The walk back to Bahumbus’ workshop felt heavier than their earlier strolls through the city. Eugene, still buzzing from his new implant, was halfway tempted to keep scanning everything in sight, but something about Krungus’ tense silence told him now wasn't the time.
Qlaark, as usual, had no such reservations. “And then,” the toucanfolk preacher continued, flapping his wings dramatically, “that baker tried to charge five silver for a honey loaf! Five! I told him, ‘Sir, even the devout must eat at fair prices,’ and do you know what he said?”
Eugene sighed. “I’m guessing something very reasonable?”
“No! He called me a scrawny feathered fraud, if you can believe it!” Qlaark squawked indignantly. “A fraud! The nerve!”
“I’d call you more... enthusiastic than fraudulent.” Eugene smirked.
Krungus, marching ahead, muttered, “Both of you shut up. We’re here.”
They rounded the final corner into the familiar alleyway that should have been filled with the glorious clutter of Bahumbus’ chaotic workshop—gadgets piled high, half-assembled automata twitching, and the faint glow of enchanted trinkets.
Instead, they found... a completely ordinary blacksmith shop.
The sight stopped Eugene in his tracks. He blinked, expecting the workshop to reappear like some sort of magical illusion, but no—there it stood, a standard forge with a chimney puffing smoke lazily into the air. The air smelled of coal and molten iron, and from inside came the rhythmic clang of a hammer striking metal. The tree which Bahumbus used to carve his staff was gone as well.
“Uh... is it just me,” Eugene started, “or is Bahumbus’ place... gone?”
Qlaark cocked his head. “Maybe it’s... blending in?”
----------------------------------------
[Scanning environment...]
[Structure: Blacksmith Forge]
[Materials: Standard masonry, iron supports, wooden beams – Non-magical]
[Detected Enchantments: None]
[Registered Owner: Shoggoth the Smith]
[Inventory: Basic armory, horseshoes, cookware – Total Estimated Value: 340 gold pieces]
----------------------------------------
Krungus exhaled sharply through his nose and stomped into the blacksmith shop. “Bahumbus, you cunning little bastard.”
Inside, an unfamiliar figure stood hunched over the anvil—a broad-shouldered man with a soot-smeared face and sweat dripping from his brow. His thick arms worked a piece of glowing steel with practiced ease, and the heat from the forge washed over them like a wall.
The blacksmith barely spared them a glance as they entered. “Lookin’ for something?” he asked gruffly, wiping his forehead with a thick leather glove.
Krungus narrowed his eyes. “Bahumbus.”
The blacksmith gave him a blank stare. “Bahum-who?” He gestured around the workshop with a hammer. “Been workin’ here for years, old man, never heard of ‘em.”
Eugene’s stomach twisted. “Years?” he echoed. “That’s not possible. We were just here... like, what? Twenty minutes ago?”
Krungus sighed, pacing the perimeter of the shop, his fingers tracing faintly in the air as if trying to feel out remnants of Bahumbus’ presence. “No, Eugene. This isn’t a time distortion. It’s a damn hiding spell.”
“Hiding?” Qlaark blinked. “Why would Bahumbus hide?”
Krungus shot them both an irritated glare. “Because he’s smart. If I found him, others might too. He’s buried his entire workshop under a layering enchantment—this blacksmith shop is just a shell, a perfectly mundane replacement.” He tapped his staff against the floor. “Even I can’t see through it right now. Damn fine work.”
Eugene stared around the shop, as if expecting to spot Bahumbus hiding behind a pile of horseshoes. “So... what do we do?”
Krungus sighed. “We do nothing. Bahumbus is safe, wherever he is, and if he wants to talk to us again, he will find us.” He turned sharply toward the door, muttering under his breath. “Should’ve known he wouldn’t stick around.”
“You’re just giving up?” Eugene frowned.
Krungus glared at him over his shoulder. “Yes, Eugene. Because wasting my time banging on a blacksmith’s door that isn’t real is not a productive use of my very valuable existence.”
“Alright, fine. So, what now?” Eugene raised his hands in surrender.
Krungus sighed, rubbing his temples. “Now we go back to the mushroom tower.”
Qlaark perked up. “Oh, thank goodness! My feet are killing me.”
