Tarni Walker groaned as he reached out from under his blanket, blindly fumbling to silence his alarm.

  Why the hell did I drink so much last night?

  He blinked blearily at the ceiling, his brain sluggishly piecing together his thoughts.

  Right. Zane. His best friend had been at the hospital all day, visiting his sick wife. Tarni had planned to be there for him when he got home. That had been the responsible, sober plan.

  Then the beers happened.

  Through the haze of his hangover, he vaguely remembered his drunken logic: I don’t even know what time he’ll be back. I could have a couple more beers, set my alarm for real early, and go see him in the morning.

  At the time, it had felt like the best idea ever.

  Now? Not so much.

  With an exaggerated groan, Tarni threw off the sheets and quilt, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

  The moment he stood up, the world tilted. He staggered, arms flailing until his hands found the walls for support. Pressing his palms against his temples, he squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Okay, Tarn, you got this. Zane needs you,” he muttered, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t hammer against the inside of his skull.

  One long, scalding shower, two Panadol Forte, and three cups of coffee—loaded with sugar and milk—later, Tarni finally felt human enough to function.

  Grabbing his keys, he stepped out of his small two-bedroom house, which sat about 30 kilometres down the road on the other side of town to Zane’s place.

  After rolling up the door of the small one-car garage attached to the side of his house, Tarni stepped inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. He walked around his British Racing Green 2007 Harley-Davidson Fat Boy, its purple highlights gleaming even in the shadows.

  The only true love of his life, well except his Jenkins-Martin Drum Kit.

  As he checked for snakes and spiders—an old habit he wasn’t about to break—he chuckled to himself, remembering that one time.

  A brown snake, curled up somewhere in the frame, had made its presence known while he was cruising down the road at 80 km/h. The sudden slithering movement near his boot had sent his heart into his throat, nearly making him swerve straight into a tree.

  It should have killed him.

  Instead, it had become one hell of a story to tell at the pub.

  After securing his purple helmet with British Racing Green highlights, Tarni swung a leg over his bike.

  With a thunderous roar, the Harley rumbled to life, vibrating beneath him like a living thing. He twisted the throttle, feeling the familiar surge of power as he pulled out onto the main road that ran past his property.

  With the cool morning air whipping against his face, he leaned forward and gunned it, speeding toward Zane’s house.

  With frustration, Tarni slowed to a complete stop at the one set of street lights in the middle of town. As he waited at the otherwise completely empty intersection for the light to turn green,

  he let out a deep sigh, rolling his eyes as he read the bold, blocky letters on the poster on the front of the local Pub.

  "Tarni Walker

  BANNED FROM ENTRY

  On Orders of the Republican."

  A tall, slightly malnourished-looking middle-aged man in the picture smirked at him, his slightly-too-close eyes and long dreadlocks frozen in time.

  Tarni shook his head, muttering, “Bloody hell, still? That was weeks ago.”

  Whatever. It wasn’t like he had time for a drink anyway. The light finally turned green. With a rev of the engine, he shot forward, leaving the empty intersection behind.

  As Tarni rode his Harley down the narrow, winding road, the scent of eucalyptus mixed with the crisp morning air. The engine's steady rumble echoed through the quiet countryside, cutting through the occasional bleat of sheep in the nearby paddocks. Sunlight filtered through the tall gums, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the asphalt.

  He leaned into a gentle curve, the tires hugging the road as he pushed forward. Zane had been through hell these past few weeks, and Tarni wasn't about to let him face it alone. Whatever state his mate was in, he'd be there.

  With a flick of his wrist, he gunned the throttle, closing the distance to Zane’s place.

  Ding!

  Zane lay motionless in a pool of congealed pumpkin soup and blood.

  Ding!

  The slow, steady rise and fall of his chest was the only sign of life.

  Ding!

  The wound on his leg had stopped bleeding. Colour had returned to his skin.

  Ding!

  Zane woke with a scream! His body jerked violently, arms and legs flailing, sending sticky soup and half-dried blood splattering across the kitchen floor. In his panicked thrashing, the back of his head slammed into the open fridge door with a solid thud. Stars exploded behind his eyes.

  He gasped, sucking in a ragged breath, his pulse hammering in his ears.

  And then—              Ding!

  It was insistent. Not loud, but impossible to ignore.

  Ding!

  Zane groaned, running a hand down his face. His fingers came away sticky—pumpkin soup, dried blood, sweat. He was a mess. His body ached, his head throbbed, and his leg—his leg felt… fine?

  That realisation cut through the fog in his brain like a knife. He looked down, expecting to see the makeshift bandage he’d tied around his wound soaked through with blood. Instead, his jeans were ripped, crusted with dried blood, but beneath the torn fabric, his skin looked… normal.

  No gaping wound. No raw, open flesh. Just a faint pink scar, like an old injury that had healed months ago.

  "What the actual fuck?"

  Ding!

  Zane squeezed his eyes shut. "Alright, alright! How do I turn you off?"

