Bright light had assailed Cyrus’s eyes as his movement returned to him.

  But it wasn’t the bright yellow sun from which he had just been under, and it wasn’t the harsh glare of fluorescent bulbs, as though he were somewhere man made either.

  This light was different—purer, more silvery than yellow, soft and gentle, unlike the buzzing, blue-tinged artificial light he was used to. Even the dim LEDs he used in his apartment felt harsher by comparison.

  That’s why it didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust. And as they did, his new surroundings came into focus.

  He was far from where he had just been.

  His hands had instinctively gone to remove his VR headset—but found nothing there. That simple failure to find at least something familiar to explain what had happened forced this new reality to further sink in.

  The logical part of his brain insisted that he should still be standing in the shared garden space of his apartment complex.

  But he wasn’t.

  Instead, he stood in a large, unfamiliar room, its walls a seamless blend of sleek silver and soft white. The upper half, including the ceiling, was pale and clinical, but etched with intricate gray patterns—like circuitry, though asymmetrical and alien. The lower half was a dull silver, smooth and metallic, as though once liquid, now solidified into a perfect, seamless design.

  There were no visible seams between the two halves, as if the entire room had been crafted from a single sheet of material.

  But that didn’t seem possible either. Dark, glass-like display panels were embedded throughout the space, placed as though the gray patterns within the white walls behind them somehow led to their position. The monitors stood out only centimeters away from the wall, and held no visible seams that Cyrus could discern.

  Then he truly saw the screens. Not just acknowledging their presence, but realizing their significance. And that was when the feeling hit him.

  It was like he had just been isekai’d into a video game.

  The displays glowed with strange icons and unfamiliar symbols, a script that almost looked like the fictional languages from RPGs he had played.

  But this wasn’t a game. Or at least, it definitely didn’t feel like one.

  Cyrus had seen countless VR environments, sci-fi movies, and immersive simulations, where screens could mimic three-dimensional realism or project interactive holograms.

  But none of them looked like this. Not this realistic.

  The images on these displays didn’t just hover in mid-air—they had depth and solidity, as if they existed both inside and outside of the screens at the same time.

  This was beyond anything he had ever seen.

  And that both terrified and excited him.

  As he looked closer, he realized the images weren’t just floating above the panels—they had a depth that defied logic.

  The backgrounds of the displays seemed to stretch inward, like windows into another space just beyond the glassy surface. It was as if the screens weren’t simply projecting information but offering a gateway into something else.

  He had seen 3D illusions before—holograms that created a sense of depth—but this was different.

  It felt real.

  The images had a physical presence, not just light tricking the eye, but actual volume and mass, as though he could reach inside and grasp the shifting symbols and geometric patterns floating in the background.

  Cyrus swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides. He had the uncanny sense that if he dared reach forward, his hand might pass through what his mind insisted was a border—the supposedly solid piece of glass—and disappear into the display, drawn into whatever existed beyond it.

  Each image displayed was incredibly intricate, showing visual data in ways that went far beyond anything he had ever encountered. His mind raced to try and understand how any of this was even possible.

  Technology this advanced didn’t exist on earth, it didn’t really even exist in imagination, but here he was staring at something that didn’t just display information—it presented it like a living entity, shifting, responding, inviting him to engage with it in ways he couldn’t fully comprehend.

  "This… is incredible," Cyrus whispered reverently.

  The displays weren’t just showing him something—they were pulling him in, making the data feel alive, interactive, and deeply immersive, even though he couldn’t understand a word of it.

  For a few moments, Cyrus was lost in his amazement.

  His anxiety retreated. The voices in his head fell silent.

  And for the first time since he had woken up here, the fear of what had just happened to him—and where he now found himself—vanished.

  He reached out cautiously, his fingers hovering over the strange, floating panel of what he assumed were words.

  But these weren’t just words.

  The glyph-like characters before him weren’t flat drawings or computer-generated images. They weren’t some simple font art or faux 3D with artificial shading to mimic depth.

