Greg's Inventory was... buzzing. Aside from his basic equipment, there was only one thing in his pack: The Moonshard Pendant he'd taken from the final Ratling, back in the village. It had a big fat ! next to it. That probably meant... something. Is it a key? He selected Equip.

  The door did not swing or creak or… open like any kind of door Greg had ever seen.

  It unfolded.

  The seam of light down the middle thickened, brightened, and then lines of stone began to separate and slide, not outward or inward, but almost sideways, plates turning and rotating past each other like a three-dimensional puzzle being solved in reverse. The sun-carved half split into concentric rings. The moon-carved half folded into itself along invisible hinges. Symbols flared, flared brighter, then dimmed as though exhausted.

  Stone should not move like that. Greg had seen enough of this bullshit.

  Violet stared, wide-eyed behind her goggles. “That,” she said quietly, “works out for us.”

  “It did not look that obliging a second ago,” Nars agreed. His voice had lost its lazy edge. “Even Elowen didn’t look too excited at the prospect of getting it open.”

  Greg focused. He couldn't let himself get distracted by all this impossible fantasy bullshit. “I think it responded to this,” he said, running his thumb along the curve of the Moonshard Pendant's crescent.

  Violet lifted her hand, fingers still tingling from where she had touched the stone. “Fascinating,” she said. “The wards are saturated with Sun residue. Totth’s imprint is all over it, fighting the Moon glyphs. Your little trinket tipped the balance. The Vault wants us in.” She wrinkled her nose. “Probably to devour our magical essence, but maybe something else?”

  Doran adjusted his grip on the axe, watching the last plates rotate into place. The doorway that emerged was a dark, rounded passage big enough for three men abreast, framed in faint gold and silver light. The air that rolled out smelled older, cold and wrong. “Good or bad,” he said, “way is open.”

  Greg felt the shiver run down his spine despite the heat of his dormant Rage. “Well, if anybody wants to turn back now, you've already missed your chance. Let's move.”

  Nars gave a small, crooked half-smile. “Such inspiring leadership,” he cracked. “The party is gathered. Let us venture forth!”

  Violet opened her mouth to reply, then froze, head tilting. Greg saw a flash at the edge of his vision—

  New Enemies Detected!

  Vault-Touched Goblins (Level 2)

  Current Temperament: Goblin-mode

  Current Tactics: Goblin-mode

  —but what was she reacting to?

  “Contact,” Violet snapped. “Incoming.”

  The warning reached his brain a heartbeat before the sound did. Something clattered just inside the threshold, a scrape of crude boots on stone, the chitter of high, nasal voices rolled together. A spear tip glinted, then another, catching the glow of the crystals overhead. Figures spilled into view, squinting against the relative brightness of the bridge chamber.

  They were shorter than Violet but lean where she was compact, all stringy muscle and wiry limbs. Greenish-gray skin stretched over sharp bones, black eyes blinking too quickly. Patchwork leather and filthy armor bits hung from their frames, rattling like stolen cutlery. Half a dozen of them fanned out instinctively, spears and jagged knives at the ready, another half-dozen lingering in the shadows behind them.

  The leading goblin, slightly taller than the rest and sporting a helmet that might once have belonged to a child, squinted up at Greg. Its gaze crawled up the Giant Fucking Sword, across the belt and the loincloth, to his face. It hissed something in a guttural tongue that needed no translation.

  “Big meat,” it said, switching to broken English. “Big meat in Vault. Big meat stupid.”

  Behind it, Nars gave a low, amused breath. “This one’s a poet,” he murmured. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

  Greg could feel the others shifting behind him, preparing. Doran set his stance. Nars angled to the side for a flank. Violet muttered a word and the air around her fingertips shimmered.

  Greg stepped forward.

  “Stay back,” he said, voice steady in a way that surprised even him. “I’ve got this.”

  Violet’s head snapped up. “You absolutely do not ‘got this’,” she began, but Doran spoke over her.

  “He said he’s got it,” the dwarf rumbled. “Let’s see what happens before we all stand around in a circle, bitchin’.”

  Nars was watching Greg with a sharper gaze now, all the humor pushed back behind assessment. “Go for it,” he said lightly. “We'll avenge you.”