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  No answer.

  With a deep breath. He concentrated on the small blue interface he had moved out of his main line of sight last night and thought, "Open…?"

  Ding!

  Lines of glowing blue text flickered into existence in front of his eyes.

  Congratulations

  ZANE RIDER

  Your HP went down to 1% due to blood loss

  Reward!

  You have received a new title!

  Who needs Blood? Not you!

  (plus 20% to Constitution when your HP is below 10% for 2 minutes)

  Zane blinked at the glowing text, trying to make sense of it. A title? A bonus to Constitution? His mind wasn’t working fast enough for this. He felt like he’d been thrown into a game tutorial with no warning and no clue what the hell he was supposed to do next.

  "Okay," he muttered. "This is either a really vivid nightmare… or I’ve completely lost it."

  The text lingered, waiting.

  "Close."

  The glowing words vanished.

  Zane let out a shaky breath, rubbing his temples. His headache wasn’t getting any better, but at least the dinging had stopped. He needed answers. But first—coffee. Maybe if he could just get some caffeine in his system, he could start to piece together what the hell was going on.

  With a grunt, he braced himself against the fridge and pushed to his feet. His legs felt steady, despite everything.

  As he stood there in a state of indecision,

  The sound of Tarni's Harley rumbled closer, the deep, throaty growl of the engine echoing through the quiet morning air. Zane let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

  No matter how messed up things were—blood loss, weird glowing text in his vision, and a leg wound that had somehow completely healed overnight—Tarni showing up meant one thing: he wasn’t alone in this.

  As the bike pulled into the driveway, Zane leaned on the veranda railing, watching his best mate manoeuvre the machine with practiced ease. The engine cut off, leaving an almost eerie silence in its wake.

  Tarni swung his leg off the Harley and pulled off his helmet, shaking out his long dreadlocks. Then, looking up he gave Zane a once-over, his sharp eyes taking in the torn jeans, the dried blood, and the general disaster state of him.

  Then, in true Tarni fashion, he raised an eyebrow and smirked.

  "You look like absolute shit, mate."

  Zane huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, well… it’s been a hell of a night."

  Tarni’s smirk faded slightly. "Yeah? You gonna tell me about it, or do I gotta beat it out of you over breakfast?"

  Zane’s stomach growled at the mention of food, and for the first time since waking up on the kitchen floor, he realized how hungry he was.

  "Breakfast first," he said, pushing off the railing. "Then we’ll figure out what the fuck is going on."

  Tarni walked up the stairs to the front of the house and embraced Zane in a brotherly hug, then as he walked into the house.

  Tarni froze mid-step, then slowly turned to face Zane, his expression a mix of concern and exasperation. "Mate… start with the blood part first, yeah?"

  Zane rubbed a hand over his face, still feeling the dried crust of pumpkin soup and blood. "Long story. But I’m fine. Mostly."

  Tarni narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying it. "Fine people don’t usually bleed all over their kitchen floor and then casually mention needing a backup generator for a bloody cuppa."

  Zane let out a tired chuckle. "Yeah, well… last night was different."

  Tarni sighed, shaking his head. "Right. Let’s fire up the Jenny, get some caffeine in us, and then you can tell me exactly how ‘different’ we’re talking."

  Zane nodded and led the way to the back of the house. As they stepped out the back door onto the verandah that circled the house, the early morning sun hit them, warm but not yet scorching. The old generator sat under the lean-to, right where it always had.

  Tarni cracked his knuckles. "Alright, let’s get this beast running. Then you’re talking."

  Zane took a deep breath. "Yeah… I think I might need a drink for this one."

  Tarni shot him a look. "It’s not even 8 AM and … you are you."

  Zane just shrugged. "Told you—it was a hell of a night."

  Tarni took a slow sip of his coffee, his mind working overtime as he watched Zane across the table. His best mate looked rough—like he'd been through hell and back—but there was something else in his eyes. A strange sharpness, a kind of clarity that didn’t belong to someone who’d completely lost it.

  Still, goblins? Green blood?

  Tarni set his cup down with a quiet clink. "Alright, mate. So… just so I’m clear. You’re telling me you ran over a goblin? Not a kid. A full-blown, straight-outta-Dungeons-and-Dragons goblin?"

  Zane met his gaze without flinching. "I know how it sounds, Tarn. But yeah. That’s exactly what I’m telling you."

  Tarni exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Bloody hell, Zaney. Look, I love you, mate. And I’d help you bury a body, no questions asked. But you sure this ain't just… trauma? Stress? You’ve had a rough-as-guts couple of days, yeah?"

  Zane gave a dry chuckle. "Trust me, I thought the same. But then I bled out on my own kitchen floor and woke up healed." He rolled up his ripped pant leg, showing Tarni the faint pink scar where there should’ve been a gaping wound.

  Tarni stared. "That’s… shit, mate, that’s not normal."

  "No kidding."

