Thane was as ready as he was ever going to be.
His health and stamina bars were full, his limbs loose, and most of the greasy jerky and jaw-breaking biscuits he'd eaten earlier had long since become distant, traumatic memories—ones he had no intention of reliving unless starvation became a stronger motivator than pride.
He checked the time. Still three minutes until the next ominous milestone: three hours remaining. Because nothing says "relax and focus" like a countdown towards probable doom.
With a sigh, he turned to the two goblin corpses nearby. He'd already mourned—briefly and purely for loot-related reasons—the ones crushed in the avalanche. But these two? These had potential.
Unfortunately, the goblin's belongings consisted of exactly what he feared: shriveled strips of greasy mystery meat and biscuits that could double as a whetstone. Apparently, goblin cuisine ran the full spectrum from "inedible" to "dental emergency."
His attention was focused on the portal ahead, glowing with unsettling promise.
He bounced on the balls of his feet, shook out his arms, and gave a few dramatic exhales, like a boxer before the bell. It made him feel official. Ready. Dangerous, even.
He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and scooped up his flail.
"Well," he muttered, "nothing like voluntary trauma to kick off this shindig."
Thane exhaled, rolled his shoulders, and gave himself a single, solemn nod—the kind reserved for heroes, madmen, and people about to make very poor decisions.
And with that, he stepped into the portal like a man diving into a thunderstorm armed with nothing but a towel and misplaced confidence.
He found himself in a narrow tunnel that gave way ten feet ahead, widening abruptly before spilling into a much larger chamber.
The space beyond swallowed sound. The far wall stood about thirty feet out, but the ceiling—if there was one—was lost in black. A few jagged stalactites hung in the void above, barely visible, like broken blades suspended mid-fall.
Bioluminescent moss clung in patches to the stone walls, casting a faint blue glow that shimmered across slick rock. The light wasn't enough to feel safe by—just enough to make the darkness deeper. The moss didn't pulse or move, but it still felt... watchful.
Just ahead, a cluster of natural stone steps descended unevenly to the chambers floor. Off to the right, the ground dropped in a series of steep, two-foot steps, curving out of sight like the rim of some ancient stone amphitheater. The formation felt deliberate, sculpted, though no tool marks were visible—just the slow work of time.
He couldn't track how far the curve extended. The shadows swallowed the rest, leaving only suggestions and a nagging sense of suspicion.
And there—barely within the edge of his vision—two small figures crouched at the far end of the curve. Their skin matched the cave so well it was a miracle he noticed them at all. Behind them, a tunnel gaped open, its darkness thick and unwelcoming.
He couldn't feel the cold—thanks, magic armor. Couldn't smell the wet cave moss or the lovely eau de dungeon, either. The world was dimmed just enough to make everything feel fake.
Except his nerves. His heart was doing cardio without permission, and every inch of him was screaming that this was a terrible idea. Which, to be fair, it probably was.
He crouched low near the edge of the steps, eyes locked on the goblins. Part of him wanted to charge in, flail swinging, mulch them and get it over with. The other part whispered to wait, to watch, to not be an idiot.
Unfortunately, neither part had veto power over the glowing countdown timer in his HUD, ticking away like it had somewhere better to be. No pressure.
He took a slow breath, and tried to find the balance. Not reckless. Not frozen. Just... smart violence. The kind that didn't end with him dead in a puddle. The kind that made goblins rethink their life choices.
Smart violence. Advantage of surprise. He might as well try. There were no twigs to snap. Just bare stone. Maybe, just maybe, he could be sneaky for once.
He willed his armor to shift color, its surface darkening to match the shadowed stone—matte gray with hints of black. Not bad. He dropped into a crouch, moving low and quiet.
Then his foot tapped a loose rock.
It wouldn't have been so bad, if not for the dramatic tumble down the steps. Each impact echoed like the clamor of a dinner bell being rung by the meat itself. Thane might as well have shouted, "Come and eat me!" between every bounce.
He froze. Mentally cursed whatever ancient tectonic shift put that stone there. And waited to see if the goblins had ears.
They did.
One of the two he'd spotted twitched, then both turned, squinting toward the noise. A moment later, two more goblins—hidden around a bend to his left—shuffled groggily into the chamber. Guard duty, if that's what it was, clearly wasn't their strong suit.
But it wasn't the lazy goblins nearest him that moved first.
From the pit to his right came a sharp, angry bark Thane couldn't understand, but the tone was pure pissed-off middle management.
He hadn't quite gotten close enough to see the goblins themselves, but they quickly came into view. One was waving a wooden spoon like an innkeeper's wife scolding a bunch of unruly patrons.
Thane didn't catch a word, but the meaning was clear: "Did you idiots make that noise?!"
The –guards– protested with frantic hand-waving, faces twisting in what looked to be equal parts guilt and confusion. The cook and crew didn't care.
There was shouting, plenty of goblin arm-flapping, and then the two goblins he'd originally spotted lumbered over to join the chaos.
Suddenly, someone shoved someone else. Another shoved back.
Within seconds, it was a full-on gremlin slap-fight—less battle, more chaotic toddler tantrum.
Thane blinked.
Well… that was convenient. And if the goblins were this bad at fighting each other, maybe he didn't have to be so quiet after all.
Now was as good a time as any.
Thane squared his shoulders and stepped forward, ready to capitalize on their distraction.
Then one of the goblins caught sight of him.
A high-pitched screech ripped through the chamber like someone kicking over a crate of bats.
Every eye snapped towards him in an instant.
They paused—a brief, unsettling silence—before erupting into guttural, frantic wailing that could've shattered glass.
Knives flashed as they drew weapons, shrieking in what passed for battle cries.
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They came at him in a flailing stampede that could only be described as "teamwork" if the bar was on the floor and also on fire.
