[Flesh Golem lvl 3]
The two creatures turned to face them then froze.
Their heads lifted in a slow, mechanical sweep. Muscles bunched under stitched plates as they finished turning toward the movement, the flames beneath their stitching flaring. Their attention locked with a heavy, murderous shift, like things built to register a presence and then end it.
The larger one took a step forward.
David sent a thought to Corbin.
Ten feet away, Corbin jerked in place. He turned to face David, his expression shifting into furious comprehension.
David looked at the larger monster as it lowered its head to charge. He spoke to his own group. "Mara, fall back and send your friends to probe. Your job is to make sure nobody dies."
Through the tether, he felt Mara’s irritation, but she immediately began moving her zombies into a defensive line between the other survivors and the charging creatures.
Then Mara’s undead charged. The zombie warg launched itself at the left-hand golem’s flank. The colossal zombie heaved its warclub at the other’s leg. The zombie archer drew and loosed an arrow that thudded into a shoulder plate. The zombie axe-wielder closed in, swinging its heavy blade at a knee. The remaining zombies shambled forward, adding to the press.
As the group prepared for a fight, Henderson muttered under his breath. “Come on, you ugly bastards.” He spoke without yelling, low, but everyone heard it. His voice just got… louder in a way that wasn’t about volume. “Right here! Come on!”
A gold pulse shot out from him. In David’s energy sight, Henderson suddenly became a permanent, glaring afterimage—a golden beacon. The visual imprint was so persistent that David was aware of Henderson’s location even when he looked elsewhere. Which wasn't concerning at all.
The two flesh golems ground to a halt. The glowing runes carved into their hides blazed with a sudden bloody light as they focused entirely on Henderson. They forgot about the zombie warg clamped to one's arm and the colossal zombie hammering its club into the other's leg. They turned their massive backs to the rest of the survivors and began a slow, earth-trembling charge straight at Henderson.
The two flesh golems focused on Henderson and nothing else. They ignored David's group when Rhea hurled a javelin, when Jamie dropped a wall of ice, and when Son swung with his raw, healed hand, his sword carving into their armored backs.
They even ignored David’s hobgoblin thrall when it wrenched its sword free and hacked at the back of a knee.
David drove his spear deep into the Level 5 golem's already wounded leg. The sensation was like stabbing a bag of wet gravel. Good. A solid hit. The System should see that as a direct contribution. I'd like my experience points delivered in a plain, unmarked envelope.
Like a proud soccer dad, he stepped back and observed as his group dismantled the Level 5 with the unimpeded efficiency of people taking apart a dangerous machine. It was a process. Rhea and Jamie worked on its legs, Rhea jabbing her spear into the back of its knee while Jamie coated the ground under its feet with a sudden sheet of slick, thick ice. Son finally got a clear shot and used his skill. A thin, bright burning red line lanced from his palm and cut through one of the golem’s thick, horned ankles. The sustained beam blasted and burned, then it severed, parting the dense, armored flesh like a hot wire slicing through a block of hard wax.
David watched just long enough to see the massive creature shudder and its leg give out, starting its slow collapse to the forest floor. As he turned to check on the other fight, his eye caught Theo. The kid was heaving his massive, oversized greatsword around in wide, awkward swings, putting his whole body into each motion just to get the blade moving, his strength stats working without break. He’s really committing to the whole demon lord aesthetic, David thought. Next, he’ll want a cape and a castle made of skulls.
He then turned his full attention to the second fight, where Group Two was dealing with the Level 3.
David watched the second group handle their golem. The word 'fighting' didn't apply. What they were doing fell into the category of 'enthusiastic harassment.'
Corbin and Mara worked to keep the others alive. Harris, the man in the suit, poked at the monster with his spear. Each thrust was followed by a quick, automatic glance at the new rip in his sleeve. Mia used her telekinetic skill to send her short sword clumsily zipping through the air. It whacked against the golem's back like a thrown rock before flying back to her hand. Remote-control swordplay, David thought. She's got the push-pull part of Rhea's kit, but not the super-vision. So she's doing telekinetic slap-fighting. Between attacks, she retreated and held her short-sword in a death grip, the flat of the blade keeping the squirming cat pressed to her chest as a furry, disgruntled piece of equipment.
Chloe the healer ran forward, hit the monster's thigh with her mace, let out a small shriek, and ran away.
The pensioner had the right idea. He’d taken a long spear and was using it correctly: as elderly support that could also, if he leaned his whole weight into it, poke something. He planted his long spear in the dirt and leaned on it, maintaining a very sharp, very clear personal boundary. He was currently keeping the Level 3 golem’s attention by threatening the integrity of its shins.
David watched the chaotic, almost kind assault. It was like watching a committee try to beat a tank to death with a stack of paperwork.
