The center one hefted a two-handed axe, lining up a strike. The one on the right raised a shield and braced his spear. The one on the left drew a throwing axe—too slow.

  The axe rose—then fell, straight for Adarin’s path.

  But Adarin had one advantage. I’m not swinging by a rope, but by an artificial muscle.

  Ten centimeters from the axe, Adarin retracted the whip.

  He shot upward, making the blade miss by two centimeters.

  The goblin lurched forward, stumbling in surprise.

  Adarin snapped the muscle straight—then elongated it again.

  He dropped like a missile.

  He slammed into the goblin’s face. The skull cracked. He wrapped his legs around the collapsing form and crushed downward—bones gave way.

  The other two froze.

  Spear jerked back his weapon, too afraid to strike at his dying ally.

  Twin Axe hesitated—just a second too long. But Adarin didn’t.

  One leg snapped down at the axe wielder’s ankle. The other began shaping a new whip.

  Twin Axe dodged.

  Spear moved—smarter than expected.

  He brought his weapon down in a sharp thrust and caught the forming whip mid-lunge.

  Adarin jumped and yanked—but the whip slipped off.

  Twin Axe retreated, eyes wide.

  Adarin had already picked his next target.

  He cursed as he saw the shaman’s projectiles arcing toward him, leaving him nowhere to douge. A rookie’s slip. I hate fighting in a borrowed shell.

  The twin spell spheres burst overhead as he jumped.

  The white web burst went low and he cleared it by retracting his legs. Only a few sticky fibers tingled his belly. But the green orb veered mid-air and popped in an airburst.

  A blink later, acid chewed through the left side of his vision—like fire eating through glass. A warning, not a wound, but it was spreading. He spun up fresh sensors—they flared to life, then hissed away in the acid haze.

  His interface helpfully informed him on his situation.

  Surface loss: three millimeters. Still bathed in acid. Shit.

  He resumed his charge toward Twin Axe. A moment before impact, something hit him. Tension bit down through the muscle—webbing. They got me.

  More balls burst around him.

  He struggled. The harder he pulled, the tighter the entanglement grew.

  He stopped moving. Pulled biomass inward. Encased the diamanoid core in thick, layered wood.

  The goblins circled him. Axes raised. No cheering this time.

  Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

  The shaman turned.

  The ruined eye had already grown back, veins crawling across his face as if the wound had been nothing but an excuse to show off his regeneration.

  Those fuckers are tough. Then it hit him—he’d forgotten something important. I have no way to speak. Negotiation is out then. Not that I was ever good at that.

  From the few sensors still working, Adarin watched the shaman retrieve the pickaxe. The goblin shaman approached. Slow. Deliberate.

  Idly, Adarin noted the blood from the sacrificed goblins drifting up the crystal pillar. What the hell are they doing? He shook his head curtly. Not the time.

  He considered collapsing flat, trying to slink into a crack beneath his core. But the crack was too tight.

  The shaman slapped the flat of the pickaxe against his palm. Slow. Measured. Like he was savoring it.

  Then he barked something guttural and threw his arms wide. The goblins giggled around him. With each laugh, the shaman began to chant. The goblins struck weapons into shields, hands, and floor—one beat at a time. He approached, webs peeling back around his feet like a ritual path.

  He raised the pickaxe, glare bloody and hateful.

  Then he spoke—in Liora and Rüdiger’s tongue.

  “You are my road to death.” He rasped a laugh, like he’d spent a lifetime breathing pit-smoke.

  “Well then. What did you do to earn the system’s bounty?”

  Adarin shuddered. The system knows. Oh my fucking god—it’s sending agents after me.

  Then again... why was it giving him power? Was Liora doing something? Or—No. It didn’t care.

  The system doesn’t care. It only cares about creating mages. And I’m a mage now.

  Adarin shifted, compressing the Living Wood from his legs into a hardened dome around his core.

  The shaman waited. Silence—except for the steady thump, thump, thump of weapons striking the stone.

  He grinned, his thoughts running ahead as fear crept into his mind. Guess not having a voice means no accidental intel leaks.

  A soft rain of sand trickled down over him. Some of the goblins frowned.

  The shaman pointed toward Adarin’s dome, now bulging under layers of tangled web. The circle of goblins laughed.

  A moment later, Adarin saw why.

  The goblin chieftain conjured a glowing green bulb—the acid kind.

  Adarin shifted, reshaping his body into a cone with concave sides—his best guess at acid deflection.

  The goblin extended his hand—and dropped the orb. The ground trembled. Another wave of sand washed through—

  Then it hit.

  Adarin felt no pain. Just darkness—spreading through his combat sphere.

  But a few segments still flickered—and he saw it clearly:

  The shaman grinned and raised the pickaxe, diamond tip glittering in the cavern light.

  He raised it to his shoulders. To his head. Over, savoring the moment. Performing for his audience.

  The pickaxe paused at the zenith.

  The shaman tensed.

  And that was when the ceiling collapsed.

  The shamans and the warriors spun around. A third of the room was suddenly exposed to the sky—but it was on the opposite side.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Adarin noted with dull disappointment that none of the goblins were buried.

  A wave of dust rolled toward them.

  It came closer.

  Ten meters. Five meters. One meter.

  It engulfed them.

  Only the choking and coughing of some goblins filled the sudden silence.

  Adarin noticed the shaman moving his hand—and the air began to clear.

  He tested his surroundings.

  Most of the acid had funneled to one side, and now it was spreading—eating away at the spiderwebs.

  I have to play this just right, he whispered to himself.

  Beneath the burned outer shell, he prepared a long whip.

  Then he waited.

  The two surviving elite guards didn’t take their eyes off him.

  I’m not fast enough. I have to get into the crowd.

  Adarin took in what he could.

  He waited.

