Night three of the fires brought a change. They were closer now, creeping forward from the forest edge to positions among the outer ruins. The goblins no longer merely watched from a distance—they probed, tested, studied his defenses from increasingly advanced positions.

  Mike hadn't slept more than an hour at a stretch since the scouts' deaths. Fatigue dragged at him, turning simple tasks into challenges and complex ones into ordeals. The constant vigilance—eyes scanning the darkness, ears straining for any unusual sound—had worn deep grooves in his mind and body.

  "They're wearing me down," he whispered to himself, rubbing gritty eyes as he surveyed the fire pattern from his rooftop position. "Smart."

  The goblin strategy was effective in its simplicity. Why risk a frontal assault against unknown defenses when patience might deliver a weakened, exhausted opponent? Mike had seen similar tactics in nature documentaries—predators isolating prey, denying it rest and recovery, waiting for the inevitable mistake.

  He'd countered as best he could, establishing a rotation between observation posts that allowed for brief rest periods. The woodworking ring helped somewhat, its enhancement lending clarity to his thinking even when fatigue clouded his mind. Still, no magic or technology could fully replace proper sleep, and Mike felt the deficit growing hourly.

  Tonight's fire pattern suggested the waiting game might be approaching its conclusion. Their placement formed a rough semicircle, hemming in his compound from the forest side. Each fire was tended by dark shapes that moved with increasing boldness, occasionally silhouetted against the flames in deliberate display.

  "They want me watching the fires," Mike realized, forcing himself to scan the darkness between and beyond the light sources. The obvious threat might be a distraction from the real danger.

  As if confirming his suspicion, a faint sound reached him from the south side of his compound—the scrape of foot on stone, quickly silenced. Mike remained motionless, giving no indication he'd heard, but his muscles tensed in readiness.

  The night stretched on, the psychological pressure building with each passing hour. Sometimes a goblin would approach one of the outer traps, studying it carefully but never triggering it, then retreating to the fire line. Other times, small projectiles—stones or crude arrows—would land just within his perimeter, deliberate provocations testing his response.

  Mike gave them nothing. No reaction, no counter-attacks, no visible concern. Let them think their tactics were working, that fatigue was dulling his awareness and responses. The appearance of weakness might draw them into a fatal mistake.

  As the deepest hours of night gave way to the first hint of pre-dawn gray, Mike allowed himself to descend from the rooftop to check his inner defenses. The sap bombs were positioned strategically, their fuses accessible but protected from accidental ignition. The deadfalls and spring traps had been inspected the previous afternoon, each mechanism verified and ready.

  He paused at his workbench, checking the special arrows he'd prepared over the past two days. Using the woodworking ring's enhancement, Mike had hollowed out several arrow shafts and packed them with small amounts of explosive sap, creating crude but potentially devastating projectiles. Each was fitted with an impact trigger he'd fashioned from metal scraps—not his most elegant work, but functional enough for the coming battle.

  He was refilling his water skin at the well when he heard it—a faint scratching from below, so subtle it might have been mistaken for the scurrying of a small animal. But Mike had spent enough time in the underground chambers to recognize the sound of stone being worked, of tools scraping against the ancient walls.

  They were tunneling in. While the fires and movements above ground held his attention, a separate force was attempting to bypass his defenses from below.

  Moving silently despite his fatigue, Mike retrieved his ancient hammer and a satchel of the smaller sap bombs. The trapdoor to the underground chambers had been reinforced and concealed beneath a workbench, accessible only by moving several heavy items. Mike shifted these carefully, making as little noise as possible, then lifted the trapdoor and descended the stone stairs into darkness.

  He didn't risk a light immediately, instead pausing at the bottom to listen, allowing his eyes to adjust to the near-total blackness. The scratching was louder here, rhythmic and purposeful, coming from the direction of the circular chamber with the seven pedestals. Mike hadn't visited that area in days, focusing instead on his above-ground defenses.

