Glora sat with their legs over the edge of the pit, having discarded their care for the booth as the grey wolf sat behind them and their two children to either of their sides.

The sandstone walls of the pit had been scorched and covered in soot, blood and corpses. But none of the filth rose up past the spider silk ceiling, the only things that reached up from below were the goblin’s gnoll pup.

From the depths of the entrance tunnels, the goblin watched the small rat men, the Shtacor cultists, stream out numbering close to a hundred. Two massive hordes seeping out their passageways before the lead and only one carrying a proper shield, exclaimed.

“Infect for the Plague Dragon!”

And Glora felt an uncommon sensation for them, a wave of confusion.

“N… No…” Their grinding, raspy voice faltered. Their milky eyes growing wide with shock.

Spoke’s mouth dropped as he stared down with his mother. Fear welling up, eyes shrinking to points and a gentle shaking of his body.

Tanny was confused by their reactions, but immediately withdrew a rifle from her shadows.

“Spoke, what’s wrong?” she asked as her fur rose across her back. Claws partially extended as her finger rested on the trigger guard.

“The Plague Dragon… It’se supposed to be dead…” Glora spoke before their son could. “It’se was dead… I’se helped kill it’se twenty years ago…”

***

The gnoll in the pits down below did not react to the cry of battle, she had no context for it. But knew that the creatures branded as they were, their god was not worthy of any respect.

Launching forward, before any of the bow and sling users could get ready and fire, threw herself into the horde. She would not allow another wolf situation to occur. The horde needed to be thinned as quickly as possible.

The first to die was the gaunt screecher. He did not have the time to realize that their enemy had closed before his head was severed by a single swipe of claw.

The monk tore into the line of creatures before they had a chance to rally beyond their leader’s shout before violent whirls of death tore through them like ancient parchment. In the first seconds of battle, the gnoll had killed at least fifteen of the tiny men. With ripping claws strikes, powerful spinning kicks, and simply crushing their small and frail bodies like they were porcelain dolls.

The initial whirlwind of violence was so severe as the groups recovered from their leader’s death, that only a pathetic counter came. Swords and daggers covered with rust, Shtacor excrement, and their blood stabbed out in wild panic as one moment, their fellow cultist stood beside them. Only to have their brother in worship be ripped from shoulder to crotch and coat them in blood before they could even track the attacker.

As the casualties approached thirty, one of the hordes screamed and rallied his fellows, trying to direct the massive hordes to leverage their weight of numbers. Disregarding all sense, the group clutched their melee weapons and charged, swarming the gnoll. Their daggers, spears and swords swinging out in a mad whirl of weapons and rusted steel.

The rats leaped on top of each other, crushing each other while they frenzied. Only to have their faces crushed and used as steppingstones, bringing the monk up and over the tide of fur.

With only a few extremely lucky rat men stabbing up and nicking the monk as they were stepped on.

She began raining death upon those unlucky enough to not reach the pile of rats trying to crush the gnoll under their weight and steel.

One gnoll after another was crushed and ripped through. One rat's body losing a limb, one its head, one its legs. Wherever the monk moved, at least two corpses followed in the path of her feet and claws.

In under a minute, half of the rat men were dead. Two hordes had entered, and one was eviscerated.

But once again, luck was on the rat men’s side. Three thrown spears went out. The monk caught one and managed to knock the others out of the air before a swarm of arrows and rocks slammed into their back. The damage was light, but each injury was another grain of sand on the pile.

Faster and faster the gnoll ripped through the rats. Bearing down on them with an intense focus, unwavering as nicks and scratches continued to add to the patchwork of missing fur, fresh burns, and taught, damaged muscles.

In under two minutes, a horde of nearly 100 Shtacor lay dead and destroyed. Their dragon god uncaring as they were led to the slaughter by the dozens.

As the last one died, the tunnels opened yet again.

***

Garrus, the Pit Master stared out at the slaves his people had managed to get. Slightly disappointed. Sipping his wine, he opened his mouth to comment, when the liquid got caught in hist throat. Standing up with speed and leaned out over the pit to see the rats scurrying out of the tunnel.

