Thane lay on his back, staring up at the jagged ceiling of the cavernous chamber, limbs splayed like a dropped action figure. He winced as he sat up and gave a long, guttural groan.
"Well that was… graceful," he muttered, glaring at his flail.
The weapon lounged beside him, innocent as a puppy—except it had just spent ten minutes humiliating him. It glinted with quiet menace, practically winking.
Thane picked it up, inspecting the haft, chain, and the wicked-looking spiked ball. Nothing visibly wrong, though he was convinced it was at least 30% possessed. Wait… if it's possessed and we share a soul, am I— He shivered and mentally hit control-Z on that nightmare.
It had been quite some time since he'd inspected his weapon. Maybe there was a detail somewhere that would help explain the weirdness going on. Scanning through the description, something caught his eye.
"Mourning Star…" he murmured, then blinked. "Oh. That's cute. An inaccurate weapon pun."
Thane rolled his eyes. It was a flail—he knew because the rules lawyer in his college tabletop group would've gone into cardiac arrest if he'd called it a morning star. He gave a short, bitter laugh. Of course the System couldn't resist a flashy, inaccurate pop culture reference.
He gave the weapon a soft shake. "Yeah, I'm mourning my dignity, thanks." That was it. Nothing else. No secret explanation for why his flail had just acted like a tree-hugging hippy and chained itself to a stalactite.
He decided then and there to dub the weapon Mourning—both for the pun, and the emotional damage it had caused him.
Wiping out the goblins took seconds. Honestly, it took them longer to reach him on their stubby little legs than it did for him to turn them into floor stains.
His HUD was kind enough to inform him it took almost ten minutes to get unstuck from the stupid stalactite. He'd spent half of it dangling like a meaty windchime, cursing gravity, physics, and his own bright ideas.
He had felt like a piñata. A big, dumb, fleshy piñata.
A buried memory churned its way up from his past—something he'd happily buried beneath a decade of denial and mediocre coping skills. It surfaced like a turd in a kiddie pool. His eyes shut, and a shiver crept down his spine. Not the danger-sensing kind. Just vintage humiliation, aged poorly in the cellar of his subconscious.
He'd been invited to Anthony's birthday party. One of those parties—popular kids only, no nerds allowed. He would've sold a kidney—figuratively, but only barely—just to get on the list. The air was thick enough to chew, humid like nature's own armpit, but he didn't care. He could've passed out from heat stroke and died with a smile; he was that happy to be included.
At the peak of the party, they drew numbers. Number one. He pulled it like fate had reached down and blessed him. First swing at the piñata—first swing at glory. The piñata hung from the tree, spinning gently, like it knew it was about to witness a tragedy.
It was the usual paper-mâché monstrosity, filled with off-brand candy and inevitable dental bills. But more importantly, it was the stage for one of his life's early low points.
There'd been a girl. Obviously.
Allissa was skinny, blonde, popular, and friendly in the way that made dumb teenage boys believe in miracles.
They locked eyes just before he put on the blindfold. And like an idiot high on hormones and hope, he took that half-second of eye contact as a sign. A spark. Destiny.
So he'd gone all in. Gripped the bat like it owed him money. Lined up his swing with the concentration of a monk doing Sudoku. And in that moment, he truly believed love could be bludgeoned into existence.
Instead, sweaty palms met polished wood in a battle he didn't win. The bat launched with the enthusiasm of a dog that had absolutely zero impulse control spotting an open gate.
And then it happened.
Two girls met fate. One boy met a lifetime supply of shame. The piñata walked away unscathed.
The first got a bruised jaw—bad enough to kill whatever confidence he'd been pretending to have.
The second? A nose so catastrophically broken it needed reconstructive surgery. Twice.
And—because of course it had to be—the second girl was Allissa. The one he was trying to impress. The future Mrs. Cook. Needless to say, he hadn't touched a piñata since. He still couldn't see one without feeling vaguely responsible for someone else's hospital bill.
Thane stood with a groan and began vacuuming up the loot. Most of it was junk. Greasy goblin jerky, hard-as-rock biscuits, and a warm water flask that smelled like toe fungus.
Then he saw it, something new.
Name: Grease Retaining Odorous Splintered Spoon (G.R.O.S.S)
Type: Cookware
Rarity: Uncommon
Description: Unsanitary cooking utensil that will add grease to any pot it is stirred in. May cause sickness, weight gain, weight loss, loose bowels, and rectal bleeding. In exceedingly rare cases stew cooked with this spoon will grant a single stat point, once.
Special Effects: Cooking skill tier +1
He held it between thumb and forefinger like it might bite him. The handle squelched a little.
"Ew."
Thane turned toward the Amphitheater where–master chef goblin–and cronies had come from. He made his way down to a crude fire pit with a pile of blue moss stacked haphazardly beside it. Precariously hung over the fire was a large bubbling cauldron.
He approached slowly, cautious as a man nearing a sleeping bear with a sneeze brewing. He braced himself for the smell to punch through his nose and dropkick his brain. Oh, right… no smells. Perks of the suit.
Unfortunately, curiosity has a kill count.
He formed two small nose vents—just enough to catch a whiff. And instantly regretted every decision that had led to this moment.
The stench hit him like it had been aging in a demon's armpit for a century, then fermented in a gym sock stew. His brain flatlined. His spine tried to crawl away without him. The fumes had texture. They didn't enter his nose—they committed a war crime in it.
Bile rose with the urgency of a politician dodging accountability. His stomach emptied with such violent speed it could've been launched into low orbit. And then… it was gone. Just—gone.