  Moving from memory, one hand trailing along the wall for guidance, Mike made his way through the main storage chamber and into the passage leading to the pedestal room. The scratching grew steadily louder, occasionally punctuated by muffled voices speaking that harsh goblin language.

  At the entrance to the circular chamber, Mike finally risked a small light, striking his Zippo and shielding the flame with his cupped hand. The brief illumination was enough to confirm his suspicions—a section of the far wall showed fresh marks, the ancient stone being systematically removed by tools designed for the purpose. Dust and small fragments littered the floor beneath the working area.

  Extinguishing the flame, Mike retreated to the main storage chamber to formulate a plan. The goblins' progress suggested they might break through within hours, possibly before dawn. When they did, they would emerge directly into the heart of his underground complex, bypassing all his carefully planned surface defenses.

  The solution was obvious but risky. The sap bombs could collapse the tunneling effort, potentially killing or trapping the diggers, but the explosion in the confined space might also damage the structural integrity of the chambers he relied upon for storage and emergency escape.

  "Don't have much choice," Mike muttered, weighing a bomb in his hand. The alternative—goblins emerging behind his defensive line—was unacceptable.

  Working quickly but methodically, Mike arranged several bombs in a semicircle against the wall where the digging sounds were strongest. He connected them with fuses that would trigger simultaneously when ignited, then positioned larger stone fragments to direct the blast force toward the tunnel rather than back into the chamber.

  With the trap set, Mike retreated to a position behind a heavy storage shelf, one that should provide some protection from the blast. The fuse lay coiled in his hand, extending to the bombs twenty feet away. Now came the waiting—timing was crucial. He needed the goblins to commit to the breakthrough, to have enough diggers in the tunnel to make the collapse worthwhile, but to detonate before they could establish a secure passage.

  Time stretched as Mike maintained his vigil, the scratching from the wall occasionally interrupted by what sounded like discussion or argument among the diggers. His fatigue-addled mind began playing tricks, distorting sounds and manufacturing phantom movements in the darkness. Only rigid discipline kept him alert, focused on the task at hand.

  After what seemed hours but might have been minutes, a chunk of stone fell from the wall with a distinctive clatter. The breakthrough had begun. Mike tensed, Zippo in one hand, fuse in the other, waiting for the optimal moment.

  More stone fragments fell, creating a small hole that widened steadily under the goblins' efforts. A dim light appeared from the other side—some kind of lantern or torch illuminating the tunnel they'd created. Chittering voices grew excited as the opening expanded, now large enough for a goblin to potentially squeeze through.

  Mike waited, heart pounding but hands steady. One goblin, two, even three wouldn't be worth the bombs. He needed more commitment from their side, needed them to believe the breakthrough was succeeding.

  A leathery hand emerged through the opening, pushing aside stone fragments to widen the hole further. A face followed—yellow eyes blinking in the darkness as they peered into the chamber. The goblin made some kind of report to those behind it, its tone suggesting satisfaction with the progress.

  More hands appeared, more workers joining the effort to enlarge the opening. The hole was now wide enough for a goblin to pass through with minimal difficulty. One began to do just that, squeezing its shoulders through the gap while others continued clearing debris.

  Mike struck his Zippo, the sharp *click* and sudden flame causing the lead goblin's head to snap in his direction. Its eyes widened in alarm, mouth opening to shout a warning. Mike touched the flame to the fuse, which caught with a bright spark and began to burn rapidly toward the bombs.

  The goblin scrambled to retreat, barking urgent commands to its companions. Those still in the tunnel began to withdraw, but the fuse, treated with quick-burning sap, gave them only seconds.

  Mike ducked fully behind the shelf, hands pressed tight against his ears, body curled to present the smallest possible target to the coming blast.