  They each had structure and texture.

  The glyph-like characters before him weren’t just flat drawings or digital renderings. They weren’t simple font art or faux 3D with artificial shading to mimic depth. They had ridges. Peaks. Not like buttons, not quite. More like something alive, waiting to respond.

  He felt it—a pull, a presence—as though the symbols were aware of him. Calling to him.

  His fingers twitched in anticipation.

  Obviously, he couldn’t read them—he wasn’t even sure they were words at all—but something about them felt… intentional.

  He had the strangest sensation—as though the symbols weren’t meant to be read, but interpreted. No, not even that. Experienced. They weren’t just visual. They had intent.

  And they were waiting.

  His arm moved on its own, fingertips drifting closer. He had to know what it felt like. His curiosity overrode caution as he inched closer to touching the strange… buttons? Symbols? Glyphs? Icons? His mind cycled through the words, struggling to find the right one. But none of them quite fit.

  His arm snaked forward, moving of its own accord. He had barely considered the ramifications of actually touching the holographic-like icon floating in front of the screen nearest him before his fingers closed the distance.

  But just as he was about to make contact—a sharp hiss shattered the silence.

  Cyrus reflexively jerked to a halt. The trance-like state he had been in—the overwhelming need to understand what his mind insisted was impossible—shattered in an instant.

  His hand froze mid-air as he instinctively turned toward the source of the sound.

  A thin seam appeared on the smooth wall, and he watched as two rectangular panels slid apart. Each side vanished seamlessly into the wall, revealing an opening where, moments ago, there had been nothing but solid surface.

  As the door receded noiselessly, the now-open passage revealed what looked like a hallway. But to his astonishment and horror, it was not empty.

  And just like that, the fragile sense of control he had been clinging to crumbled, his new reality hitting him like a bullet train.

  His anxiety surged back in full force at the sight of others. His knees quaked, his stomach twisted violently—a deep, roaring, musical tooting echoed from his bowels, betraying just how unprepared his body was for all of this.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had toyed with the idea that this was all some elaborate simulation—or maybe even a dream. He had reasoned that the heat he had felt, coupled with the shining motes, signaled a stroke of some kind, and that all of this was simply a hallucination—his damaged brain attempting to repair itself.

  But now, seeing what stood in the open doorway, a new thought crept in. One he had briefly considered but hadn’t truly dared to believe. Yet, it made a certain kind of sense.

  He’d been abducted by aliens.

  Cyrus had never been one for conspiracy theories—at least, not most of them. But standing here, surrounded by technology far beyond anything he had ever imagined, it was the only explanation that made sense.

  His brain had been trying to piece everything together, but now, as he took in the impossible sight before him, the puzzle clicked into place.

  And what he saw on the other side of that doorway made his breath catch in his throat.

  He stared intently with a mix of anxiety, fear, and excitement keeping his eyes locked onto what lie on the other side of the doorway.

  The room beyond was bathed in the same soft, silvery light, but that wasn’t what made his nerves twitch.

  The figures standing just beyond the threshold were decidedly non-human. But neither were they what he expected.

  They weren’t the skinny gray aliens pictured in mainstream media. They weren’t the reptilian lizardmen he had read about online. And they definitely weren’t the Tall-Whites, the supposed shadowy puppet-masters of Earth’s secret rulers—according to some late-night conspiracy videos.

  Instead, these creatures were small, green, ugly, and smelled incredibly awful.

  The stench was overwhelming—acrid, chemical, like an uncleaned litter box left to bake in the sun.

  His eyes burned instantly, tears welling as the foul air scorched his lungs. The taste of it clung to his tongue, thick and nauseating.

  He coughed, instinctively raising a hand to his face in a feeble attempt to block the stench. His gag reflex kicked in, his core muscles spasming as he fought the urge to retch.

  Through watering eyes, he took in the creatures standing before him.

