The First Crawl

The crawlspace is immensely narrow, its walls showing a primitive mining technique—definitely the work of goblins. The ground is littered with small, sharp stones that constantly dig into my knees and palms. The scent of old sweat, blood, and rot grows stronger with every inch.

We’ve been pushing on for quite a while. My breathing is getting ragged, and the tips of my fingers are quaking in agony, but I keep dragging my knees forward. It has to end sooner or later.

The pace is agonizingly slow. Goblins, who are born to live in these conditions, move much faster than we ever could—unlike them, we can’t run on all fours. If we were to meet one in this tunnel, it would be over in a flash.

I try not to think about that and focus solely on moving forward, my eyes darting around in the dark to spot anything—or worse, anyone—while my sharp-tipped ears strain to pick up the slightest sound.

There isn't enough space for me to turn around and check on Ken, but I can hear how out of breath he’s becoming. A few moments ago, I could still feel the warm puff of his breath against my tail, but he’s clearly slowing down.

Finally, after what feels like ages, the tunnel gradually opens up. It’s wide enough for us to walk hunched over on our feet. I take the opportunity to look back in Ken’s direction.

Good. He’s still there, and nothing seems to be following him.

He looks utterly exhausted. His face is smeared with soot and dirt, small tears well at the corners of his eyes, and a few sharp stones have cut his hands and knees. Still, he gives me a determined look and a small, forced smile.

I raise a hand to gesture for him to stop. The stench here is becoming overpowering. A massive number of monsters must have been stationed here, and given their complete lack of hygiene, the smell alone is enough to knock you off balance.

Inhaling softly, I speak in a low whisper. "...Alright, we’re right at the edge of a larger room. While the chances of something still being down here should be low," my eyes narrow, focusing intently on his, "they aren’t zero. I need you braced for combat. Unless you feel like becoming a carpet, that is." I deliver the last line in a husky voice, trying to lighten the mood with a strained wink.

Didn’t help, huh…

Ken’s eyes remain fixated on me. A few tears escape down his cheeks, and he can't stop shaking. His breathing turns shallow and fast as he struggles to get words out.

“C-combat…? But… but how are we supposed to defend ourselves without weapons?!” Frustration and desperation bleed through his voice. I understand that feeling of powerlessness all too well.

“Goblins rely on numbers. One or two should be manageable between the two of us—better yet if they’re wounded or sleeping.” I bring my fingers to my chin, considering our options. “Worst-case scenario, I use you as bait and run,” I sneer, letting out a small shrug.

Ken isn't amused. He stares back at me, terrified.

I don’t actually plan on abandoning him, of course. But if he stumbles, I will take whatever opening I can get. The luxury of honor and unconditional camaraderie doesn't keep your heart beating down here. He has to pull his weight.

“Anyway, goblins are roughly our size, their weaponry is crude, their minds are a jumbled mess, and they don’t wear armor.”

I avert my gaze from Ken and look ahead, clearing my throat. Pulling a tallow candle from my pack, I manage to light it after a few sparks, illuminating our immediate surroundings. As expected, we’re at the threshold of a much larger chamber. The weak light creeps inward, though I still can’t make out much.

“Keep your distance and wait for an opportunity to strike. More often than not, they’ll lunge at you and trip over themselves. Then it’s just a matter of being faster than they can get back up…” I trail off, snapping my mouth shut. My body remembers the few times I’ve had to fight. It’s never pretty. I try to act cool, but my heart is pounding, and cold sweat sticks my ashen hair to my forehead.

“...Have you killed many?” Ken whispers behind me, stepping up into a crouch.

“A few… It’s always better to run if you can,” I answer, my voice trembling slightly.

“With how tight these tunnels are, I don’t think we’ll get that choice, right?” Ken lets out a nervous chuckle.

He’s right.

I offer a slight nod, grumbling a faint, “Hmph…” before gesturing for him to follow.

More of the room comes into view. It resembles a crude living area. The candlelight catches a few rudimentary wooden stools circled around a massive log that likely served as a table. Rotting food scraps litter the surface, signaling that it thankfully hasn't been used in some time.