  The explosion, when it came, was beyond anything Mike had experienced—a physical force that slammed through the chamber, compressing the air into a weapon that struck every surface simultaneously. The storage shelf rocked violently but held, protecting Mike from the worst of the blast. Even with his ears covered, the sound was overwhelming, a thunderclap magnified tenfold by the enclosed space.

  When the initial shock subsided, Mike found himself in a world of muffled silence. His ears rang painfully, all other sound reduced to distant, indistinct murmurs. Dust filled the chamber, reducing visibility to mere feet even with the Zippo's flame. The air tasted of chemicals and stone dust, burning his throat with each gasping breath.

  Staggering to his feet, Mike approached the site of the breakthrough. Where the hole had been, a smoking crater now dominated the wall, rubble filling whatever tunnel had existed beyond. The bombs had performed beyond expectation, collapsing a significant portion of the goblins' excavation.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Muffled screams and panicked shouting echoed faintly from beyond the collapsed tunnel, suggesting at least some of the diggers had survived. They wouldn't be breaking through again soon—the explosion had driven home the cost of that approach.

  But the noise would signal the beginning of the main assault. The goblins at the surface would know their surprise had failed, would now commit to a frontal attack while Mike was potentially disoriented from the underground blast.

  Shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear the ringing, Mike gathered his hammer and the remaining bombs in his satchel. He needed to reach the surface, to man his defenses before the goblins could capitalize on the situation. The stairs seemed to shift beneath his feet as he climbed, vertigo and aftereffects from the blast making movement challenging.

  Emerging through the trapdoor into his living area, Mike immediately noticed the change in light—dawn had broken while he was below, the early morning sun casting long shadows through his eastern windows. The timing wasn't ideal—he'd hoped to force a night attack when his knowledge of the trap placements would give him greater advantage—but the goblins had forced his hand with their tunneling attempt.

  Moving to his primary observation position, Mike saw the fires at the forest edge had been extinguished. The small parties that had been probing his outer defenses were gone, retreated to the tree line. For a moment, he dared to hope the explosion had deterred them completely, sent them scurrying back to whatever warren they called home.

  Then movement caught his eye—organized, deliberate, emerging from the forest in formation. Not the small groups of earlier nights, but a substantial force. Mike counted quickly—at least forty goblins in the first wave, with more visible among the trees behind them. Some carried crude spears or clubs, others bows like the scouts had used. Most wore the same dark leather armor he'd seen on the scouts, adorned with those blood-painted symbols.

  More concerning were the larger objects being rolled forward—what appeared to be wooden shields or barriers, clearly designed to protect groups of attackers as they approached his trap lines. The goblins had anticipated his defenses, had prepared countermeasures. This was no haphazard raid but a coordinated assault planned by someone with tactical understanding.

  Mike positioned himself at a protected firing point, nocking an arrow on one of the goblin bows. His archery skills had improved with practice, but the extreme distance and his still-ringing ears would make accurate shooting difficult. Still, even the threat of arrow fire might slow their advance, might force them to be more cautious in their approach.

  The first wave reached the outermost ruins, pausing in the cover provided by crumbling walls. Goblin archers began loosing arrows toward Mike's position—most falling well short, but a few striking his shelter with solid *thunks*. The wooden shields were positioned to provide cover for small groups that began working their way forward, moving from cover to cover in coordinated rushes.

  Mike held his fire, waiting for a clearer target. The distance was still too great for reliable accuracy, and he had limited arrows. Patience might force the goblins to commit further, to expose themselves to his more lethal traps.

  The strategy paid off as the first group reached the outer trap line. A goblin moving ahead of a shield team stepped directly onto a concealed pressure plate. The mechanism triggered instantly—a spring-loaded assembly of sharpened stakes erupting from the ground to impale the unfortunate creature through torso and throat. Its dying screams echoed across the ruins.

  Before the others could react, the death triggered a secondary mechanism—a hidden deadfall that crashed down on three more goblins huddled behind their shield, crushing them instantly. Blood sprayed across the stones as their bodies crumpled under the massive weight.

