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Power and Purpose

  The tryclops's demand hung in the air between them as Mike reached for another arrow.

  "I guess that's my answer," Mike muttered, nocking the arrow and drawing the bowstring taut.

  The tryclops's three eyes—the large central one flanked by two smaller ones—narrowed in unison. It raised its primary hand, palm outward in a stopping gesture.

  "You misunderstand, human," it said, the deep voice carrying clearly across the distance. "The will of Borgath is not negotiable. I, Rong, servant of the Zengrid Empire, have been tasked with retrieving the crafter's artifacts hidden in these ruins. Your resistance, while impressive, is futile."

  The name correction caught Mike off guard. Not Borgath, but Rong—a servant, not the master. The distinction seemed important to the creature.

  But more striking was the fact that it spoke English—or something the system translated as such. After weeks of incomprehensible notifications and alien speech, hearing understandable words was jarring. If Rong could communicate clearly, perhaps there was an alternative to immediate violence.

  "What artifacts?" Mike called back, keeping the arrow drawn but not yet releasing. "I haven't found anything valuable here."

  The tryclops—Rong—made a dismissive gesture with one of its smaller arms that emerged briefly from its robes.

  "Do not play ignorant," it replied. "These ruins contain artifacts of power, sealed away by those who fled. How did you find this place when it has eluded our search for so long?"

  So Rong didn't know exactly what he had. The tryclops was fishing for information, trying to confirm what might be hidden in the ruins. Mike felt the ring grow warm on his finger, the hammer heavy at his belt. He'd found them by accident, but he wasn't about to reveal that.

  "I'm not telling you anything," Mike said, adjusting his aim.

  Rong's eyes blinked in sequence—first the large central one, then the two smaller ones.

  "It matters not," the tryclops stated. "Now that this place has been found, we will uncover its secrets. Surrender now and you may be permitted to live as a servant of the Empire."

  "And if I refuse?" Mike asked, already knowing the answer but needing to buy time to think.

  Rong's response was not verbal. With startling speed for its size, the tryclops thrust its staff forward. The crystal tip flared blindingly bright, and a bolt of energy shot forth, striking the corner of Mike's shelter. Stone and wood exploded in a shower of debris, leaving a smoking crater where a section of wall had been.

  "That was a warning," Rong stated flatly. "The next will not miss. Surrender now."

  The surviving goblins had regained some of their courage with their master's arrival. They began to spread out, forming a loose semicircle that would allow them to rush the shelter from multiple directions if ordered.

  Mike assessed his options rapidly. The shelter's defenses, while effective against the goblins, clearly wouldn't withstand the tryclops's energy attacks. His arrows, even the explosive ones, seemed unlikely to harm a creature that commanded such power. Running would only delay the inevitable—Rong had found him once and could certainly do so again.

  That left one option: the final sap bomb, buried beneath the open ground in front of his shelter. It was much larger than the others, containing nearly all the remaining explosive material he'd been able to gather. He'd positioned it as a last resort, a final defense if all else failed.

  The detonator was inside the shelter—a simple friction mechanism connected to the bomb by a buried cord. If he could reach it, trigger the explosion when Rong was directly above the bomb...

  But to do that, he needed to draw the tryclops closer.

  "These artifacts you're looking for," Mike said, lowering his bow slightly as if considering surrender, "what exactly are they? Why are they so important?"

  Rong tilted its head, the triangular arrangement of eyes studying Mike with apparent curiosity.

  "You occupy this place yet claim ignorance of its purpose?" the tryclops observed. "The crafter's artifacts are tools of immense power—devices that enhance abilities, focus energies, create wonders. Together, they can accomplish feats beyond your primitive understanding."

  The tryclops took a step forward, gesturing with its staff.

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  "Your constructions are impressive for a human," it continued. "A single defender, holding off an entire contingent of Imperial scouts. Tell me, how did you come to be here? Are you from the northern territories?"

  This was Mike's chance to buy more time. Rong was clearly interested in his origins, and that information might distract the tryclops long enough to get it into position.

  "I'm not from this world at all," Mike replied, slowly backing toward his shelter's entrance where the detonator waited. "I was pulled through a portal. From Earth."

  This revelation caused a visible reaction. All three of Rong's eyes widened, and it momentarily lowered its staff.

  "An outworlder?" the tryclops said, genuine surprise in its voice. "Impossible. The Empire controls all portals. None have been opened to new realms in decades."

  "Well, something brought me here," Mike countered, now standing in his shelter's doorway. "About three weeks ago. One minute I was on a construction site, the next I was watching your buddy with the multiple limbs get torn apart by some nightmare creature."

  "The Void Ripper," Rong murmured, taking another step forward. Its curiosity seemingly overriding its caution. "You encountered one and survived? Most interesting."

  Mike's fingers found the detonator cord behind his back, tracing it to the friction igniter mounted just inside the doorframe. Rong was now standing almost directly over the buried bomb, its massive frame perfectly positioned.

  "If what you say is true, your arrival is unauthorized," the tryclops continued, its tone hardening. "Unsanctioned outworlders are to be captured and brought before the Imperial Inquisitors for examination. Your knowledge could be... valuable."

  "I think I'll pass," Mike said.

  In one fluid motion, he yanked the igniter cord and dove sideways into the shelter, rolling behind the heavy workbench he'd positioned for exactly this purpose.

  The explosion that followed dwarfed all previous detonations. The ground erupted in a fountain of earth, stone, and fire that engulfed the tryclops completely. The shock wave slammed through the shelter, shattering what remained of the windows and collapsing sections of the already damaged walls. Even behind the workbench, Mike felt the heat and pressure wash over him, driving the breath from his lungs and sending new pain lancing through his ears.