  Greg’s hot anger was waiting, tempting him, like a fat savings account of Rage. He did not reach for it yet. He tightened his grip on the sword hilt until the leather bit into his palm and felt the world narrow.

  The goblins, delighted by what they clearly thought was suicidal bravado, squealed and surged forward.

  The first goblin darted in faster than he expected, spear thrusting for his thigh. Greg pivoted his weight and stepped into the lunge, bringing his sword down in a short, brutal arc that did not have much swing but had plenty of momentum.

  Greg used Great Cleave… (hit).

  Goblin Raider A takes 26 slashing damage.

  Goblin Raider A is dog food now.

  The spear clattered from nerveless fingers as the creature folded in half, then apart. The second goblin tried to take advantage of the opening, slipping in low at his right with a knife aimed at the gap between his belt and his ribs. Greg shifted again, turning his hip, and the blade glanced off his newly solid muscle with a spark and a sting.

  Damage Taken: 0

  Note: Your Dense Muscle Skill gives you the benefit of Heavy Armor if your Muscles Are Out.

  He brought his knee up hard, a reflex from schoolyard fights and a lifetime of chain-spamming crotch shots in Tekken.

  Greg used NutCracker… (hit).

  Goblin Raider B takes 8 blunt damage.

  Goblin Raider B drops weapon, loses interest in sex.

  The goblin wheezed and folded, and Greg finished it with a sharp, efficient chop that surprised him with how easy it felt.

  They kept coming. Two at once this time, one thrusting high, one going low. Instead of backing away, Greg stepped forward into them. The sword was heavy, but his arms were heavier. He swept it across in a flat arc that forced one to leap back and the other to duck, then reversed his grip and stabbed, putting all that new Might directly into the point.

  Greg used Improvised Thrust… (hit).

  Goblin Raider C takes 18 piercing damage.

  Goblin Raider C is pinned.

  Bonus Action: Kick of Opportunity… (hit).

  Goblin Raider C kicksplodes.

  The second tried to scramble around him, screeching. This time he did reach for the rage, just a touch, letting that furnace door crack open. Heat flooded his limbs, but it felt clearer than before, more focused. Less like a nuclear bomb, more like a Mac Truck.

  PRIMAL RAGE – PARTIAL SURGE

  Might +5, Fortitude +5 for 30 seconds

  Note: When it’s not worth the resources but you wanna do it anyway.

  He moved through the next three like he was clearing paper from a cluttered desk. No flourishes, no wild swings, no bellowing charges. Just firm, ugly work. A feint of his shoulder to draw a spear high, then a downward chop at exposed collarbone. A boot to a knee. The flat of the blade slammed sideways into a skull. The last one tried to run past him entirely, eyes fixed on the smaller targets behind. Greg pivoted and let the sword’s tip do most of the talking.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Notifications stacked at the edge of his vision, each chime riding the tail of the previous one.

  …

  Goblin Raider D defeated. +8 XP.

  Goblin Raider E defeated. +8 XP.

  Goblin Raider F defeated. +8 XP.

  Solo Bonus: Damn, Son

  The initial wave broke. The goblins in the rear, who had been cheering and jeering, stared at the pile of meat that had been their vanguard, then looked at Greg. One dropped its knife. Another screeched something high and panicked.

  “Surface big meat,” it keened. “Surface big meat angry!”

  Nars laughed once, sharp. “Surface big meat’s coming for you next.”

  Greg took a single step forward and let the Rage show on his face. “Run,” he said. It came out lower, rougher, like he'd been gargling glass. “Or see what happens when you don’t.”

  The system, to its mild credit, approved.

  Ability Challenge!

  testing: Charisma + Intimidation

  Charisma: 10, Intimidation + 5, Barbarian +5, Giant Fucking Sword +2= 22

  Target: 20 (Challenging)

  ...testing…

  Challenge Succeeded!

  The goblins make like a tree and get the fuck out of there.

  The goblins broke. They scattered back into the tunnel beyond the door, a scrambling tide of limbs and dropped weapons. Two tripped over each other and went down, but the rest did not pause to help. The sound of their retreat echoed off the stone until it merged with the deeper hum of the Vault.