  Chaos erupted in the goblin ranks. Their careful formation dissolved as panic spread, several breaking from cover and inadvertently triggering more traps. Two more died in a pit trap, falling onto sharpened stakes with sickening thuds. Another was caught by a whip-like branch Mike had bent back and secured with a tripwire, the release snapping the goblin's neck with such force its body was flung ten feet.

  "That's it," Mike muttered, a grim smile forming. "Run right into them."

  The goblin commanders barked orders, attempting to restore discipline, but the damage was done. In less than a minute, eight goblins lay dead or dying, and the advance had broken into disorganized groups.

  Mike seized the opportunity, reaching for a special arrow he'd prepared the previous day. He'd hollowed the shaft and packed it with a small amount of the explosive sap, leaving just enough room for a crude impact trigger he'd fashioned from metal scraps. Not his most elegant work, but the ring had guided his hands to create something functional.

  Taking careful aim at a cluster of goblins trying to regroup behind a ruined wall, Mike loosed the explosive arrow. It arced through the air, striking the wall just above the goblins' position. The impact triggered the sap, and the resulting explosion wasn't large but was powerful enough to shower the goblins with stone fragments and debris. Three more went down, clutching at injuries or lying ominously still.

  The survivors scattered, abandoning any pretense of formation. Mike switched back to standard arrows, picking off two more as they fled between cover positions. His accuracy was improving with each shot, muscle memory and the ring's subtle enhancement working together to guide his aim.

  A horn sounded from the forest edge—a desperate attempt to rally the broken attack. It worked, to a degree. The goblins stopped retreating, gathering in the cover of the outer ruins. Their numbers had been nearly halved in minutes, with at least fifteen dead or severely wounded.

  Fresh troops emerged from the forest, rushing forward to reinforce the battered first wave. Mike reached for another explosive arrow, waiting until they formed a concentrated group before loosing it into their midst. The detonation claimed three more, sending body parts and weapons flying in a gruesome display.

  "Come on!" Mike shouted, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "Is that all you've got?"

  The taunt seemed to enrage the goblins. With harsh cries, they surged forward again, abandoning caution for speed. It proved a fatal mistake. Traps triggered in rapid succession as they rushed across ground Mike had spent days preparing. A deadfall here, a spring-loaded spike array there, concealed pits and snares claiming victim after victim.

  Mike contributed to the slaughter with methodical archery, targeting leaders and those who seemed to be directing others. Each arrow found its mark with increasing precision, his earlier practice translating into lethal efficiency in combat.

  When the goblins finally reached the inner trap line, their numbers had been reduced by more than half. The ground between the forest and Mike's position was littered with bodies and triggered traps, a killing field that testified to his preparation and their desperation.

  But still they came, driven by fear of their commanders or loyalty to their cause—Mike couldn't tell which. The survivors were more cautious now, probing carefully, communicating in harsh whispers as they identified safe paths.

  Time for the sap bombs. Mike had positioned the largest ones at key approach points, their fuses extending to protected firing positions. As a particularly large group of goblins gathered behind a shield wall near the well, Mike struck his Zippo and touched it to the nearest fuse.

  The bomb detonated with devastating effect, the concussion wave visibly rippling through the air before the sound reached him. The shield wall disappeared in a spray of splinters, and the goblins behind it were simply... gone, reduced to scattered remains that painted the surrounding stones in crimson. Those at the periphery of the blast staggered away, disoriented or wounded.

  Mike didn't wait for them to recover. He triggered a second bomb as another group approached from the east side, the explosion claiming at least five more. A third bomb, smaller but no less deadly, detonated beneath a goblin commander who had been shouting orders from a relatively safe position. The creature vanished in a flash of fire and smoke, silenced permanently.

  The explosions created momentary confusion in the goblin ranks, their advance halting as they assessed this new threat. Mike used the opportunity to target their remaining archers, bringing down three with well-placed shots before they could recover their formation.