The stench is vile. I force myself to keep scanning, while behind me, Ken pinches his nose shut.

Near the back stands the remains of a fireplace with a crude iron frame holding a small hanging kettle. The rancid odor wafting from it suggests rotting leftovers inside. Not wanting to test my sensitive stomach, I shift my focus elsewhere.

Suddenly, a tiny glint catches the light.

My eyes narrow.

“Look!” Ken suddenly exclaims—loud enough to make me flinch and drop into a defensive stance. “It’s a dagger!”

Before I can stop him, he bolts straight toward it, abandoning all caution.

Knowing it’s useless to shout after him, I quickly sweep my eyes across the room to ensure his noise hasn't drawn any unwanted attention. Satisfied we aren't about to be ambushed, I let out a long sigh, my brows furrowing in anger as I grit my teeth, exposing my single sharp fang.

Ken is already clutching the dagger, a massive smile spreading across his face as he admiringly weighs it in his hand. He stands up and begins checking his tunic, searching for a place to conceal it. I’ve seen this mistake before; he thinks he can sneak it past the guards.

In a quick flash, I close the distance, grabbing his wrist tightly and forcing him toward the floor. I apply joint pressure until the pain forces his fingers to loosen. With a swift flick of my tail against the ground to off-balance him, he lets go, and I catch the falling blade mid-air before shoving it deep into my bag.

He looks up at me, bewildered and nursing his wrist. “W-what are you doing?!”

“You idiot!” I growl at him. “Did I not tell you a few minutes ago to never drop your guard?! Not to sprint unless absolutely necessary?! Have you forgotten everything I said just because a weapon happened to be lying here?” I bare my teeth in frustration, my voice tight. “What if it was trapped? What if your shouting alerted something nearby? And what were you planning to do with that dagger, huh?!”

My grip on his wrist tightens as desperation creeps into my tone. “I saw you trying to hide it. You thought you could sneak it past the guards, didn't you? Trust me, they will find it. And when they do, because you didn't hand it over voluntarily, they’ll make sure you never forget it!”

Ken stares back at me, tears welling in his eyes. “I-I’m sorry!! I… You’re right, I wasn’t thinking…” His words break into quiet sobs. “I just wanted to help! I wanted to be able to protect myself… to protect you, too. I didn’t know, okay…? P-please let go, it hurts…”

I release his wrist. When I speak again, my voice is low and stripped of anger, leaving only bitter solemnity. “Last time someone tried to sneak a weapon back from a run, the guards used it to carve the word SLAVE into the boy’s arm before beating him so badly it was a miracle he survived the night.”

Ken, now sitting against the cold stone wall, gasps softly. He drops his gaze to the floor, unable to look at me.

“So now you know. I’m sorry for grabbing you so roughly, but I won’t apologize for raising my voice,” I say, taking a steadying breath. “You won’t survive down here if I’m soft on you. Today you got stupidly lucky. Next time, you’ll be bleeding out on the dirt, and I’ll be left to deal with whatever killed you.”

I let out a quiet sigh and extend my hand to him.

His eyes meet mine again, filled with genuine remorse. He offers a small, apologetic smile as he takes my hand and pulls himself up. He nods, wiping his face with his forearm.

“Good. Let’s keep moving.” My expression hardens back into a focused glare, though I give him a brief, reassuring nod before turning away.

We keep moving at a steady pace, clearing room after room. We stumble upon more abandoned living quarters, but luckily, we avoid any encounters.

A few rooms yield decent results. We manage to secure a couple of small coin pouches after carefully scanning the area. Other chambers contain raw ore fragments, low-grade gems, and discarded monster materials. We make sure to balance the weight evenly between our packs so neither of us is burdened.

While crawling through a narrow connecting fissure, we spot an exposed vein in a mining outcrop. Applying what I taught him, Ken and I work in tandem with our mallets and pick-chisels to harvest the raw ore.