  COMBAT COMPLETE!

  Enemies defeated: 6

  XP gained: 60

  Current Progress to Level 2: 54%

  Greg let the rage bleed out of his limbs and lowered the sword. His hands trembled, but with fatigue and adrenaline rather than wild fury. He realized he had ended up half a step ahead of where he had meant to stand, his boots almost at the threshold of the door.

  The space beyond, was enormous and silent. Behind him, silence had also fallen over his companions.

  Doran broke it first. The dwarf stepped up beside him, looking at the scattered bodies. “Clean work,” he said. “No wasted motion. You learn fast.”

  Greg exhaled loudly and took a moment to catch his breath. “I learned the hard way,” he managed weakly. “Ratlings.”

  Nars approached more slowly, sheathing the blade he had not actually needed to use. His expression had lost its easy smirk. He studied Greg’s stance, the placement of the goblin corpses, the direction of the blood spatter. Then he gave a small, theatrical little bow.

  “Well,” he said. “Here I was, ready to rescue you. Congratulations on your little performance. And I'm not easily impressed; ask the dwarf.”

  Doran grunted something that might have been agreement. Or indigestion.

  Violet, for her part, had already darted to the nearest corpse and sunk into a crouch. She prodded the dead goblin’s skin, lifted one eyelid, and pried its mouth open with absolutely no regard for dignity.

  “Moon-threading again,” she muttered. “See? The veins. Same as the Skulkers. Slightly different pattern, but same source. The Vault is seeding its corruption into anything that spends too much time inside it. Or anything given the right ritual bath.”

  She sat back on her heels and looked up at Greg. Her eyes flicked once over the sword, then his hands, then his face. “You handled that… like a savage, but not a savage bonehead,” she said. “Approximately forty percent fewer stupid decisions in that conflict. Data set's startling to look better.”

  “Been keeping a lot in, I guess,” Greg said. “Just letting some of it out.”

  “Keep at it,” Violet told him. “Just don’t… this new Greg is useful. But don’t lose the real Greg.”

  A notification bloomed quietly.

  Party Reaction:

  [Doran]: Respect increased.

  [Nars]: Curiosity increased.

  [Violet]: Urge to dissect increased.

  Greg pretended he did not see that last part and wiped the blade clean on a goblin tunic. The ichor and blood sizzled faintly, soaking into the steel before he could finish.

  New Weapon Passive:

  Blood-Drinker I

  Chance to absorb enemy life when dealing damage.

  Try not to think about it.

  “Right,” Nars said, rustling his hair. Whatever moment of seriousness had tried to settle on him, he shook away like water. “Our barbarian has demonstrated that he belongs in front. The goblins have demonstrated that they belong behind us, preferably dead. The door has demonstrated that it now opens. This has been a nice breather, but we’re not gonna get ourselves killed just standing around here, you know.”

  Doran checked the edge of his axe with a thumb and nodded once. “Let’s go get ourselves killed,” he said.

  Violet got to her feet, dusting off her knees. “Stay away from any piles of junk that move on their own,” she warned. “And if anything whispers in a language you don’t understand, do not answer it. Actually, if anything whispers.”

  Greg would have laughed at that yesterday. Today he just sheathed his sword, settled his glasses back into place, and stepped through the doorway.

  The tunnel beyond differed from the upper passageways in small, unnerving ways. The stone was smoother, yes, the carvings finer, but the light felt wrong. The crystals overhead cast a thinner, whiter glow, and shadows pooled in the seams of the walls like thick ink. The air hummed a little higher. Greg felt the hairs on his arms trying to stand up under his bracers.

  They moved in the same order as before: Doran in front, measuring the ground with each careful step; Violet behind, one hand hovering near the wall as if feeling for invisible currents; Greg a half pace back, sword held low but ready; Nars bringing up the rear, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.

  Time slipped again. They passed alcoves holding more of the erased statues, their features scrubbed away as if the stone itself had tried to forget who they once were. They stepped through shallow drifts of dust that puffed around their boots and refused to settle properly, clinging to the air like smoke. Once, something skittered just out of sight at the edge of the light, but when they caught up to it, there was nothing but old stone and the smell of death.

