The Hobgoblin’s hut smelled of smoke, leather, and old blood. Max pushed inside, the heavy flap of stitched hides swinging shut behind him. The interior was larger than it looked from the outside — a single open room, lit only by the dim glow of embers in a crude stone hearth.

  His eyes scanned quickly for anything useful. A rough-hewn table sat to one side, covered in scraps of parchment, bone tokens, and half-carved wooden figures. The opposite corner held a weapon rack — most of the slots empty, save for a few heavy axes and a jagged, rust-flecked sword too crude for his taste.

  He ignored the trophies and trinkets. What he wanted were clues.

  The first parchment he unrolled was covered in jagged lines and crude shapes. At first glance, it looked like nonsense — but the longer Max studied it, the more it began to make sense. It was a map of the island.

  The proportions were rough, and the coastlines uneven, but the important features were there: the jagged mountains, the forested stretches, the cliffs. Five black circles were marked across it — each one large enough to stand out.

  Three of those circles had thick, heavy X’s scrawled over them in what looked like dried blood.

  Max frowned. “Three down… that tracks.”

  It didn’t take much to figure out what they represented — goblin camps. The remaining two circles were in opposite directions: one deep in the mountains to the north, the other far to the southwest, near the curved shoreline where the jungle met the sea.

  He grabbed a bit of ash from the still-burning hearth and smudged it across the mountain camp. “Four down,” he muttered, the gritty black streak blending with the crude markings.

  That left only one.

  His finger tapped the last unmarked circle. Unfortunately, the location made his stomach sink — the southwest point of the island, uncomfortably close to where he’d first found the three doors in the cliffside. And between him and it was the shimmering barrier that cut straight across the island’s center.

  He traced an imaginary path along the map. “Which means I’d have to go all the way around…” The route would take him hugging the outer coastline, through who knew how many wandering monsters and patrols.

  Max rolled the map up and slid it into his storage ring. “Fine,” he said under his breath. “I’ll make the trip. But first, I finish cleaning this side of the island.”

  Max left the Hobgoblin’s hut and walked through the smoldering remains of the camp. The fires had mostly burned themselves out, leaving only blackened frames of huts and the occasional wisp of smoke curling into the air. The stench of burnt leather, meat, and ash still clung to everything.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Time to pick the place clean.

  He moved methodically, starting with the storage sheds near the center of camp. The first was nothing but charred timber and collapsed beams, but the second had survived the fires. Inside, he found barrels of salted meat, bundles of dried herbs, and a half-dozen crates filled with scavenged goods — bits of armor, crude weapons, and mismatched tools.

  Most of it was garbage, but the System didn’t care. He sold off the excess as he went, watching his credit balance climb with each flash of the store’s confirmation window.

  A tattered banner taken from a hut wall? Gone.

  A pile of rusted short swords? Gone.

  A cracked metal shield that looked like it had lost more battles than it had won? Definitely gone.

  By the time he finished the supply sheds, he had cleared nearly three thousand credits just from junk.

  He made one last sweep through the living quarters, most of which were in ruin. That’s when he spotted it — sitting inside one of the larger huts, somehow untouched by fire or damage.

  A chair.

  Not a crude stool or a half-rotten bench, but an actual carved wooden chair with armrests, a curved back, and faint decorative grooves worked into the frame. It was still rough by human standards, but compared to goblin craftsmanship, it was practically regal.

  Max ran a hand along the worn wood, grinning. “Well… you’re coming with me.”

  With a thought, the chair vanished into his storage ring.

  After the sweep was done, there wasn’t much left worth keeping. A few sacks of grain, a bundle of arrows, a small pouch of silver coins. He kept those — no reason to pass up on supplies he might need later.

  Standing in the middle of the stripped camp, Max took one last look around. It was quiet now. Empty.

  Exactly how he liked it.

  The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the ruined camp. Max glanced toward the western horizon, then back at the gutted remains of the Hobgoblin’s stronghold.

  The idea of making the trip around the barrier in the dark was laughable — and suicidal. The coastline at night was crawling with predators and who knew what else.

  He sighed and set about making the camp livable for one night. Most of the huts were beyond saving, but the Hobgoblin’s quarters were still intact, and with the massive corpse dragged outside and rolled into the nearest fire pit, it wasn’t half bad.

  Max propped the door flap open to let in fresh air and moved a small table and the nicer of the two remaining chairs inside. Not his new “goblin throne” — that stayed safely in his storage ring — but something to sit on while he worked. He lit a small fire in the stone hearth and laid out his gear for inspection.

  The next hour passed in quiet routine: checking weapon edges, sorting potions and food supplies, and mentally mapping the route around the barrier. Every so often, his eyes flicked toward the mountains where the shimmering wall cut off the island’s heart.

  “Tomorrow,” he said under his breath, tossing another piece of wood on the fire. “One last camp… and this side of the island is mine.”

  The night was uneventful, the silence almost unnerving after the chaos of the day. Still, Max kept his sword within arm’s reach and dozed lightly, his mind already running through possible ambush scenarios for the long road ahead.

  When the first gray light of dawn spilled over the treetops, Max rose, feeling the familiar pull of purpose settle over him.

  It was time to finish this