Mara’s zombies did the actual work. The zombie warg clamped onto the golem’s arm like a vise. The colossal zombie planted its feet and began smashing its warclub into the thing’s side with a sound like someone hitting a bag of wet cement. The imp scurried between its legs and climbed up its back to clamp over its head, blinding it. The axe-wielder stepped in to block a swing, and the archer put an arrow into the glowing rune on its chest.
The creature kept its pace, but it got clumsier, and the more debilitating injuries were stacking.
Chloe the healer stood back, holding her mace like she’d found a strange and heavy stick. Evans moved stiffly, deflecting blows with his sword. Through the thrall tether, David felt Mara pulling a thin, steady stream of demonic energy—not life force—from the wounded golem, she squirmed with discomfort as the energy burned through her and passed straight through their tether to David, empowering him while only a trickle remained in her channels, her body only marginally adapted to the dangerous element through David’s thrall skill. That’s a surprise, but it makes sense. Efficient. Overpowered, but efficient.
As they chipped away at the creature, David replayed the earlier parts of his group's fight. Henderson had stood there, and then his voice had changed, and the two massive golems had forgotten every other enemy to shamble directly toward him. He had that ability the entire time. Through the crash, through the ogre, through every fight until now. He held onto a skill that paints a giant bullseye on his chest and only used it when the creatures were already tangled up with the zombies and we were all in position to hit them from behind. He waited for the perfect tactical window where being the only target was actually useful.
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It was a smart play. A calculated risk David understood. If that was my skill, David thought, it would never see the light of day. I'd die with it unused. Henderson actually used his 'please eat me' sign as a weapon. Points for bravery. Minus several points for long-term survival prospects.
That line of thinking opened up a wider question. If Henderson has a skill like that, then Corbin and Evans have to have skills too. From what he’d seen and heard of the survivors, the system didn't pick and choose. It had given something to everyone. They're federal air marshals. They're trained for high-stress, violent situations. Whatever they got, they haven't used it. Not during the hobgoblin raid, not now. They're either waiting for a moment so bad that using it is the only option left, or whatever they got isn't a combat skill at all. Could be something hard to detect—a modifier, like Battle Sense. But they have something. They're just keeping it in their pocket.
[You have defeated a Flesh Golem Lvl 5]
As his group ended their enemy, David turned to catch the tail-end of Corbin’s group’s battle.
The end was somewhat impressive, compared to the rest of the fight. The colossal zombie swung its warclub down onto the golem's leg. The sound of cracking bone and hardened flesh echoed through the clearing. The creature listed sideways. The pensioner stopped using his spear as a walking stick. He planted his feet, leaned his whole weight forward, and shoved. The spearpoint slid into a gap under the golem's jaw. The creature shuddered once and went still.
The creatures crashed to the ground. Instead of simply falling over, their massive forms collapsed inward, armored flesh plates shriveling and condensing with a wet, sucking sound. In seconds, all that remained were two fist-sized balls on the ground, like oversized, damp raisins mottled with pink, brown, and red patches.
David stepped forward cautiously and nudged the raisin-like flesh ball with his spear. He could have sent a zombie, but he’d seen something—at his nudge, it leaked a steady stream of visible demonic energy he quickly devoured. More interesting were the two nearly invisible strings attached to each one. They weren't tethers—not like the ones he had with his thralls; they didn't carry a stream of complex power. Instead, they were thin, meaningless; like string. It behaved like the energy did when he pushed it out of his body and just left it there, inert and useless.
Like a breadcrumb trail made of fishing line, the strings led straight into the deep shadow on the far side of the giant redwood.
Okay, he thought. GPS trackers in the monster meat. And the GPS is pointing over there, where it's very dark.
Let’s find out what they’re attached to. He focused on the tether to Mara.
Through the connection, he felt a spike of her irritation, then the focused shift of her attention. The weakest zombie, the little undead imp twitched and scampered into the gloom, vanishing behind the massive tree trunk.
A moment later, Mara’s breath hitched. "It's dead. The link just vanished."
"Alright, everyone pull back," David said, his voice flat. "Scout's dead. Standard horror movie rules are now in effect. Mara, reposition the undead as a screen. Evans, Corbin, be ready to fire. Jamie, ice wall. Rhea, look for a structural flaw."
People moved. Evans and Corbin drew their pistols. Jamie’s hands began to gleam with a cold light and frosty mist. Rhea’s eyes lost focus, staring at the shadow. Mara’s zombies shuffled into a ragged defensive line. A barrier of undead flesh.
From the darkness beside the redwood, a figure floated into view. Floated, about 5 feet from the ground.
It was a hobgoblin, but old, its skin like tough leather, with gray streaking its black hair. It wore a simple, dark robe. Its robes swayed as it floated, revealing gold and silver trinkets beneath. In one hand, it held a small cluster of the fleshy raisin-balls, including the two new ones that flew into its hand with a slap. On its other hand, three heavy black chains extended. Each chain ended in a spiked leash on a thick-necked, densely muscular imp.