  The two sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it all settling in. Finally, Tarni picked up his coffee again, took a sip, and said, "So… what’s the plan? You ringing the kids? Gonna tell 'em about Bell?"

  Zane’s jaw tightened, and he nodded. "Yeah. Gotta figure out what to say first. Don’t wanna freak 'em out."

  Tarni gave a short nod. "Fair enough. But first, mate, I think you better show me exactly where you hit this ‘goblin.’ ‘Cause if you’re not nuts, then we might have a way bigger problem on our hands."

  After checking that the Jenny had enough fuel to last the day, they almost considered using Tarni’s bike—when they found dried blood all over the seat of the Ute. Zane still wanted to take some old hand fishing spears and his cricket gear, which included a bat and an old set of pads. “For protection,” he said when Tarni shot him a raised eyebrow.

  Tarni paused, thinking about it, before heading to the old firewood pile. he returned with the wood axe in hand. Zane gave him a nod when he saw him approach. “Nice.”

  They left Tarni’s bike at the house and drove back to the hill where Zane remembered his earlier encounter. Upon arrival, they found skid marks from his Ute where it had stopped in a hurry.

  Tarni crouched near the dried blood, running a hand through his dreadlocks as he inspected the scene. "Well, mate… there’s definitely blood. But whose is it?" He looked up at Zane. "You sure this isn’t just yours?"

  Zane sighed, leaning on the cricket bat he’d brought. "I don’t know, Tarn. It was dark, I was bleeding everywhere, and I was too busy trying not to die to take samples at the time."

  Tarni snorted. "Fair point." He stood up, adjusting his grip on the wood axe. "So what now? We go hunting for goblins?"

  Zane hesitated, scanning the surrounding bushland. The morning sun was filtering through the eucalyptus trees, casting long shadows. It looked peaceful, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

  "I just… I need to know I didn’t imagine it." He rubbed a hand over his face. "If there really was something here last night, then where did it go?"

  Tarni exhaled through his nose, glancing toward the trees. "Only one way to find out, mate."

  Tarni smirked as he watched Zane adjust the cricket pads. "Mate, you look like you're about to face a fast bowler, not go hunting for goblins."

  Zane flexed his fingers inside the batting gloves, gripping the cricket bat like a club. "Yeah, well, if a goblin tries to bowl me a bouncer, I’ll be ready."

  Tarni chuckled, giving his wood axe a quick test swing. "Fair enough. Let’s go find your little green mates."

  The bush was quiet, except for the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the occasional call of a magpie. The smell of eucalyptus filled the air, but Zane couldn't shake the feeling that something was . . . not right?

  They moved cautiously, eyes scanning the undergrowth. Zane led the way, trying to retrace his steps from last night, but everything looked different in the daylight.

  Then, about ten meters ahead, a patch of flattened grass caught Zane’s eye. He stopped abruptly, holding out a hand to halt Tarni.

  "That’s where they went down," he murmured, pointing at the spot.

  Tarni stepped forward, nudging the grass with his boot. "And you reckon goblins attacked you here?"

  "Not reckon," Zane said firmly. "I know."

  Tarni frowned. "Then where the hell are they?"

  The two exchanged a look. Something had definitely been here. And if it wasn’t here now… where had it gone?

  For over an hour, they combed through the bush, searching for any sign of the creatures. Broken branches, footprints, anything. But there was nothing.

  Tarni sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Mate, we should circle back to the ute. We’ve got nothing."

  Zane, gripping his cricket bat a little tighter, shook his head. "No. They’re out here. We just have to go a little further."

  Tarni groaned. "Or, we go back, grab a cold beer, and not go chasing who-the-fuck-knows deeper into the bush."

  Zane didn’t budge. His grip tightened on the cricket bat as he stared up into the hills. His voice was barely above a whisper. "We’re close. Too close to turn back now."

  Even at that volume, Tarni still heard him. He let out a long, dramatic sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. "I hate that look on your face."

  Zane smirked. "Then stop looking at it and keep up."

  With another groan of complaint, Tarni adjusted his grip on the axe and followed his best mate into the trees.

  As they trudged through the Australian bushland, Tarni was grumbling—again—about the lack of beer.

  Then Zane saw it.

  Standing between two eucalyptus trees was a small, green-skinned humanoid gripping a crude spear. His breath caught, and he raised a shaky hand, trying to speak. “T-t-there… l-look…”

  The strange quiver in his mate’s voice made Tarni pause mid-complaint. He turned to where Zane was pointing—then his eyes widened.

  “FUCK ME, IT’S A GOBLIN!”

  The words exploded out of him, startling the creature. It spun around and bolted into the bush.

  “Get it!” Zane shouted, already tearing off after it.

  Tarni swore under his breath but took off after his best mate, who was sprinting like a madman.

  “Wait up! Slow down! For fuck’s sake—it could be a trap!” he panted, struggling to keep up.

  Then suddenly—Tarni nearly slammed into Zane’s back.

  Zane had come to a dead stop.

  Standing before him in a small clearing were five goblins.