  There were six of them—small, wiry, standing roughly four and a half feet tall. Their skin was a mottled green, their elongated ears jutting out several inches from their angular heads. But it was their eyes that unnerved him most.

  Large, dark, and maroon, their eyes dominated their faces, unblinking as they stared directly at him.

  And then there were their noses—no two were the same, yet all were comically absurd.

  Some were round and bulbous; others were long and crooked, jutting several inches from their faces before tapering into exaggerated points.

  Their mouths were equally inhuman—too wide, their lips thin and shaded a slightly darker green, barely concealing rows of sharp, yellowed teeth. Their clothing—if it could even be called that—resembled potato sacks: brown, dirty, and shapeless. At least, on the ones that wore clothes. Several sported only a crude, diaper-like undergarment covering their crotch.

  Yet among them, one stood slightly taller, its head better proportioned, its clothing somewhat more refined—or at least, less like a discarded burlap sack. And unlike the others, who looked ready to tear the flesh from his bones, this one simply stared.

  Its wide eyes mirrored Cyrus’s own look of shock, as though it was just as startled to see him as he was to see them.

  There was a tense, frozen moment as Cyrus locked eyes with the largest of the creatures.

  Something passed between them—a flicker of mutual stress and misunderstanding, a silent acknowledgment that neither truly knew what was happening. At least, that’s what Cyrus thought the look had meant.

  The creatures didn’t move at first. They just stared, sizing him up. Cyrus swallowed hard. And then, as if some unspoken decision passed between them—four of them sprang forward.

  Cyrus instinctively raised his hands, palms out—a universal gesture for surrender, to signal them to stop. His voice stumbled out before he could think. "Whoa, wait—I'm not—!"

  But he didn’t get the chance to finish.

  The creatures snarled and hissed, their aggression both taunting and threatening.

  Cyrus’ heart skipped a beat, then began slamming against his ribs. He barely had time to react before one of them lunged.

  This one was different—bigger than the others, but not like the taller one.

  No, this one was built like a barrel with arms, its muscles chiseled like a bodybuilder’s, but with a gut that truly defined the term "beer belly."

  And it was charging straight at him.

  Cyrus barely had time to brace before the creature lowered its head and plowed forward.

  Right into his groin.

  Pain exploded through his body as the blunt force slammed into his decidedly most sensitive area, knocking the air from his lungs and doubling him over in agony.

  Along with the creature’s hard, bald head slamming into his crotch with crushing force., its two stubby but powerful arms wrapped around his midsection, lifting him clean off the floor.

  Cyrus barely had time to wheeze before the creature charged forward, carrying him several steps backward—straight into the wall. The impact knocked what little air remained in his lungs right out of him.

  A ragged, wheezing gasp escaped his lips as his vision blurred.

  Before he could even process what had just happened, the barrel-shaped brute stepped back—and Cyrus slid down the wall into a heap.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  His lungs burned, his stomach ached, and his legs refused to work. But he didn’t get a reprieve or a chance to recover.

  Two more of the small green creatures lunged forward, following closely behind the thick one. They pounced, their scrawny limbs flailing as they threw themselves onto his prone body.

  A frenzied glee radiated from them as they joined the attack, a pack of wild, snarling little beasts.

  Dirty, jagged claws raked across his skin. Sharp teeth tore into his arms and ankles.

  And the big one—because of course it had to be the big one—bit down on the soft flab hanging over his beltline.

  A couple of inches lower, and Cyrus would have been singing a very different tune. As it was, the small amount of air he had managed to recover escaped in a pain-filled howl.

  His mind short-circuited, shock shutting down his senses one by one.

  His fight-or-flight response didn’t even activate. The onrush of pain and fear bypassed the lizard brain entirely, sending him straight into pill-bug mode. He curled up, making himself as small a target as possible, waiting for his own death.

  He sobbed, his body wracked with pain, his only thought a desperate, resigned plea, ‘let it be quick.’

  The room seemed to shrink around him. The light looked dimmer.