These imps were bigger than any David had ever seen, their bodies covered in glowing, shifting tattoos of unreadable symbols that pulsed with a violet demonic light—the energy visible to all— as they slowly swirled around them. Their eyes burned a solid, bright red. They were utterly still. No chittering—expressionless. David scanned them, then the old hob. None of them had shoulder markings. Either they were in charge, or they weren’t connected to the ‘Army’ his group was fighting at all. Neither option made a difference.
Evans and Corbin immediately opened fire. The sharp cracks of pistol shots boomed. Rhea's arm snapped forward, hurling a scavenged javelin with a hard, underhand throw. At David's mental command, his thrall's hand blurred, sending one of its own daggers spinning through the air. Son thrust out his palm and a thin, burning red line lanced out. Jamie slammed both hands down, and three thick blocks of ice erupted from the air directly above the floating creature and came crashing down.
The ice shattered before it reached it, and every single projectile—the bullets, the laser, the javelin, the dagger—stopped dead in the air about five feet from the floating hobgoblin. They hovered, vibrating slightly, embedded in a visible shell of wavering distortion, like heat haze made solid. The shield distorted violently under the impacts but held, then thickened, appearing stronger.
Behind the floating hobgoblin, in a cage of black iron bars, a massive, unconscious werebeast hung suspended. David recognized the species—a hulking bipedal wolf-creature from the hobgoblin army he’d fought, its shoulder bearing the same marking. A glowing tag was etched into the air above it: a level 8 Infernal Warlock.
David stared. A warlock. In a cage. A prisoner. The caged warlock had the same shoulder marking as the hobgoblins that had tried to capture them. So the robed one is an enemy of that marked group. The enemy of my enemy is my friend—
Yeah right. The enemy of my enemy is just another enemy.
The floating hobgoblin looked at the clustered survivors, at the guns, at the zombies. It tilted its head. The creature spoke in harsh, garbled sounds no one understood. Then its head tilted, birdlike. David saw its throat swell with a slow churn of demonic energy, and the rasping mutter changed—its sounds sharpening and rearranging themselves as if the air itself were forcing them into words.
It drifted closer, and they all saw its tag:
[Hobgoblin — Abyssal Priest Variant Level 17]
David felt a flash of concern through the tether connecting him to his elite hobgoblin thrall.
The floating creature’s voice was dry, rasping, and surprisingly clear.
“Ah,” it said slowly. “New pieces… with discipline. How… unexpected.” The syllables dragged like claws across bone. “I had thought these lands… abandoned by your cowardly gods.”
The creature hadn't attacked. It just hovered, watching them with a detached calm. Overconfident, David thought. Just like the ogre. That means it’s sure of its mobility. Probably the flight. Or those three imps on chains—they look like they’ve been on a magical steroid and gym membership plan. They’re the pit bulls it was taking for a walk and hasn’t released yet. Once it lets go, the fight starts.
A confident enemy with mobility held all the cards. Their only play was to ruin its mobility first.
David focused on the tether to Mara. He was going to give the order to sacrifice the zombies and run. He formed the words in his mind: ‘send every zombie to hold it back, use the wargs as buses, get to the clearing.’
Then he stopped. That plan meant throwing away his newest and strongest weapons—the colossal, the axe-wielder, the archer. If the thing chased them, or tracked them faster than they could escape, or if the escape just failed, they’d have to face it later without any of those advantages. He’d be trading immediate survival for guaranteed weakness later.
He scrapped the escape plan.
He pushed a different order to Corbin.
Finally, he gave a quiet, verbal command to his own thrall, keeping his own posture neutral and his hands still. The goal was to remain inconspicuous, to let the thrall be the one that stood out to the floating demon mage.
The thrall took a single step forward and spoke in a low, guttural stream of hobgoblin speech. The floating figure’s gaze, which had been drifting across the group, snapped to the thrall. Its expression shifted to one of mild, analytical interest.
The floating hobgoblin listened to the thrall’s question. It tilted its head, then spoke, its voice like dry stones grinding. "New pieces are so rare. I am no fool, to kill something so valuable." It reached into its robes with its free hand and pulled out three items, holding them up. An axe, a spear, and a warhammer. Each one glowed with a fierce, inner light, radiating power that was visible to everyone—humming edges sharp and filled with magic, hafts wrapped in twisting dark fiery energy, heads that seemed to distort the air around them.
“The floor sovereign will want you dead the moment he learns you are here,” it said, its eyes moving slowly across the survivors one by one. "I will trade you these cursed items— give you the power to keep your little lives a while longer.”
“All I ask is for one of you in return.”