The group was in a proper military formation, a half circle that spread out around a central figure. A rather stout Shtacor was carrying some arcanist’s weapon. A large rifle of some kind. Something he had not been aware of was even in the possession of his armorers.

“When this is over...” His large, meaty fists clamped down on the stone railing and began to crush it in his rage. “I will need to clean house again...”

The Kings all looked between each other. They knew what the people of the Refuge would do to be right, or to win a bet. But doing something like arming war slaves with magical weapons was beyond blatant interference.

“Lurvic, I did not authorize their arming.” The massive minotaur grumbled, turning to the lion man slowly. “Do you think Grump did this? Maybe as a retaliation for his construct’s losing so badly?”

The lion thought for a few long moments, his large hand squeezing his chin and mane.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“It is possible... It was unlikely the, hmm, ‘excited’ controller from before.” He looked down as the rife rat placed down a mobile shield. A slab of metal to rest the barrel of the rifle on. “It most certainly isn’t Glora’s. He doesn’t use artificer knowledge in his creations.”

“Maybe the armorer made a bet on amount of interference?” The goliath, the massive, grey skinned Roth, chimed in as the group observed below.

The rats formed a circle around the rifle rat, using shields that shouldn’t be given to the cultist fighters. The gnoll had crushed forward to crash into the lines and rip into them.

“Horth is a stout and simple man. If he gets to care for and study the weapons in the armory, he doesn’t care about anything else.” Lurvic sighed, shifting to the quiet hobgoblin as the crack of magical energy fired and crackled below. “Legion, can you investigate this for us after?”

The hobgoblin had not looked away from the pits below since the fighting began. But gave a curt nod in response.

“Good, now Boss, your guards should probably go down once they come back. We don’t want any more accusations to start to fly.” Lurvic looked to his boss, the Pit Master, with a stern glare. He did believe the minotaur that he didn’t know this would happen. But he also ran a tight ship. Very little would have been possible without his input.

The Pit Master nodded in agreement, ordering one of the servers to retrieve his bodyguards from their “investigation” of the reckless druid controller.

***

Within the pit, the monk began the same, crashing into and attempting to slaughter the heads, or in this case, the two rats most heavily armored. Each looked to be a veteran warrior, with a shield that was light and sturdy. They both were surprised by the speed and sudden approach. Enabling her to land a solid hit on the left most before they brought shields up to intercept each strike she launched.

The vet’s short swords stabbed up and barely missed the gnoll before it was forced to duck under and roll forward between them. A streak of burning green energy shot over her head. The radiating power of the shot burned and tried to rot her back as it passed just over it by a few inches.

She came up as the other six “recruits,” the less experienced rats encircled and stabbed at her with war pikes. One managed to score a hit before she could retaliate further.

Seeking to end the most dangerous threats, the veterans, the monk once again tries to tear into them. Only managing to catch the already injured one yet again as the sound of a bolt sliding forward triggers the gnoll to throw themselves back again.

The rats, seeking to take advantage, descend on the gnoll once the shot’s light streaked past. Only to be met by air as their pikes were dodged or knocked off course to dig into the red sands below.

The monk brought her heel down on one of the pikes, snapping it before lunging for the rat man. Her claws sunk deep into his chest, before flicking to either side as her ki pulsed into him. Forming a mimicry of her strike the pulled the ki from the dying shtacor into her.

Once again, the air cracked as the rifle fired, missing the gnoll so bad, she did not even need to actively avoid it. But instead needed to focus on the rat squad. Three pikes moved in quick, driving in suddenly. One managed to nick her inner thigh. While she deflected two into path of one veteran’s sword. Only for the other to sneak under her guard and gouge a deep slice along one of her ribs. Not striking anything vital but drawing the most blood since the behemoth spider.

The monk let out a low growl, stepping out of path of the next rifle shot to stab her claw out and puncture the neck of a rat, before ripping back and spinning to catch a second rat across the arm. The first rat’s corpse slid from the tips of her claws and to the floor, leaving a small trailing shadow of its ki to flow into the gnoll yet again. Feeding and fueling them as pikes and swords fell yet again.