  Here and there, they saw clearer signs of Petar’l’s group. Deep gouges in the walls where weapons or spells had struck. A broken spear, its shaft snapped clean through. A smear of dark blood at ankle height, long dried. Someone was wounded but still walking. Elowen?

  After what might have been minutes or hours, the tunnel bent in a shallow curve and opened into a wider chamber. The ceiling rose higher, lost in shadow. The floor was littered with chunks of fallen masonry, as if some great impact had shaken things loose long ago. On the far side, another passage yawned, its mouth framed in cracked elven relief.

  Doran held up a hand. “Hold,” he said. He crouched near a scuff mark in the dust, running two fingers along it. “Recent,” he murmured. “Boot. Small. Elf.”

  “Elowen?” Greg’s heart kicked.

  “Could be.” Doran straightened slowly. “Weight is light enough. Step is careful.”

  Nars moved past Greg and knelt beside a larger depression near the wall. His fingertips traced four deep prints, spaced in a way that suggested a running start. “Petar’l,” he said. “Or Jistos, maybe. One of them. Either way, they were in a hurry.”

  Violet had wandered a few steps farther into the chamber, eyes up toward the ceiling. Greg opened his mouth to tell her to stick closer, then saw what she was pointing at. A faint smear of pale blue light traced a line along the upper wall, then vanished into a crack.

  “Residual magic,” she said. “Sun-aligned. This far down, there is only one person it can be.” Her voice had shifted, losing some of its habitual sharpness. “She's still fighting.”

  Greg turned slowly, scanning the chamber with renewed intensity. The rubble, the broken stone, the shadows. Something tugged at the edge of his vision, small and out of place.

  A scrap of fabric.

  It lay half-buried under a chunk of fallen masonry near the base of the far wall, just visible where the edge of the stone had shifted slightly aside. Not much. A torn ribbon, really. White once, stained now with grime and a faint wash of dried brownish red. The fibers caught the faint crystal light with a soft, familiar sheen.

  Greg crossed the room in a few long strides. His pulse roared in his ears. He crouched beside the stone and carefully eased it back far enough to free the fabric.

  The system did not need to say anything, but it did anyway.

  Item Acquired: Torn Suncloth Veil

  Owner: Elowen Vale

  State: Damaged, bloodstained

  He held it between thumb and forefinger. Even through the sweat and the dust, he could smell a ghost of something clean and floral under the iron tang. His chest tightened.

  “She was here,” he said softly. “This is hers.”

  Nars joined him, gaze sharpening. “That is her veil,” he confirmed. “She wore it when we left the village.”

  Violet’s jaw clenched. “Blood,” she said. “Not much, but some. Could be a cut. Could be worse.” She looked up at Greg, eyes narrow but bright. “If Petar’l hurt her, I am going to turn his spine into a wind chime.”

  Doran set one hand on the stone where the veil had been trapped. His voice was quiet. “Trail is fresh enough,” he said. “Not more than a day, by the dust. Less, maybe. They are ahead, but not so far ahead that the story is finished.”

  Another notification slid into place, letters tightening.

  Quest Updated: Rescue the Elven Cleric

  Clue Found: Elowen’s Torn Veil

  New Objective: Follow the Blood Trail!

  Somewhere deeper in the Vault, under the hum of ancient magic and the cold breath of the corridors, Greg thought he heard again the echo of that scream he had felt at the door. Not as sharp, not as clear. More like a memory. It made something lock into place inside him.

  He folded the scrap of cloth carefully and tucked it into a pouch at his belt, close to where the moon pendant rested.

  “Alright,” he said. His voice came out rough. “She is ahead. Petar’l is ahead. Whatever is leaking out of this place is ahead. We catch them. We get her back. We stop this.”

  Nars nodded once, some of the usual mockery gone from his face. “Yes sir, Captain Barbarian sir,” he said.

  Violet pushed her goggles back down over her eyes, the lenses flaring to life. “Someone's gotta lead this raid. You’re doing fine, Greg. It’s been great knowin’ ya.”

  The tunnel beyond the chamber waited, dark and patient.

  They stepped toward it.