  The agony, though still immense, began to feel… distant, as though his body was trying to numb itself. His hearing dulled, the grunts and growls of the creatures attacking him fading into an indistinct murmur.

  But something nagged at the edge of his awareness—something off about some of the sounds they made.

  They weren’t all just feral noises.

  Some were… structured. Not quite words, but something close.

  His world was closing in, unconsciousness welcoming him with open arms. He was ready to let go.

  He had never imagined he’d die like this. He had always figured it would be a heart attack or something—his body rotting inside his apartment until Mrs. Norris came to check on him and found his corpse.

  But then, just as his short, sheltered life flashed through his mind’s eye, the creatures reluctantly withdrew.

  Cyrus lay there, wounded and weak, curled in a pool of his own blood—barely aware of anything beyond the throbbing pain consuming his body. He could tell the green things had stopped attacking, but he felt cold. So cold.

  ‘I’ve lost too much blood,’ he thought.

  Through the haze of exhaustion, shivering, and weeping, he saw movement.

  The slightly taller of the green-skinned creatures stepped forward, stopping and looking down, his nose just inches from his face.

  Cyrus couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. All he could do was stare back, his vision flickering as he tried to process what he was seeing.

  The creature wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t snarling. Wasn’t baring its teeth. It just stared at him, its dark maroon eyes fixed on his.

  There was something there. Not cruelty or malice—but awareness.

  It was thinking, but about what, Cyrus couldn’t determine. Was it taking his measure—deciding whether he was worth saving, or simply choosing what part to munch on first?

  The hopeful voice and the despairing voice, silenced earlier by pain and shock, returned—both dim and weak.

  The hopeful voice spoke first, its tone wavering between optimism and uncertainty. ‘They stopped... maybe the big one wants to communicate, to learn more about you. This might not be the end after all.’

  Cyrus wanted to believe that. He needed to believe that.

  Then, the despairing voice cut in, dark and sarcastic. ‘Naw… They just wanna savor their meal. You're like a lobster, kept alive until they throw you into a pot of boiling water.’

  A cold shudder ran through Cyrus’s aching body.

  He couldn’t tell which voice was right.

  He hoped this creature was different, that its minions had simply acted on instinct, that their leader would see the benefit of keeping him alive, of working together—rather than treating him as prey.

  But as he tried to focus, to hold onto that hope, his vision wavered. His eyes rolled back into his head. And he passed out, his mind finally stopping, collapsing under the weight of shock and exhaustion.

  A few seconds after the initial attack, once Daegnon realized what the Goblins were doing, he barked a command, his voice carried as much authority as he could muster.

  "Rak! Pray! Goo! Stop it!"

  They didn’t listen. Not immediately. Not fully.

  The human had fought poorly, bled easily—so why would they stop now?

  They continued clawing, biting, and pounding into the strange-looking human for a few more seconds, their instincts overriding Daegnon’s order.

  Gooniz was the first to break away, Daegnon’s words sinking in the quickest. As he stopped, he yanked Prayda back and shoved Raknak to the side, forcing the others to halt their attack. The adrenaline and heat of the moment finally began to fade, their hungry, vicious growls tapering into low, breathy huffs as the command fully registered.

  Khibi had lunged in as well—more out of his need to follow Raknak than any real conviction—but had hung back, veering slightly to the side as the others tore into the human. The moment Daegnon’s voice cut through, he shrank away, quickly retreating behind his much larger companion. Once the frenzy subsided, he assumed his usual position, his small hands resting on the massive Goblin’s shoulders as he meekly peeked over, keeping quiet tabs on the situation.

  Only minutes earlier, as they stood gaping at the darkness through the viewscreen at the end of the room where they had first looked into the ship from the outside, a few things happened.

  First, the dim, reddish glow that had been their only illumination brightened, softening into a pale, almost ethereal white. Then, a subtle vibration thrummed beneath their feet—not a tremor, not anything resembling a quake, just a low, steady hum that they could feel through the soles of their feet.