This time, all but one of the rats drew blood. The monk’s spin to catch the second rat caused their footing to slip on the bloody and now muddy sands. Without missing a moment, the squad descended upon her with furry. The veterans both slashed deep cuts over her arms she brought up desperately to stop a fatal strike. While the less experienced warriors stabbed and connected with her feet and legs.

In a desperate act, the gnoll let out a growl and grabbed out for the rat she had caught and injured, spearing it through the guts. Before tossing its corpse at one of the last three. And leaping to tackle and rip through one last rat as the projectile from an increasingly frustrated and confused sniper whizzed by harmlessly.

While the gunner was having no luck, the veterans were. Yet again, as the gnoll was fighting off the weaker recruits, one managed to deal a gash across her side. Regardless of how fast she moved, the two seemed to have a level of experience and competence only long-term soldiers and adventures could have.

Not willing to give them any more advantage, the gnoll decided that she would have to leave the two vets for last. And set her sights again on the pike wielding fools.

She slammed her foot down into the weakened one at her feet, crushing its sternum before spinning to catch all three nearest rats with a wide raking of her claws. The uninjured veteran managed to catch her strike, the second and last recruit were ripped up. With a final flurry of strikes sending the final recruit to its afterlife.

Spinning, she dashed towards the sniper head on, closing to melee as the vets chased her down. Casting aside its nearly completely useless rifle, the shtacor pulled out a dagger, franticly missing as it tried to stab the quickly approaching gnoll.

Not heading the glancing wounds to her back, she ripped through the worthless sniper, and spun, carrying her claws once again over the shields of wood and steel. Frustration filling her mind as these veterans continued with perfect cooperation, stabbing, ducking, and finding openings in her guard to land cut after cut across her body.

So began their dance of movements and vicious strikes. The smaller Shtacor were a few strikes away from death. While she was chugging along with extreme violence. As while she could not seem to evade their strikes, she could redirect or lesson their effect with her movements.

The battle between them all was violent, quick, and bloody. Neither side gave in as minutes began to pass. Nearly ten minutes after the first shtacor entered the pit, finally the stalemate break. The blood and corpses were littering the sands. Each movement was a risk, as any small failure to correct their body, and one of the combatants would slide in the slick arena.

And one vet succumbed to that fate. He was trying to draw the gnoll’s furry as his injured comrade was attempting to maneuver around a pile of wolf corpses. When the injured vet successfully blocks with the shield, the uninjured one tried to step up before another flurry of blows would descend upon them. Only to step forward and slide directly into the reach of the gnoll’s claws.

She left him with multiple slashes and tears across his chest, sending him backwards into a heap. Before she could close to attack him again, the standing veteran roars and with a burst of rage and desperation, manages to jam their short sword deep into the side of the gnoll, sliding right between two ribs and drawing a pained hiss from her lips.

With the short sword still in her sternum, she reaches around with her jaws wide open and clamps them down with a horrifying crunch. Crushing the veteran’s skull and dashing forward to kick the downed veteran and then stomping on his head, crushing it into the sands.

She had very little time as she pumped ki through her bleeding body, desperately trying to close the wounds and push out the sword as the next wave entered the pits.

Forcing immense amounts of ki through her system, she dashes away from the tunnels to stand against her entrance door. Giving her some extra precious time for the ki to heal her once again up to a fighting state, where she wasn’t leaking blood with every step.

Shifting her gaze, she saw four figures who had entered from the central entrance and looked down upon the bodies of the two veteran warriors. Anger filled their eyes as their fists began to quake and creak in wrath, especially by the central rat.

The central rat was of the same height as the gnoll’s mother, near, maybe even over four feet in height. His build was sturdy, but lithe like a general or commander than a soldier like the veterans. The three around him all wore robes, but underneath they wore what appeared to be some martial outfit like those worn by traditional monasteries.

But before she could decide on whether to rush the leader or monks first who stood around sixty feet away, from the shadows beside her came two quick strikes from a dagger. Both glistening and dripping with powerful poisons.