image [https://i.imgur.com/Wspgm3U.jpg]
A smoldering mountain would tip off goblins and orcs that something amiss happened on Iremont. Intercepting their scouts would only goad them into sending larger groups.
After I sent a note explaining the smoke and the Metamorphic Siege Hammer back to Greenie, I assessed the smoke damage to the Dark Room. If I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t reset my daily cooldown powers. I reached for my beltline before remembering I’d lost the cinch that kept it secure, and the memory of losing half of my items returned as I fetched the coils of magic rope from my inventory.
Smoke drifted from the invisible opening where the rope disappeared. I waited a few minutes before poking my head into the atmosphere inside.
It reeked of burned rubber, smelling so bad I immediately withdrew. I needed the Dark Room for the night but couldn’t sleep inside that stench.
Returning to the transdimensional space, I held my breath and tossed the blankets, pillows, and mattresses outside. It seemed a minor miracle the rain had stopped, perhaps the only good luck I’d had today. Using my Hammer of Might like a rug-beater, I swatted the bedding.
Sune Njal cast me one last incredulous look as he hauled his belongings down the western face. He grumbled to himself as he left the plateau. “Yes, yes. It’s a perfect time for housekeeping.”
By the time I’d walloped the smoke from the bedding, the room’s atmosphere had improved. I poured water into a metal pan and lathered a scrub brush Mr. Fergus had left behind in the Dark Room. Using his old archeological equipment to clean the Dark Room instilled a certain symmetry. I scrubbed every surface. Since magic didn’t work inside the null space, I reached its ceiling using the tripod Angus built for the worm’s lair.
Beaker watched me until he lost interest. After surveying the skies, he hopped onto the mattress stack and napped while I worked.
With the Dark Room clean, my robe’s acrid smell became more noticeable, so I stashed it in my inventory until I reached a river. Its absence felt cathartic, as if hiding the stench erased the morning’s events.
When I changed the linen and shoved the mattresses back into the Dark Room, the evening’s chill invigorated me. Sixteen holes still issued smoke. Who knew one rubber elemental could have caused such a mess?
I moved the Dark Room to the northern edge of the plateau, my stakeout for the evening on the off-chance the Pentarch overestimated the goblins’ respect for sacred ground.
The following morning, I summoned Beaker and told him to look for goblins or orcs, but he didn’t understand the command. “They’re not here yet, but they might be.”
Sliding down Iremont’s northern face took less time than climbing, and I’d shaken my fear of heights. I reserved Slipstream to safety-net my descent, but more often, I clung to trees as thin as those on the south side. Seeing no jackstraw in the valley ahead relieved me.
Beaker circled overhead. I hoped he’d somehow pick up a helpful role like warning me about monsters, but he seemed agnostic to adventuring.
I hiked into the valley with the Dark Room rope loosely coiled around my neck. It hampered combat but offered a quick escape from trouble.
I crossed well-worn paths blazed with cairns and strings of bones. Skulls dabbed in colored paint greeted me at every intersection. Greenie had taught me these acted as local trail identifiers—the goblin equivalent of road signs. All evidence assured me I traversed through goblin country.
The relic coordinates awaited on the far side of the next mountain. Even at twice the height of Iremont, it didn’t present a challenge, as I wasn’t seeking its peak. I directed myself to the lowest ridgeline, whose canopy looked more inviting than Iremont’s rocky sides.
The hike gave me time to consider Sune Njal’s advice about relying on others. After chewing it over, I decided I wasn’t taking enough responsibility in my leadership role. With lives at stake, I needed to stop asking people who weren’t in charge if they agreed with my opinions. The average citizen in Hawkhurst didn’t have all the puzzle pieces. Asking for approval puts people in awkward positions. It was irresponsible and undermined my credibility as a chief.
Not being a natural leader seemed like a personality flaw. I couldn’t embrace the idea of telling people what to do. It all seemed undignified—both the subservience in taking orders and the ego it took to give them. I avoided the internal peer structure of Belden’s military academy. I didn’t want to put down roots, but my aversion to joining an organization had more to do with it. My knack for learning combat skills won acclaim, but I left the arena alone once classes ended.