  The final thing was the sudden activation of several dark crystalline panels. Strange images flickered to life across them—not quite drawings, not quite words, more like runes or symbols they couldn't decipher. The sight of them sent a ripple of unease through the group. Being confronted with what felt like ancient magic was enough to make them huddle together instinctively.

  Then, Daegnon noticed something different. Amid the shifting symbols, one panel displayed something recognizable. An arrow.

  It was simple and direct, something he could understand.

  The longer he stared at it, the stronger the pull became—as if the ship was urging him forward. Guiding him. In a way it made sense. Something this powerful had to have intelligence, awareness, or something. If a wizard could trap a soul in a sword, then a ship this advanced should be easy, and if it wanted him to go somewhere, it was most likely in their best interest to listen.

  The floating light images led Daegnon onward, illuminating his path with glowing yellow arrows that shifted across the smooth, dark crystal from one to the next. The rest of his ‘gang,’ for lack of a better term, had followed behind him, uncertain but instinctively obeying their burrow-master’s lead.

  Then, the arrows changed.

  Instead of directing them forward, the newest arrow pointed down.

  A faint click echoed in the quiet hallway, and a small panel slid open, revealing a button embedded in the wall.

  They had passed this section of the ship many times before. There had never been anything here—just a stretch of smooth, metallic wall. It had been empty. Unremarkable. Forgotten.

  But now, it wasn’t.

  The button looked familiar. It resembled the one that had granted him access to the weird throne room—except this time, there was only a single circular hole. No markings. No indication of what lay beyond.

  Daegnon hesitated only for a moment before pressing his finger into this new hole. Just like before, he felt a springiness within. As the mechanism activated, the door revealed itself, hissing as it slowly opened.

  During their trek down the hall, Glix had unexpectedly spoken up.

  She wasn’t much for talking—most of them knew that—but everyone here also knew she was sharp. The smartest of them by far. If something broke, she could fix it. If she didn’t know how, she’d take it apart, figure it out, and put it back together just for fun.

  So when she finally decided to explain what she thought had happened to them, they all listened.

  “Me tink we in stars. Dis ship not for air, but for space.”

  It took a while for her to get the concept across, but she had a way of explaining things that made sense, even if it took a few tries. When she finally managed to describe what “space” actually was, the realization settled in.

  They weren’t just far from home. They were beyond it.

  “Not know how we get here, though.”

  Daegnon kept his expression neutral, but inside, his gut twisted. He had a pretty good idea of how they had ended up here. But he wasn’t about to share it.

  If he wanted to keep his position as burrow-master—if he wanted the others to keep following him—he needed them to trust that he wasn’t the one who had led them into this mess.

  Although in a way, this had always been the goal. Sort of.

  For generations, ever since his ancestors had realized what they had uncovered, the idea of escape—of seeing what lay beyond their mountain—had been passed down. From father to son, the desire to leave had remained, just as the key had. The key still sitting in his pocket.

  So, in a way, he had only moved the plan forward.

  It was what he had always wanted. Just… not like this.

  Not without the others.

  Not without a choice.

  Goblins weren’t much for technology, but they weren’t totally clueless either.

  They had heard stories—tales passed down from traders and wanderers about other races. Some used magic, like their own clan did to some degree, while others relied on machines. Some even flew ships through the sky. Those ones were called Sky Goblins.

  That was the kind of Goblin Daegnon wanted his clan to be.

  Unlike his people, who rarely left their mountain, Sky Goblins were said to live up high, riding the winds, only going to ground when they needed supplies—or when they were paid to raid.

  And there were even crazier stories—ones about whole groups who never went back home at all. Instead, they left the entire planet behind and explored the stars.

  That part was hard to believe.

  Harder still for Goblins who barely left their burrow.

  And yet, here they were.

  Standing in a ship that had carried them into the stars.

  And now, in true Goblin fashion, they had turned their first encounter with another being into a brawl.