  When the initial blast subsided, Mike cautiously peered around the workbench. Where Rong had stood was now a smoking crater at least fifteen feet across and five feet deep. No sign of the tryclops remained—no body, no robes, no staff.

  The goblins had been thrown back by the explosion, those nearest the blast visibly injured or killed outright. The survivors were in disarray, some fleeing toward the forest, others scrambling for cover among the ruins, a few lying prone as if hoping to avoid notice.

  For a moment, Mike dared to hope it was over—that the massive bomb had eliminated the threat entirely. Then, at the edge of the crater, the earth began to move.

  A hand emerged—larger than human but smaller than Rong's primary limbs. Then another, and another, until six arms in total were visible, pushing against the ground. The tryclops rose from the earth like some nightmare creature from the grave, its robes shredded and burned away to reveal its true form.

  Rong's body was not humanoid as Mike had assumed from its general shape. Beneath the robes, its torso was segmented like an insect's, with chitinous plates protecting vital areas. The six arms—two large primary limbs and four smaller, more dexterous ones—connected to this armored torso at different points. Its legs, now visible without the concealing robes, were jointed strangely, bending in directions that would be impossible for human limbs.

  Most disturbing was its face. With the decorative headdress gone, the three eyes were revealed to be set directly into the skull without sockets, able to move independently of each other. The mouth was not a single opening but a complex arrangement of mandibles and smaller feeding appendages, now chittering with what sounded like pain or rage.

  Though clearly injured—greenish fluid oozed from cracks in its chitinous armor, and one of the smaller arms hung limp and useless—Rong was very much alive and visibly furious. It reached into the crater, retrieving its staff which had somehow survived the blast, and turned all three eyes toward Mike's position.

  "You. Will. Die. Slowly," it hissed, the words no longer smoothly human but clicking and distorted as they emerged from its alien mouth parts.

  Mike had no time to marvel at the creature's survival. He grabbed his hammer and dove through a gap in the collapsed wall as another energy bolt from the staff obliterated what remained of his workbench. Rolling to his feet, he sprinted toward the nearest intact building—a storage shed he'd reinforced days earlier.

  The tryclops pursued, moving with surprising speed despite its injuries. Energy bolts struck the ground near Mike's feet, each impact throwing dirt and stone fragments that stung his exposed skin. One blast came so close that he felt the heat sear his left arm, leaving a painful burn across his bicep.

  Reaching the shed, Mike slammed through the door and threw himself behind a stack of stones he'd gathered for building material. Not a moment too soon—the entire front wall exploded inward as Rong blasted it apart with its staff.

  "Nowhere to hide, human," the tryclops growled, ducking its head to enter the confined space. "Nowhere to run."

  Mike searched desperately for a weapon, anything that might harm the creature. His eyes fell on a clay pot filled with collected sap that he'd been saving for future bombs. Not enough to kill the tryclops, surely, but perhaps enough to distract it.

  As Rong advanced, Mike grabbed the pot and hurled it directly at the creature's face. His aim was true—the pot shattered against the tryclops's central eye, sap spraying across all three visual organs and into its complex mouthparts. Rong shrieked, a high-pitched keening that bore no resemblance to human vocalization.

  Before Mike could capitalize on the distraction, the tryclops lunged forward with shocking speed. Its two primary arms wrapped around Mike's neck, lifting him off the ground. The upper pair of smaller arms frantically scraped at the caustic sap burning its eyes, while the lower pair maintained a grip on the staff.

  "You will die," Rong hissed through its mandibles, sap bubbling and sizzling where it had entered its mouth, "and this place will be ours!"

  Mike struggled against the crushing grip around his throat, his feet dangling uselessly above the ground. Black spots appeared at the edges of his vision as oxygen deprivation set in. The ancient hammer was still clutched in his right hand, but he couldn't maneuver it effectively with Rong's arms pinning him.

  As consciousness began to fade, the ring on Mike's finger pulsed with sudden warmth. His perception shifted, time seeming to slow as his builder's intuition highlighted a weakness—the connection point where the crystal met the staff, a junction where raw energy was being channeled and focused.

  With the last of his strength, Mike managed to rasp two words through his constricted throat:

  "You're... dead... wrong..."

  He swung the hammer in a desperate arc, putting every ounce of his remaining strength behind it. The ancient tool connected squarely with the crystal atop the staff, striking precisely at the weak point his enhanced perception had identified.

  The impact was catastrophic. The crystal shattered, not with a simple crack but with an explosion of contained energy. Jets of magical flame erupted from the broken staff, spraying in all directions. The fire instantly ignited the explosive sap covering Rong's face, creating a secondary detonation that engulfed the tryclops's head in a ball of blue-white flame.

  The shock wave threw Mike backward with tremendous force. He slammed into the stone wall of the shed, his body absorbing an impact that should have shattered bones. Pain exploded through his consciousness, followed immediately by encroaching darkness.

  As he slipped into unconsciousness, Mike caught a final glimpse of Rong—the tryclops staggering blindly, its face a ruin of burning chitin and melted tissue, the staff now a fountain of uncontrolled energy in its grasp.

  Then darkness claimed him completely.

  Behind his closed eyelids, notifications flashed—larger and more elaborate than any before. A sequence of four distinct chimes sounded in his unconscious mind, each accompanied by a pulsing golden light and a progression of numbers: 5 becoming 6, then 7, then 8, and finally 9.

  A four-level advancement, granted in a single moment.

  Fire spread through the ruins as Mike lay unconscious, feeding on wooden structures and the remains of his carefully built defenses. The remaining goblins fled with the burned and disfigured body of their master in terror. Flames rose into the darkening sky, a beacon visible for miles across the forested landscape.

  The Crafter's Haven burned, but its defender, still lived.

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