Next, he secured the stakes to a flat planter positioned directly in front of the door. He piled some excess rope on top, threading it through the stakes’ rigging. The plan was crude but effective—after leaping over the planter, a hard yank on the rope would pull the stakes upward, skewering anything dumb enough to follow. He gave the rope a quick tug and tested it.
It slipped.
Jim cursed under his breath. He needed an anchor.
Scanning the room, his options were limited. Then his eyes landed on the rusty paperweight—his ever-faithful companion. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. Grabbing a dagger from his supplies, he set it against the concrete floor behind the plank and used the paperweight to hammer it down. The blade quivered under the force, and for a moment, Jim thought it might snap in two. But it held.
Good enough.
He gave the rope another yank. This time, it held steady. The stakes snapped upward with a satisfying thunk. Jim grinned. The trap was ready. It wasn’t perfect, but it could double as a barricade in a pinch. He rolled his shoulders, pocketed his trusty paperweight, and slipped out into the corridor.
The office was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made his skin crawl. Jim moved cautiously, his steps muffled against the carpeted floor. The nicer desks, the ones untouched by time and scavengers, lined the hallway like forgotten relics. If the goblinoids were rummaging through the area too, there was a chance they’d missed something valuable.
Desk by desk, Jim searched, keeping one ear tuned for any sounds beyond the oppressive stillness. After a handful of drawers and more dust than he cared for, his only prize was a pair of old iron scissors. They were heavy, solid—the kind they used before everything became cheap and disposable. Not exactly a weapon, but sharp enough to be dangerous in a pinch.
As he pressed deeper into the office, Jim felt the space stretching unnaturally around him. The walls seemed to pull apart, the corridors expanding beyond what he remembered. The place had to be five times the size it once was. He spotted fresh tracks—too fresh. He wasn’t alone.
Stanley’s Staples had been the smallest office on the floor, squeezed between a law firm and a real estate agency. But if his office had grown this much, the entire floor must now be a labyrinth. The elevators were probably out of commission, and the stairwells—if they still existed—might not be any safer. Still, he headed toward the suite’s exit. Getting out was better than staying trapped in whatever this place had become.
But before he could reach the door, a sound froze him mid-step.
Voices.
Jim dropped low, slipping behind the reception desk just as a pair of goblinoids lumbered into view. He peered through a crack in the paneling, watching their every move.
“Hazzar, team not back—we check before go back,” one grunted in a harsh, guttural voice.
Jim’s heart thudded in his chest. The goblinoids strode past, their crude weapons hanging at their sides. Still gatherers, from the look of them, but still dangerous. He didn’t need any more of their kind sniffing around.
Crouched under a nearby desk, something caught his eye. An old, broken whiskey bottle lay in the shadows. It wasn’t much, but glass could cut just as deep as steel when used right. He grabbed it, gripping the jagged edges like a dagger, and crept after the goblinoids as quietly as he could.
They were calling out now, voices bouncing off the walls. “Huzzar! Gakko! Lemmu!”
Their steps led them straight toward his hideout.
Jim’s stomach tightened. Shit. Maybe hiding in the central office at the back hadn’t been the best idea after all. He cursed himself for not thinking ahead.
The goblinoids reached the hole he’d carved into the side of the office and peered inside. Their bodies stiffened. They drew their knives, grunting in alarm.
Then it hit him.
The first goblinoid he’d killed was still inside, slumped in the corner like discarded trash. The blood, the body—it was all there, plain as day.
They’d know someone was here.
Panic clawed at his chest, but Jim forced it down. He needed to act—now.
Without another thought, he ripped the paperweight from his pocket and hurled it with all the strength he had.
The rusty chunk of metal whistled through the air, aimed straight at the nearest goblinoid’s skull.
It struck one of the blue-skinned goblinoids with a dull thunk, eliciting a scream as the creature tumbled headfirst into the hole. Seizing the moment, Jim charged forward, bottle in hand, and tried to kick the other into the pit. But the goblinoid was quicker than he’d anticipated—it dodged to the side. Jim stumbled and felt a sharp pain in his side.
“Shit,” he muttered, leaping aside to avoid the pit’s edge, and swung his glass bottle in a wide arc. The goblin bared its wicked fangs as it kept just out of range.
“You kill friends—now I kill you,” it growled.