Thane barely had time to grip his flail tighter before the chaotic tangle was upon him.
His body reacted before he could form any conscious plan.
Thane decreased his flail's mass and whipped it upwards in a looping arc from his right hip. Like an old-fashioned sling, he spun it around his head in a tight circle, building speed before hurtling in from the right like a medieval meteor with a grudge.
Thane ramped up his weapons mass, it reached critical density barely a hand span from the charging gang of goblins.
The sudden weight nearly yanked him off his feet.
He grunted, frantically increasing his own mass, teetering on one foot he barely managed to avoid falling.
The flail hit like a truck. Four goblins ceased to exist in any meaningful way—reduced to a spray of bone, gristle, and pulverized stone-flesh. Two more were hurled off their feet, shrieking and bleeding, peppered by the grisly shrapnel of their now-former comrades. The last goblin—protected by unlucky meatshields—kept coming, blinking through a goblin-scented mist, eyes blazing with hate.
With his flail out of position and a goblin about to renovate his organs, Thane did the only thing he could think of. He dumped weight like it was emotional baggage, and yeeted himself towards the ceiling.
It worked. Mostly.
He blasted upward like a cork from a bottle of bad decisions, and narrowly missed a jagged stalactite by inches.
Unfortunately, his flail didn't.
The chain whipped up behind him, still featherlight—until the flail's head clipped the side of the stalactite, looped around, and caught fast.
It didn't even make a dramatic sound. Just a lazy whap followed by a quiet tink—the unmistakable noise of understated consequences.
The chain went taut.
Thane's body jolted mid-air, arm yanked backward, then dropped like a marionette on broken strings.
He dangled there, glaring up at the stalactite now holding his weapon hostage like it was negotiating for better dental care.
"Oh, come on."
He yanked.
Nothing.
He gritted his teeth, and gave his flail the density of a lifelong grudge. Still nothing.
The stalactite groaned a little, but the flail didn't budge.
Thane's right eye twitched. Fine. If one dense object wasn't enough…
He triggered the "You sure about this?" setting.
His body suddenly felt like gravity had filed a formal complaint. The chain groaned. The ceiling creaked. Little puffs of dust rained down like someone shaking powdered sugar on pancakes.
The flail didn't budge.
Thane gritted his teeth as his hands slipped a fraction down the handle.
Oohhh boy… not good.
He was too heavy now. His fingers were sliding on the grip like it had been greased with betrayal.
In a panic, he switched from anvil to balloon in record time. The crushing weight vanished. His limbs went light. His grip held—barely.
Okay… not going that route again.
Dangling just under the flail, he considered his options.
Sure. Hug the rock. What could possibly go wrong? Wait... why did I jinx myself.
He wrapped his arms around the stalactite and tried to wriggle closer, aiming to unknot the flail manually.
Nope.
The moment his arms and legs tried to grip the stone, he started to slide. He tightened them, it didn't matter. His hands had almost zero grip. It was like trying to hug a greased-up pig at a county fair.
He latched back onto the flail just in time, heart pounding.
A realization hit him.
"Friction? What friction? Oh yeah, none."
The absurdity sank in. He was wearing full-body, magical spandex that hated traction. How many of his faceplants, stumbles, and graceful aerial collisions were because air resistance just didn't exist for him anymore?
"…Huh."
The thought was mildly offensive.
But more pressing matters required attention. Like the stubborn, flail-snatching rock and the goblin shrieking somewhere below that still wanted to wear his ribcage as a hat.
Thane took a breath and focused, mentally flipping the switch on his suit's friction settings. The change was immediate—like someone had finally decided the laws of physics should apply to him again.
He hugged the stalactite, clinging like a very awkward koala.
He inched upward, closing in on the tangled flail. His fingers searched the knot of chain awkwardly wrapped around the jagged stone, brushing against spikes that bit in deep—like a grappling hook.
He tugged. Pried. Swore.
No good.
Well, if it wouldn't come loose gently…
Thane grunted and began maneuvering his body sideways, slowly rotating until he was more or less horizontal—feet braced against the stalactite, hands gripping the haft of his flail like he was trying to yank out Excalibur.
It would've been majestic, maybe, if he hadn't looked like a deranged rock-climber in a bodysuit.
He flexed. Strained. Every muscle trembled.
"C'mon," he hissed through gritted teeth, "be reasonable."
The stalactite remained serenely unreasonable.
He adjusted his footing. One heel slipped, skittering on the damp stone.
"Nope! No no no—"
He scrambled for purchase, wedged himself back in place, and redoubled his efforts. Nothing.
Not even a wiggle.
The flail may as well have been forged into the rock.
Thane let his head fall back with a groan.
Thane's mind sparked, and a flame flickered to life. If he could pry his flail's jagged head free from the stone, maybe—just maybe—he'd escape this ridiculous situation. With all the grace of a cat on a slippery roof, he shimmed up the slick stalactite, fighting to keep his grip.
He perched carefully atop the spiked crown of his own weapon. He felt about as comfortable as someone standing barefoot surrounded by Legos in the dark. Hands braced against the jagged rock, he summoned every ounce of will—and a healthy dose of "please don't let me impale myself."
Beneath his skin, the magical weave crackled, thickening like a storm about to break. Rising density sent cracks spider webbing across the ancient stone until—crack!—the stalactite shattered in a thunderous collapse, stone flew like buckshot as the stalactite hit the ground. The goblin beneath was speared, crushed, and scattered across the floor.
Thane's body began to plummet. In a moment of clarity he jettisoned density like a bad habit. Suddenly he was falling as slowly as a feather caught in a breeze.
He hit the ground with a breathless thump, still alive, definitely not broken, and maybe a little impressed with himself. Falling with style—and minimal impalement—was definitely a win.