  Daegnon gritted his teeth as he watched the human crumple. He hadn’t planned for this. He had wanted to talk to the thing, to figure out what it was doing here, but now? Now it was broken. And worse, it was their fault. He needed to maintain control better, he was the burrow-master and he needed to show that.

  “Grayfang no did bring dis guy here for be food, dummies. Don’t kill human. He gotta be need for someting,” Daegnon barked as he shoved the three attacking Goblins away from the body.

  Daegnon watched as the human’s eyes rolled back, his body going completely limp. He had wanted to speak to the creature, but now he feared the human wouldn’t understand him even if he tried. The fear and confusion in the man’s eyes had been obvious before he passed out, and Daegnon knew his cronies had inflicted some serious trauma—even if the physical damage didn’t seem too extreme.

  He hadn’t had much experience with other races himself, but he had accompanied some of the trades with the big people before. He had seen humans up close, bartering with the others, trading goods in their clumsy, heavy-handed way. They had always been larger than Goblins—tall, thick-limbed, built for fighting or hard labor. Even the scrawniest among them had a wiry strength to them.

  But this one… this one was fat and soft. It made Daegnon second-guess if he was right.

  The human’s clothing was also strange. Goblins understood armor—finding it was a major reason they dug through their caverns—but this was nothing like armor.

  The bottom half of him was wrapped in a strange, slippery-looking black material, leaving his lower legs exposed. It was shiny, reflecting a bit of light from white stripes running down the sides. His feet were covered as well, but not with leather boots like the traders wore. These were short, multicolored, and made from materials Daegnon didn’t recognize.

  But the oddest thing was what covered his torso. The fabric was soft—similar to, yet different from, the material on his legs. And it was a shade of blue unlike anything Daegnon had ever imagined.

  Scrawled across the tunic was an unknown script, along with an image of a mushroom-shaped monster being chased by a strange humanoid with a red hat and a large mustache beneath an exaggerated nose.

  Daegnon took advantage of the human’s unconscious state, studying it further. The creature had dark brown hair, cut short but wildly curly, sticking out at strange angles as if it had dried after being wet without being combed. Its face was smooth, its cheeks round, and its nose—small and unimpressive, at least compared to a proper Goblin sniffer.

  “What we do wif it den?” Raknak asked.

  As expected, Raknak was the first to speak. By far the most aggressive of the five other Goblins aboard when the ship left, he had always been quick to fight, so leaving this one unfinished made him question why.

  His lineage supposedly traced back to an Ogress, though that dam, a secret his family had closely guarded, had died off generations ago. Still, from his sheer size and brute strength, it was clear he had inherited some remnant of that bloodline.

  "Not know," Daegnon admitted truthfully.

  He turned to the rest of his Goblins, acknowledging them but also searching for insight. His eyes first landed on Khibi, just barely visible peeking over Raknak’s shoulder. The young, scrawny whelp followed the larger Goblin like a younger brother, despite no shared filial bonds. He had attached himself to Raknak at a very young age and was now rarely seen apart from him.

  Raknak, though brutish, at least had some wit about him. Khibi, on the other hand, was silent as ever. Daegnon wasn’t sure if he was mute or simply too fearful to speak. Either way, he knew he would get no answers from him.

  Next was Gooniz—grumpy, long-nosed, and ragged-eared. He was an independent Goblin, but one who always found himself following stronger personalities, even if he resented it. Daegnon knew that while Gooniz had been leading Raknak and Khibi through the ship, scavenging for parts to steal and sell, he had been taking orders from someone else. Someone whose name he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—speak. Some hexes bound the tongue, ensuring secrets remained secrets.

  It was because of those three scavenging that they had ended up as part of Daegnon’s ‘gang.’ Before, they had wanted to tear this ship apart for profit. But their reckless actions had landed them here, far from the clan, with only two options: follow Daegnon, or stage a coup. And since none of them had the leadership skills to run a burrow, they had wisely chosen to follow.