Krungus rolled his eyes and waved his staff in a wide arc. “Gather close, and someone, please, for the love of the arcane, think of a better name for that ridiculous tower before we get there.”
With a snap of his fingers, the world twisted violently around them. Eugene braced himself, stomach churning, as colors bled together and reality snapped back into place with a soft pop.
They stood once more before the looming form of the mushroom tower—its thick, leathery walls glistening in the midday sun, the enormous cap providing a ridiculous amount of shade. It smelled faintly of earth and something else... something fungal.
A cough escaped Eugene. “Yeah, we definitely need a better name for this place.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Krungus muttered with a sigh.
Adjusting his robe, Qlaark nodded toward the streets. “I need to go meet someone—a... contact.” His eyes darted nervously to Krungus. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Krungus waved him off with little interest. “Fine, go, do whatever nonsense it is you do. We’ll be here.”
As Qlaark disappeared into the crowd, Eugene leaned against the tower's door and turned to Krungus. “So... about my new powers.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Yes?” Krungus raised an eyebrow.
Shifting uncomfortably, Eugene asked, “How do I... get better at this? At being a warlock? I mean, do I need to train, or meditate, or... I don’t know, pray to my terrifying genie friend?”
A dark chuckle rumbled from Krungus. “Warlocks don’t train, Eugene. They survive. They make deals, push boundaries, and—when they’re desperate—take risks that sane people wouldn’t dream of.”
“Sounds exhausting,” Eugene muttered with a sigh.
“It is.” Krungus shrugged. “But if you want power, you’ll have to learn how to use it before it uses you.”
Eugene frowned, tapping his lantern thoughtfully. “And Cozimia? She just... what? Gives me more magic when she feels like it?”
“More or less,” Krungus replied, stroking his beard. “Warlocks are different from wizards. Your power isn’t learned—it’s granted. But the more you understand the nature of your pact, the stronger you’ll become.”
A long exhale followed as Eugene felt the weight of his choices settle over him. “Great. No pressure.”
Before Krungus could respond, a loud, frantic banging echoed from the door behind them.
Spinning around, Krungus scowled. “What now?”
The door burst open, revealing a breathless Qlaark, his feathers ruffled and his eyes wide with panic. “Krungus! Eugene! I—”
Before he could finish, a massive BOOM echoed through the air, shaking the ground beneath them.
A series of deafening explosions erupted across the skyline in the distance, thick columns of black smoke rising into the sky as the unmistakable sounds of screaming and chaos filled the air.
Eugene's heart pounded in his chest. “Oh... no.”
Qlaark gulped. He looked like he might’ve been crying. “It’s bad. Really, really bad.”
Krungus, gripping his staff tightly, scowled toward the rising smoke. “I hate being right.”
----------------------------------------
The tremors from the distant explosions still lingered in the air, subtle but ever-present, as Qlaark slammed the mushroom tower’s door behind him. His feathers were fluffed in agitation, his beak clicking nervously. He was panting, and his wide eyes darted between Eugene and Krungus, flickering with a fear Eugene had never seen in him before.
Outside, the acrid scent of smoke drifted through the city streets, carried by the panicked cries of fleeing citizens.
Leaning against his staff, Krungus fixed Qlaark with a sharp, unwavering gaze. “Start talking, bird. Now.”
Eugene, arms crossed, turned away from the window where black smoke continued to rise over the city skyline. “Yeah, Qlaark. Spill it. What the hell is going on?”
Fidgeting with the hem of his robe, Qlaark’s wings trembled slightly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I... I didn’t want to involve you two in this. I thought we had everything under control. But we didn’t.”
“Obviously,” Krungus said, his eyes narrowing and his tone flat.
A heavy sigh escaped Qlaark as he shifted nervously, the weight of his confession bearing down on him. “I’m part of an... organization.”
Eugene raised an eyebrow. “What kind of organization?”
A twitch of the beak betrayed Qlaark’s tension. “We call ourselves The Flock.”
At those words, Eugene instinctively focused on him, prompting the Void Ruby interface to flicker to life.
----------------------------------------
[Subject: Qlaark]
* Species: Toucanfolk
* Status: Extremely Elevated Heart Rate (Anxious)
* Known Affiliations: The Flock (Moderate Influence)
* Recent Activity: Classified
* Threat Level: Low
----------------------------------------
He frowned. “Huh. Your heart’s about to pop out of your chest, buddy.”