“Your kind doesn’t speak too well, huh?” Jim taunted.
“Kill well, though,” the creature snarled as it lunged, slashing with its knife. Jim managed to lean back and then swung forward, driving the bottle hard into its forehead. The goblinoid screamed in pain, wildly swinging its dagger as blood dripped into its eyes. Seizing the opportunity, Jim darted behind it and delivered a hefty shove that sent another goblinoid tumbling into the pit.
“Ayyeeee!” came its fading scream.
[You have killed a Gobinoid Gather, EXP gained]
[You have killed a Gobinoid Gather, EXP gained]
[Level Gained.]
Peering over the edge, Jim remarked dryly, “The best weapon around is this damn hole.” He quickly searched for his paperweight but sighed in defeat when he realized it must have gone down with the goblinoid.
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“One of these days, I really need to get a proper weapon,” he grumbled. He knew the goblinoids were dim but not mindless, and time was running out. With that, he leapt over the pit and disposed of his first kill into its depths.
He was pretty sure he could do this again
He snuck back to the reception desk and listened. With no sound, he poked his head out into the hallway.
Nothing.
He looked, he could see the emergency exit stairwell and debated making a run for it. He felt the admiral in the back of his mind screaming “It’s a trap!”
Instead, he grabbed a handful of pebbles and started throwing some at the entrance to Sherlock Homes, the real estate office next door. It didn’t take long for the noise to bring some nosey goblinoids forth.
When the first one poked its face into the hall, Jim quickly ducked back into his office. He threw a few more rocks to make noise further into the room.
“Gacko?” The goblinoid walked past the desk again, and Jim went to follow but a slight scuff made him hesitate. Thankfully he waited as a moment later a second goblinoid walked past. He stayed low and followed behind them.
[Skill Gained: Stealth?]
He didn’t have time to check the skill so he kept moving. These two, much like their precursors kept calling out for the others. As they approached the giant hole, Jim made his move.
He swiftly charged and grabbed the backpack of one goblinoid while the other spun, he shoved it with his foot, unbalancing it and sending it plummeting.
The other one drew its dagger and tried to spin but struggled with it while Jim was holding his pack.
With a quick slash of his broken bottle, he cut the bag straps and then shoved, sending the goblin into the abyss.
[Skill Gained: Impromptu trapmaking]
[Perk Gained: Falling for you]
He was now having a bit of a murder high. Was that a thing? What had started as sheer terror, stumbling through dark hallways with nothing but a rusty paperweight and blind luck, now felt… manageable. Maybe even good. Alone or not, Jim was starting to believe he could actually survive this hellhole.
Kneeling beside the goblinoid’s corpse, he rifled through its ragged pack, his fingers quick but cautious. Inside, he found a gourd sloshing with cool water. The moment he unstoppered it, the sharp scent of fresh spring water hit his nostrils. His throat, raw from hours of breathing stale, dust-choked air, screamed for relief. He drank greedily, letting the water trickle down like liquid salvation. But even as it soothed his parched throat, his stomach growled in angry protest.
No food, just more of those weird bundled herbs. He poked at them, half-tempted to chew one out of desperation, but decided against it. The last thing he needed was to hallucinate goblinoids in his sleep.
Another length of rope sat tangled at the bottom of the bag. He snatched it up without hesitation. It’s not about what you need it for—it’s just that you’ll always need it. Rope had saved his life more than once, and in this place, you didn’t leave something that useful behind.
Deciding he’d risked enough for the day, Jim told himself that tomorrow would be for the next set of “hole murders.” But the day wasn’t over yet. If he was going to keep surviving, scavenging was key.
He turned his attention to the nearby desks, moving methodically from one to the next. Each drawer creaked in protest as he forced them open, revealing only scattered papers, old pens, and the occasional dead insect. But then—jackpot. A little flask of whiskey, half-full and still sealed. He set it aside with a grin. Later, he thought. Treat yo’ self.
Digging deeper, he found several shards of broken glass. He wrapped them in cloth before carefully tucking them into his bag. Crude, sure—but in a pinch, they’d serve as weapons or, better yet, traps for anything dumb enough to follow him.
Outside, the light filtering through the grimy, opaque windows began to shift. The harsh glare softened, giving way to long, creeping shadows that clawed across the floor like silent specters. Jim’s muscles ached, his adrenaline fading now that the immediate danger had passed. Fatigue hit him like a weight, dragging at his limbs. The thrill of survival was wearing off, leaving only exhaustion and the gnawing unease that came with nightfall in this twisted place.