No mess. No splatter.
Just the smug silence of his armor's portal magic politely whisking his dignity into the void. Apparently, the "waste disposal" system wasn't just for downstairs.
Eventually, the world stopped spinning. The air stopped trying to murder him. And with the morbid optimism of a man who should've learned his lesson by now, he peeked inside the cauldron.
The bubbling sludge was the color of outhouse gumbo, and textured like amorphous chunky maggots. Indistinct lumps floated in the mess—too shapeless to identify, too solid to ignore. His imagination kindly served up a highlight reel of medical nightmares and YouTube infection removals he never meant to see.
He gagged again, dry and haunted.
Beside the pot sat a mound of glowing moss. A traitorous part of his brain wondered if it was food or fuel. He told that part to shut up.
A quick glance around the rest of the amphitheater pit yielded nothing new. No hidden doors. No loot. Not even a sad, flea-ridden pile of straw to pretend was furniture. Maybe the goblins were fine with sitting on raw stone. They did have literal stone skin, after all.
Didn't really matter either way. Thane climbed out of the pit and headed for the dark tunnel entrance that started just beyond the arc of the curved seating. Up close, he noticed scratch marks along the stone floor—drag marks maybe?—Further down the tunnel he could see faintly glowing moss creeping down the corridor walls.
No wonder the tunnel had looked pitch black when he first entered the cavern. The moss here had been—burned, boiled, or both—and Thane's brain involuntarily whispered, "Ew." Even his thoughts had standards. The other exit, by contrast, looked positively cheerful in comparison.
He wandered over to the brighter tunnel, just to be thorough. Nothing of note—no lurking monsters or sinister shrines to the demon chef of eternal indigestion. Just more stone, more moss, more nothing. Still, he did a full circuit of the chamber. Just in case something with claws, fangs, or worse was politely waiting for him to let his guard down.
Once he was reasonably sure nothing was going to immediately try to eat his face, he checked in with himself. Stamina: 88%. Health 100%. Not bad, considering he'd just survived a battle. The warm glow of that small victory died a quick, embarrassing death.
He'd swung once. One swing. That was the whole "battle." A single moment of gory glory.
Well. Crap. I kind of suck. I can't believe I thought of that as a battle. Literally one swing. One. Pathetic. I've got to step it up.
He checked his HUD. Countdown timer reading: T-minus 2:42.
Wait, what?
I've only been here eighteen minutes? That... didn't feel right. Maybe almost dying messes with your sense of time?
He supposed that wouldn't be shocking. Certainly wouldn't be the weirdest thing that happened today. Or yesterday. Or the day before that.
Actually, now that I think about it… I've almost died more in the past couple days than most people do in their entire lives.
And yet, here he was. Still upright. Still breathing. Huh. Guess I had a pretty good thing going on Earth. Comfortable life. Low mortality rate. His biggest stressor had been figuring out how to date women who didn't make him want to drink bleach.
Geez. I should be so lucky now.
Focus, Thane. Focus.
Right. Self reflection could take a hike. Next order of business: practice.
Probably should get used to swinging Mourning around anyway. Still can't believe I missed that pun. Mourning? Morning star? Mourning star? Ugh. Tragic. Can't believe I missed a fantastic pun. I mean punny dad jokes are the best.
He chuckled and walked toward the center of the cavern, mentally preparing himself for a training montage with an audience of zero and the soundtrack of his own sarcasm.
He paced for a minute or two, Mourning lazily swinging beside him, thinking through the fight. His reactions had been better this time. Still awkward, but better. Ten minutes. He'd give himself ten minutes to not look like a drunk uncle trying VR for the first time.
Just a few swings.
A few minutes later—except not really—Thane was in a battle trance. He wasn't just practicing anymore; he was flowing, moving like the flail had somehow fused with his very being. Each swing carved through the air with precision, the chain whipping around his body like an extension of his arm, a deadly ribbon of motion.
He dodged and weaved, imagining foes lunging at him from all angles. Each attack flowed seamlessly into the next, a well-rehearsed dance of offense and defense. Every strike chained together, shifting stances like a seasoned fighter, his footwork steady and confident.
Blocks came just in time, deflecting invisible blows. Satisfying clangs thundered in his imagination. Sweat dripped from his brow, completely unnoticed. The rhythm took over, and for a moment, the world shrank to just Mourning and him—partners in a deadly, beautiful ballet.
Every motion was a lesson learned, every arc a step closer to mastery. The frustration of earlier attempts faded into the background, replaced by a quiet satisfaction. This was the kind of training that made hours disappear and left him eager for more.
When he finally stopped, panting lightly, a new stamina check read: 69%.
"Okay," he said as his breathing slowed. "Definitely glad I picked balloon mode to train, or I'd be spending the next hour face-down in goblin gravy."
Still, he grinned. That was fun. Really, really fun.
He gave Mourning a twirl and nodded. "You're still a jerk, but I'll forgive you this time."
The system seemed to agree—his flail mastery now sat at 94%. He blinked, gobsmacked.
Is that really all it took?
He wasn't sure what benefits came with apprentice-level flail mastery, but he had a feeling he'd find out soon. Still—jumping 35% in ten minutes?
He glanced at his HUD timer.
Stutter-stepped.
Did a double take.
Kicked himself.
It hadn't been ten minutes. It had been over an hour.
Like Cinderella at midnight, the magic shattered. He was no genius—just a sweaty idiot lost in the sauce.