Qlaark ignored him, wringing his wings together. “We fight for the forgotten,” he continued. “The factory district… it’s been a death trap for years. The bosses refuse to fix anything—collapsing floors, broken spell matrices, alchemical leaks.” His eyes hardened. “People were dying, and no one was doing anything.”
Krungus tapped his staff, impatience flashing in his eyes. “And your solution?”
Shifting uncomfortably, Qlaark replied, “Controlled demolitions. The factories were supposed to be destroyed—no casualties, just a message.” He let out a heavy sigh. “We had everything planned out perfectly. But... this morning, they came.”
“Who came?” Krungus asked, leaning in closer.
Qlaark’s beak quivered slightly. “I don’t know. They came out of nowhere—hooded figures, cloaked in black. No markings, no insignias.” His throat tightened as he swallowed. “They didn’t just steal our bombs... they slaughtered some of our people.”
Eugene tensed. “So those explosions weren’t yours?”
“Not ours. Theirs,” Qlaark confirmed with a quick nod.
"Perfect. Just perfect," Krungus muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples in frustration.
While scanning the room, Eugene’s gaze locked on Qlaark’s belt, where a small, tightly wrapped scroll poked out. His implant activated, feeding him details he hadn’t consciously noticed before.
----------------------------------------
[Item: Confidential Flock Orders]
* Status: Unread
* Effect: Contains mission details
* Warning: Highly sensitive, potential liability if found by authorities.
----------------------------------------
He smirked slightly but kept it to himself. "And you don't know how many bombs they took?"
Qlaark shook his head. “I... I think they used all of them. But I can't be sure.”
Krungus straightened up. “No sense running around blindly. We need a more... direct method.” He lifted his staff, tracing a complex sigil in the air. “We find the fear.”
Eugene raised an eyebrow. “Fear? That’s your plan?”
Krungus ignored him, completing the sigil. A ripple of invisible magic pulsed outward, flowing through the streets beyond the tower walls. Eugene shivered as the temperature in the room dropped, and his Void Ruby flickered warnings about abnormal magical activity.
Krungus’ eyes snapped open, glowing faintly with arcane energy. “Got them. Six streets over. An old glassblower’s workshop.”
Eugene blinked. “You can sense fear?”
Krungus didn’t look at him. “It’s not exactly difficult when it’s radiating like a beacon.” He frowned. “It’s not the perpetrators who are afraid, though.” His gaze hardened. “It’s the people around them.”
Qlaark swallowed audibly. “That’s... not good.”
Krungus rolled his eyes. “Thank you for your expert analysis. Now let’s move.”
----------------------------------------
The walk to the workshop felt like stepping into a warzone. The streets were eerily empty, punctuated by the occasional shopkeeper slamming their shutters closed or citizens peering out from behind cracked doors. The heavy smell of soot and burning materials clung to everything.
Eugene kept checking his surroundings, pulling up details on random objects for distraction.
----------------------------------------
[Item: Cracked Copper Pot]
* Condition: Poor
* Estimated Value: 5 Copper
* Possible Uses: Cooking, Improvised Weapon, Helmet (Not Recommended)
----------------------------------------
Krungus led them with unnerving precision, weaving through the narrow alleys until they stood outside the workshop. The grand arched windows were blackened with soot, and the heavy wooden doors sat ajar, creaking slightly in the breeze.
A small group of frightened citizens huddled inside whispering in hushed tones. Krungus approached them, staff lowered but commanding. “Tell me what you saw.”
An older gnome, his face streaked with sweat and soot, pointed toward the square nearby. “They’re over there. They just... stand there.” He shuddered. “Not moving, not talking.”
“That’s creepy,” Eugene muttered.
Krungus nodded. “Let’s get closer.”
They approached cautiously, and Eugene’s pulse quickened when he finally saw them—a dozen hooded figures standing perfectly still in the center of the square. They stood in three rows, with not much space between them. Their robes, darker than night, seemed to drink in the ambient light. They were motionless, statuesque, as if they were waiting. A slight breeze made their robes wave in the wind.
Qlaark whispered, “What are they doing?”
Krungus studied them carefully. “They’re waiting for something.”
Eugene swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “Or someone.”
Krungus stared at the figures, gaze intent. “Let’s see if they blink.”