Realizing it was time to retreat, Jim made his way back to his office hideout. Once inside, he wasted no time. He reset the stake trap, pulling it taut and tying it off. Anyone making the mistake of following him over that jump would find themselves skewered like a shish kebab.
Satisfied, he slumped against the wall, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Every small victory—each scavenged item, every skill and perk earned—was a reminder that survival wasn’t just possible, it was his for the taking.
With a flick of his wrist, he pulled up his skill menu, eyes scanning for any new bangers.
Come on, he thought, give me something good.
Stealth?
- Gain a 10% better chance of going unnoticed when in an urban environment
Impromptu Trapmaking
- Gain a 10% proficiency when creating traps from existing hazards
Falling for you - Stat: Lure
- Only active on pit-style traps
- Gain a 4% chance of Instadeath
The skills were so-so, he wasn’t even entirely sure what proficiency was, and a four percent chance of instadeath? None of these goblinoids were surviving the hole anyway.
“Garbage”, he said as he got comfortable.
He just had to keep hoping they would keep coming in weak small groups. A man can hope, right?
With his bag of herbs as a pillow, he laid his head down and immediately fell asleep.
___
The Gilded Maw, as the warlord’s office was called, was a fortress of steel and glass wedged into the heart of the sprawling Grotto-Tier Complex. Once, the towering structure had been a pristine corporate citadel, but now it was a fortress of industry and war, a brutalist maze of flickering overhead lights, rusted metal partitions, and thick steel doors reinforced with scavenged plating. The walls bore the scars of countless battles—bullet holes, claw marks, and deep gashes from blades wielded by those too stubborn to die quickly.
The air hummed with the distant whirr of malfunctioning ventilation systems, mingling with the sounds of the factory floors below. Goblins skittered through narrow corridors, carrying reports, weapons, and orders between the department lords who ruled over the various levels of the building-turned-dungeon.
At the top of the Gilded Maw, behind a desk made from a repurposed vault door, sat Grakzhar the Unbroken, a hobgoblinoid warlord who had carved his empire out of the ruins of a failed world. He was massive even for his kind, his armor a mix of reinforced plating and stitched hide, his shoulders broad enough to make the massive chair creak beneath him. His hands, calloused and thick, worked a whetstone along the edge of a brutal-looking sword, its surface chipped from countless fights.
The door to his office creaked open, and Yezgrik the Hexhob shuffled inside, his shadow flickering oddly in the dim light. Unlike the others, he had no armor, no weapons save for the unseen, whispering forces that coiled around him like smoke. His skin, gray and lined with thin, pulsing veins, twitched with every step. His eyes, black and sunken, darted toward the warlord, his long fingers wringing together in unease.
Grakzhar didn’t look up.
“Speak.”
Yezgrik cleared his throat. “Boss… it’s Floor Seven.”
The sharpening stone stopped. The only sound left was the distant hum of old office lights and the occasional burst of static from a damaged intercom.
Grakzhar’s yellow eyes lifted. “Gone?”
Yezgrik swallowed. “Aye, boss. Whole team. Not a trace left behind. No alarms tripped, no signs of a fight.
“They didn’t activate the bloodsucker nest?”
“No boss, Kazzar ain’t that stupid.”
Grakzhar set the whetstone aside, rolling his neck with a slow pop. “I’ll send a team.”
Yezgrik hesitated. “Who?”
The warlord smirked. “Korrak.”
Yezgrik stiffened. Korrak the Brute-Shield. A walking wall of muscle and iron, Korrak was the kind of problem you threw at other problems to make them disappear. He wasn’t just tough—he was damn near indestructible. If something on Floor Seven had taken the last patrol, Korrak would make sure it didn’t happen again.
“And two Tatterfangs,” Grakzhar continued. “I want eyes in the dark and a blade that don’t hesitate.”
Tatterfangs weren’t scouts. They were hunters—feral, wiry killers who saw more in the dark than they did in the light. When they were let loose, things vanished.
Yezgrik shifted uneasily. “And if they don’t come back?”
Grakzhar stood, grabbing his war axe and testing its weight. His grin stretched wide, sharp and humorless.
“Then I go next.”