The Pentarch’s advice about avoiding deals with goblins seemed unfounded. Greenie proved goblins acted like free agents. He developed many worthy values after spending his life in exile. And he seemed more trustworthy than me. Who was I to judge? I’d trashed Iremont only the day before.
The Pentarch’s opinions went further than I dared to follow. He cautioned against counting on others. I supposed it made survival more straightforward—if existence was the only thing that mattered. Given the contest’s parameters, this seemed to be a prudent conclusion, but my wayward path through The Great RPG Contest proved otherwise. How I defeated other players seemed as important as outlasting them.
What was the point of surviving if you couldn’t live with yourself? The answer, of course, rested with a quarter million dollars and forgetting about Miros. It went beyond earning a dirty reputation in a reality show. What employer would hire a snake? Years ago, I cleaned up my act. I didn’t want to become that careless, angry person again. I wanted to go to college, but I also wanted to win the contest in a way that didn’t compromise my character.
The nagging doubt Fabulosa placed in my brain before she left still lingered. Had I gone native? Had I lost myself in the game’s realism and missed an opportunity to cover college costs? American dollars felt so unreal with Iremont’s red dirt still clinging to my boots.
It served me to worry about one thing at a time. I resolved to protect Hawkhurst and put the relic genies in their bottles. When I cleaned up my mess, I’d return to the contest.
The game’s interface showed twenty-five players remained in the contest. Four contestants dropped since Fabulosa killed Femmeny. How far had the others progressed? Was this setback my undoing, or had I progressed so far in combat skills I could make up for it?
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Pulling out the piece of darksteel that had cost me so much, I brushed away flecks of flint caught in its edges. Smelting away flint and other impurities required anthracite, and we should have enough to do the job.
Every blacksmith knew the composition of steel. While miners might find natural alloys, the remote chance of finding steel in the wild led me to believe something so rare would be perfect for hewing a weapon. And I had the ideal core to top it off—a purple. Perhaps I’d find another at the end of my mission.
A hard thump to the side of my head interrupted my reverie.
Debuff
Dazed
-6 willpower, -6 agility
Duration
10 seconds
The debuff and my assailants presented only a minor challenge. Two more blunt-tipped arrows cracked against my shoulder and neck. The arrows delivered only around a dozen damage apiece, so I held off Rejuvenate until I assessed my situation.
Three goblins had followed me from an intersection. I’d been walking so long that they caught me in a late afternoon meditation. Two fumbled with a net while the third drew back for another shot. At this time of the day, these hunters strove to be the early birds—although I wasn’t about to become their worm.
I foiled their netting attempt with a thunderclap of Compression Sphere, blowing the net out of their hands and tangling it in a bush.
Somewhere, I heard a griffon overhead cry in excitement. Beaker loved loud noises. Telepathic exaltations filled my head. “Hunting for dinner! I see a rabbit—you find your own.”
I mentally replied. “No. Not hunting for food, just fighting vermin.”
Name
Goblin Hunter
Level
7
Difficulty
Trivial (gray)
Health
100/100
Without enough goblins to justify Blood Drinker, I considered my Hammer of Might, but it worked too slow against attackers from multiple sides. I didn’t have this problem with a spear whose shaft served as a staff in a pinch. I could deliver quick bludgeons to encircling foes. Spears offered reach and inflicted Thrusts whose Bleeds made time work in my favor. Fighting agile monsters had been perfect with Creeper. Ultimately, I equipped Tardee’s old short sword. It didn’t have any stats, but I gave +2 damage and would work underground or in close quarters.
I Slipstreamed behind two goblins and killed one quickly, starting with a critical hit from behind. The second attacked viciously, but I put it down as well. Since it neared the day’s end, I indulged in resetting Slipstream’s cooldown with my robe to prevent the third’s escape. It made for an easy battle, and they yielded no treasure or experience.
I used Dig to hollow out graves and hide the bodies, but it didn’t seem worth the time. Goblins didn’t consider the surface their territory—only hunters and patrols ventured outside. Bodies weren’t the only problem hiding on these crisscrossing trails. I couldn’t reliably hide the signs of combat like Yula. I planned to move on anyway—if they wanted to search the area for me, then all the better.
Beaker oversaw the event from his treetop perch, with a freshly killed rabbit holding his attention. Our terrestrial troubles earned not a glance from the supping beast as he licked his claws clean. His eyes widened when I reversed the Dig spell, covering the bodies with accumulated dirt.