  Then there was Prayda. A rogue, if ever there was one. Sneaky, sharp-eyed, and sharper-tongued. His ears and nose were both sharp, his entire form wiry and precise. He was the kind of Goblin who could sell you your own boots and convince you he was doing you a favor. His silver tongue made him invaluable when dealing with other races. He frequently accompanied the clan’s trade caravans to the surface, navigating deals that others would fumble.

  But what he was doing on this ship, he wouldn’t say. Daegnon suspected he had boarded to scope out profitable ventures. Like Gooniz and the others, his motives leaned toward self-interest. But whether he worked alone or for someone else remained a mystery.

  Glix was different. She wasn’t here for money or power. She was here for the ship. She wanted to understand it—its workings, its purpose, its secrets. Her mind operated on a level far beyond the rest of them, delving into puzzles and machines with relentless curiosity.

  She was also the only female among them. That was a problem.

  She may not realize it yet, but the others would. Soon.

  And Daegnon had no doubt she wouldn’t accept her fate as this clans new dam quietly.

  She may not think on the same wavelength as other Goblins, often coming off as curt and rude, but unless circumstances changed, that role would fall to her. And Daegnon knew for certain—she would not accept that fate quietly.

  As Glix fully entered the room and studied the strangely dressed human sprawled on the floor, Daegnon noticed the door sliding shut behind them. At first, he paid it little mind. Then a feeling of unease crept over him.

  The others were poking and nudging the unconscious human, but Daegnon moved toward the panel where the door had been, running his fingers along the wall. He searched for a seam, a crack, a button—anything that could open it again. But found nothing.

  Before he could turn back around and alert the others, the lights in the room flickered—then shifted. The silvery-white glow rapidly darkened into a chilling blue. Not the soft blue of the sky or the deep blue of the ocean, but something colder. Something unnatural.

  The Goblins stirred uneasily, their grunts and low muttering rising as the shift in lighting sent a ripple of discomfort through the group. A few shuffled on their feet, ears twitching, while others hissed complaints, their instincts screaming that something was wrong.

  A low mechanical hiss cut through the growing noise, making several of them flinch. Their eyes snapped upward as panels in the ceiling slid open.

  Then came the mist.

  A dense, gray vapor spilled from the openings above, curling downward in slow, deliberate tendrils. It didn’t billow out like smoke—it crawled, heavy and dense. It coiled around their ankles like hungry fingers, wrapping their limbs in an icy embrace as it quickly filled the room.

  The Goblins panicked. What started as startled grunts quickly turned into full-blown shrieks as they darted in every direction, their survival instincts battling against the walls trapping them in.

  Uneasy growls and high-pitched whines filled the air as they scrambled, some searching for a place to hide, others for something—anything—to fight. Their movements were frantic, clumsy, their terror mounting as the mist thickened.

  They pressed against the walls, dropped to all fours, their fingers scrabbling against the smooth floor in search of an escape. In their desperation, they crashed into one another, their disoriented shuffling growing slower and more sluggish with each passing moment.

  “Stop runnin’! Stay close!” Daegnon tried to shout orders, to rally them—but his voice was swallowed by the rising fog and the chaos filling the room.

  The mist spread quickly, curling around their ankles, then their knees. Visibility dropped to near zero. They could barely see the ends of their own noses.

  Then came the yawns—long, heavy, uncontrollable. Some let out drowsy murmurs, their voices slurring as they fought against the creeping lethargy.

  The Goblins stumbled, their limbs turning sluggish, their thoughts thick and muddled. Their panic dulled, their resistance faltering, until one by one, they began to sway—then drop.

  One by one, they fell. Raknak. Gooniz. Prayda. Khibi. Even Glix.

  Their bodies collapsed to the silvery floor, sprawled in unconscious heaps. Their ragged breaths were the only sign they were still alive.

  The room, once chaotic, was now eerily still. The only sound left was the soft, relentless hiss of the descending mist.

  And then Daegnon succumbed as well, his mind drifted, dark and heavy.

  ‘Dis how me die?’

  And then—darkness.