  The goblins waited.

  The room waited.

  Nothing happened.

  After ten long seconds, the goblin shaman shrugged, turned around, and took a step toward Adarin again. Did I miss my chance?

  That was when he noticed three feathers rising behind the goblin’s head.

  Goblins on the opposite side of the circle began to scream.

  The goblin shaman spun to the side.

  That was what saved him.

  The thunder of the gunshot filled the room.

  A nasty-looking, high-caliber pistol tore into the goblin’s jaw and ripped away half his face.

  Blood and viscera splattered across Adarin.

  The goblin’s throat opened in a mouthless scream.

  And behind him—behind him stood a man Adarin could have hugged.

  Calmly, Rüdiger dropped the pistol—it fell down, affixed to his body by a string—and reached for a second one.

  Before the goblins could react, he shot the spear-wielding bodyguard in the stomach.

  The goblin collapsed with a groan, trying in vain to stuff the hole in his gut.

  Adarin saw the damage: the small of the goblin’s back blown out, a hole big enough to fit a football through. His intestines spilled freely through it.

  The goblin shaman staggered, spinning in confusion, then took a few aimless steps forward before collapsing to the ground.

  Rüdiger cleared his throat.

  The goblins screamed.

  The mob split—half bolting in terror, the rest howling louder, frenzied by the sight of blood and ritual fire.

  Adarin threw out his whip, slicing through the Achilles tendons of two goblins charging toward Rüdiger. He jumped up and over the webbing, redirecting his visual organs toward his next victim, whip ready.

  That’s when it hit him again—the burning darkness of an acid glob.

  He skittered across the ground as axes began digging into his frame.

  Desperately, he tried to restore vision.

  The third, seeing flickering shades assaulting him. A bright light filled the room with sharp white.

  Adarin stumbled in his mindspace, then turned the Thousand Eyes sensors to the source.

  Only to see Rüdiger’s chest, already badly burned.

  Adarin's vision cleared as Rüdiger stirred.

  Just as he blinked open his eyes with a groan, a bolt of lightning struck him.

  He stumbled to the ground, cussing.

  The three elite guards broke from the crowd—bigger, scarred, their armor glinting with ritual sigils. They spread out with practiced discipline, weapons raised, each step pounding like a war drum.

  Two black-armored figures jumped down through the collapsed ceiling—but the goblin was closer.

  And he was already preparing the next spell.

  The goblin held an arcing bolt of electricity between his hands and slowly began extending it toward the dazed Rüdiger.

  He gurgled out something that sounded like a drowning man’s laugh.

  Suddenly, everyone—Adarin included—felt the sting of static electricity rippling through the air.

  Rüdiger stumbled back, sat down, and raised a hand.

  His white glove began to glow.

  But the goblin still had the initiative—and the first attackers had already reached Rüdiger.

  A flash of light illuminated the chamber from above, piercing through the collapsing ceiling.

  A banshee’s howl erupted outside. Despite his damaged state, Adarin’s mind was clear. This must be magic. The battle at the center of the city.

  Desperately, he tracked the arc of the lightning. The band of electricity was only a meter from Rüdiger.

  The wave of screaming light filled the chamber when Rüdiger and the goblin shaman began to glow.

  Ghostly doubles tore free of their flesh—ragged silhouettes of bone and light that writhed above them. Both men screamed as if their souls were being peeled apart.

  Adarin felt the stream claw at everything—mana, flesh, memory—dragging power upward like marrow sucked from bone.

  The spell collapsed.

  The static charge in the air surged to new heights, and dust began to dance on the stone floor.

  Adarin released his last prepared whip toward the shaman—a desperate, final attempt to turn the situation around.

  The world took a breath. Literally.

  He felt a pull—tugging him toward the center of the city, or what he assumed was that direction.

  And then the glowing avatars surrounding both Rüdiger and the shaman formed a stream of energy that shot upward—through the hole in the ceiling and out of the building.

  Both of them screamed.

  Adarin’s whip exploded forwards.

  It hit and encased the goblin’s head.

  He pulled himself toward it.

  The goblin didn’t even notice as he went down. Like Rüdiger, he was consumed by agony.

  As Adarin made contact, he noticed the remnants of magical reinforcements embedded in the goblin’s bones and the patches of exposed skin. He's tougher that he looks.

  He smiled darkly. Guess it’s time for the classics.

  He shifted the whip around the outside of his body, then directed it inward, trying in vain to crush the goblin’s skull.

  Ok, change of plans.

  An open air pipe, practically inviting him in.

  He lowered the whip and made it wiggle and stab.

  The goblin gulped, and as the drain of the magic intensified. Electricity sparked through his arms.

  But Adarin stomped down with his two remaining legs.

  That was the moment Rüdiger moved.

  As the goblin chieftain seized up in his struggle, Rüdiger grabbed his stomach and forehead.

  He dug in his fingers—and a glowing constellation of geometric shapes erupted from both contact points.

  Grinning in terrible pain, he threw the symbols away, and they were immediately absorbed into the stream. He exhaled raggedly, his face a mask of suffering. He threw a glance over his shoulder and gestured behind him.

  Then he collapsed.

  Adarin groaned as he saw the remaining goblins rally. He evaluated the state of his body. The damage the acid had done, how it had eaten a third of his biomass. I need to digest more wood before I can fight again. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  He brought up his whip like a scorpion’s stinger.

  One curious goblin approached Rüdiger and poked him with a spear, but the Archmagister seemed devoid of life.

  Then the goblin frowned, as if disappointed, and turned his back—like carrion dismissing a corpse not yet ripe.

  All the other goblins turned away from Rüdiger.

  The goblins turned as one, weapons lowering, eyes glittering with hate. Every breath in the cavern seemed to point at Adarin’s core—like knives poised to strike.

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