I spoke up to my Familiar as if it understood me. “You’re a big help. Couldn’t you find anything more exotic than rabbits today?”
The griffon cocked his head and softly clucked as if bewildered at my strange noises.
My follow-up question was telepathic. “It’s bedtime for Beaker. Are you ready to turn in for the day?”
The griffon extended his wing and issued a series of deafening calls. He telepathically answered because I didn’t speak Griffon. “Bedtime! It’s bedtime for Beaker!”
For a change, I didn’t mind his instinct to call the other griffons home to roost. In the evenings, that’s how griffons behaved. If his caterwauling chased goblins away, then all the better.
After he’d had his say, I dismissed my pet, tossed my magic rope in the air, and crawled into the Dark Room for some shuteye. If goblins wanted the night, they could have it.
I washed myself and the robe in the stream the following morning. Beaker deigned not to join me as the water contained no fish, and the riverbank’s overhanging foliage bothered him. The refreshing cleanse and peaceful air drying on the warm rocks inspired a positive outlook.
With my mind reset, I set forth on what should be a half-day’s journey to the relic’s coordinates. I wouldn’t need to climb any more mountains, although the ridgeline ahead looked bigger than it did coming down Iremont.
After an hour of hiking up the next slope, infrequent goblin paths transitioned to evidence of widespread goblin activity. From abandoned lean-tos and dead campfires, I couldn’t fathom why goblins roamed the surface. We weren’t near my destination coordinates, so I couldn’t see how it could be the relic’s influence.
As I gained altitude, I put my Eagle Eyes to use. Trees obstructed most of my vision, and I saw no movement in the clearings. I didn’t expect to during the day. I found three sharpened posts surrounding a goblin hole, fitting the Pentarch’s description. The pit to the goblin lair spanned only four feet wide, and the heavy posts crossed one another like a tank trap, lashed together at a juncture to form a spiky pyramid.
I shook the crossed pieces of timber, but they didn’t wiggle. The goblins set them deep in the ground, a solid barrier against dinosaurs hunting for green snacks. I spotted shallow caves in the hillside surrounding the tank traps. They contained sleeping goblins. In one, an awakened goblin watched me with desperate eyes.
The goblin had been awake when I arrived, counting teeth from a small pouch. Goblins used teeth as currency—the larger the tooth, the more valuable. I’d stepped into the middle of a burglary.
He grabbed the bag, pulling it toward him as if to ward me away from his treasure, but made no noise when our eyes met. I made no hostile moves. He knew raising the alarm would prompt me to silence him, and I knew attacking would rouse his neighbors. I backed away from the standoff, leaving us with barely enough dignity to pretend it didn’t happen.
Before climbing the next mountain, I unsummoned Beaker—something I should have done since entering goblin territory. Most goblins looked too big for him to kill but big enough to trigger his alarm instincts. I’d pushed my luck too far with my pet already. Even though it involved trudging over the ridge, my mission involved stealth.
My climb gave me a different perspective on the story of Sisyphus, whom the gods punished for cheating death. Forcing someone to roll a rock uphill for eternity betrayed a fundamental misunderstanding of humanity. After all, what did Olympians understand about the fear of death? Many people found purpose and enjoyment in labor. Wasn’t retirement a leading factor in heart attacks? In their infinite naivete, the gods granted Sisyphus what he sought most—immortality. And was rolling a rock any different from over-familiar tasks mortals performed every day to stay alive?
The thought of Greeks exploiting their universe encouraged me onward and upward. Other players, like Fabulosa, might be ahead in The Great RPG Contest, but preventing these relics from falling into anyone’s hands gave me a purpose. They were my rock. And hadn’t the Pentarch lectured me that the key to happiness involved having a purpose?
I didn’t find goblins on the ridgeline, but reaching it revealed much about the area ahead. Lean-tos and huts mottled the valley beyond. After hunkering into the shadow of a rock, I scanned the hillsides with my Eagle Eyes. What I saw wasn’t a few scouting camps—it looked like the entire goblin population had moved to the surface, too widely dispersed to circumnavigate.
Contrary to all of Greenie’s teachings, they lived above ground.