  Desperate now, the goblins attempted to rush his position, hoping speed would carry them through the killing field to his shelter. Mike met them with more explosive arrows, each detonation claiming multiple attackers. The conventional arrows he saved for precision kills, dropping goblin after goblin with shots to head or chest.

  By mid-afternoon, the assault had been reduced to a scattered, disorganized effort by perhaps twenty surviving goblins. They huddled in whatever cover they could find, seemingly unwilling to advance further into what had become a slaughterhouse, yet equally unwilling to retreat and face whatever punishment awaited failure.

  Mike had almost exhausted his supply of explosive arrows, and his conventional arrows were running low. His sap bombs were depleted except for the final one, concealed beneath the open ground directly in front of his main building. Still, he had done it—repelled a force that had outnumbered him many times over, using preparation, tactical advantage, and sheer determination.

  The goblins conferred among themselves, chittering in their harsh language. Their glances toward the forest edge suggested they were considering retreat, cutting their losses after the devastating failure of their attack.

  Then a new sound rose from the forest edge—a deep, rhythmic chanting unlike anything Mike had heard from the goblins before. The effect on the surviving attackers was immediate. They prostrated themselves, touching their foreheads to the ground in obvious reverence or fear.

  Through the trees strode a figure that made Mike's blood run cold—taller than the goblins by at least two feet, with grayish-green skin and a face that he now recognized clearly. What he had initially taken for a cyclops when glimpsed at the goblin encampment weeks ago was actually something more complex—a large central eye flanked by two smaller eyes set slightly lower on the face, giving the creature a triangular visual arrangement. A tryclops.

  The creature wore voluminous robes that concealed most of its body, but as it gestured to the goblins, Mike could see multiple limbs moving beneath the fabric—not just the two large arms visible at first glance, but what appeared to be four additional, smaller arms kept partially hidden within the robes.

  Its robes were decorated with symbols similar to those on the goblins' armor, and it carried a gnarled staff topped with a glowing crystal in one of its primary hands.

  The tryclops walked slowly among the dead goblins, occasionally prodding a body with its staff as if confirming the kill. When it reached the surviving goblins, they cowered lower, trembling visibly even from Mike's distance.

  The tryclops raised its staff. The crystal flared brighter, and Mike felt a surge of something pass through the air—not physical, but a palpable wave of energy that made his skin prickle and his ring finger tingle uncomfortably.

  The tryclops spoke—a deep, resonant voice carrying clearly across the distance:

  "Builder. Your defiance ends. Submit to the will of Borgath and surrender the artifacts you have stolen, or be destroyed."

  English. It was speaking English, or something the system translated as such—the first words Mike had fully understood since the elf's warning about the Void Ripper.

  Mike stared in disbelief. Not only could this creature speak a language he understood, but it seemed to know what he was—a builder. The implications were staggering, suggesting a level of knowledge about his situation that Mike himself lacked.

  But surrender? After all this? After the slaughter he'd just inflicted on the goblin force?

  Instead of responding verbally, Mike reached for one of his few remaining explosive arrows. He nocked it, drew the bow to full extension, and took careful aim at the tryclops. The distance was considerable, the target moving, but the ring seemed to steady his hand, to guide his aim with subtle precision.

  He loosed the arrow. It flew true initially, arcing toward the tryclops with deadly intent. But at the last moment, a sudden gust of wind—or perhaps something more deliberate—shifted its trajectory just enough. The arrow struck the ground a few feet from the tryclops, detonating with a sharp crack that sent dirt and stone fragments flying.

  The tryclops didn't flinch. All three of its eyes focused on Mike's position with unnerving intensity, the staff in its hand glowing brighter as two of its hidden smaller arms momentarily emerged from its robes to make a complex gesture.

  "I guess that's my answer," Mike muttered, already reaching for another arrow.

  The battle was far from over.