the wall, fingers finding a rune cluster, golden light pulsing faintly beneath his touch.
Desperation fueled him, and he channeled the last of his Origin Energy—golden streams laced with silver and violet—into the runes. They flared, blindingly bright, but something went wrong—cracks spiderwebbed across the stone, the runes sizzling, melting in places, their golden light warping into jagged arcs of lightning, uncontrolled and wild. The chamber lit up, electricity crackling, striking the Hobgoblin’s chest, then its horns, then its legs, each bolt tearing through its fissures, purple mist exploding in bursts of light and ash. The creature shrieked, its berserk strength faltering, its body convulsing as lightning ripped it apart, black ichor and crimson mist dissolving into motes of light and ash that floated upward, fading into the dungeon’s air, recycled energy shimmering as it vanished. The Hobgoblin’s form disintegrated, leaving nothing but a faint pile of ash—and then, a chest materialized in the room’s center, glowing with a soft, golden aura, its ornate design flaring with arcane symbols, a boss loot chest spawned in a burst of light and dust.
Avan collapsed, chest heaving, too exhausted and wounded to move—leg broken, arm slashed, shoulder torn, back bleeding, cuts crisscrossing his skin. Blood soaked the stone beneath him, his vision swimming, but he knew he was safe, the dungeon’s hum softening, approving. The chest gleamed, tempting, but his eyes fluttered shut, unconsciousness claiming him without resistance, his body giving in to sleep as the purple mist settled around him, the dungeon’s silence a fragile shield against the next challenge.