Good loot is hard to come by, and the guards always grant special treatment to anyone who brings back a solid haul. Rare items are easily sold or refined—and if you're lucky enough to find raw ore, its heavy weight makes it an even bigger prize that most kids can't manage to carry out. That faint hope of better treatment is our primary motivation to gather as much as we can. We don’t get to keep any of it, of course, but a good yield usually means the guards slip a few actual pieces of meat into our slop bowls, or juice and clean water instead of dirty mud to wash it down with. In the best cases, you buy yourself a few days without a beating—or, on extremely rare occasions, a day off.

Though in my experience, no matter how much I bring back, the beatings usually happen anyway.

The alternative, however, is coming back empty-handed. That means days of starvation, brutal punishment, or being transferred. Transfers are rare, and because no one ever comes back from one, I’ve never wanted to learn what could possibly be worse than this place.

Our best find comes in a quiet alcove: an untouched wooden chest. Up until now, Ken has been trying his best to apply my lessons—watching for pressure plates and hidden tripwires. But this room was rigged by someone exceptionally sadistic. A web of tension wires connects to wall-mounted light crossbows, floor spikes, and a heavy log suspended directly above the chest.

Ken tries to be cautious, stopping to inspect the floor, but his foot catches a fine tripwire hidden under loose gravel.

SNAP.

Through sheer luck—and an instinctual, surprisingly fluid martial dodge—he throws himself backward. The heavy iron bolt misses his chest, but the jagged tip grazes his right flank, tearing clean through his grey tunic.

Unfortunately, the tip is coated in what I assume to be Gloom-Viper venom—a fast-acting toxin goblins use to down intruders. A direct hit would have killed him in seconds, but even a scratch is lethal if left untreated.

I drag Ken behind a stone pillar out of the trap's line of fire. He’s already foaming at the mouth, his face pale with dark circles forming under his eyes as the skin around the scratch turns a mottled, angry purple.

“You’re not dying on me yet…” I mutter, digging rapidly into my pack. I pull out a clump of damp, dark-red moss I had scraped off a moist tunnel wall two rooms back.

I learned about this moss during my second year, after getting nicked by a similar trap. An older girl had forced a wad of it down my throat and saved my life.

Without hesitation, I shove a chunk of the bitter, fibrous moss into Ken’s mouth. "Chew. Swallow the liquid, spit the pulp," I command, pressing the remaining damp wad firmly against his bleeding side.

He gags violently, tears streaming down his face, but forces himself to swallow. The effect is immediate and brutal—he coughs wrackingly as his stomach rejects the worst of the venom. Within minutes, his violent shivering subsides into heavy, exhausted breaths. He isn't out of danger, but he’s no longer on the verge of death.

I don’t bother scolding him this time. The burning venom and the foul taste of the moss are lesson enough. While he recovers, I take my time carefully disarming the remaining tripwires to secure the chest.

Most of the contents are junk, but I manage to salvage a few basic alchemy potions, two uncut gems, a handful of coins, and an ornate silver ring.

After an hour of rest, we press deeper into the dark. I’m just beginning to think our luck might actually hold out…

***

Two goblins and a hobgoblin to boot, huh...

This room is far larger than the previous ones. A massive wooden table sits in the center, surrounded by heavy, sturdy chairs. Torches mounted along the stone walls cast a flickering orange glow. It looks like a meeting hall—a place where the local pack gathers.

The immediate problem, however, sits at the far end of the room: three shadowy figures, one noticeably larger than the rest.

This is bad. Very, very bad. Two goblins would have been a struggle on our own, but a hobgoblin?

My heart hammers against my ribs. Fear coils tightly in my chest, making my hands shake. I force my eyes to scan the room, desperately searching for any tactical advantage, biting my nails as cold sweat traces down my neck. My breathing turns shallow.

Escape? They’d gut us in the narrow tunnels. Fight? Against a hobgoblin?

Think. Come on, THINK!

They spot us almost instantly, leaving no time to formulate a plan.

Before I can react, Ken breaks the silence beside me.

“Hey, Lilith... you’re a fighter, right?” His voice trembles with fear, but there’s an underlying thread of resolve in it.

I glance at him, startled, before looking back at the rising figures. “Fighter? Sure, I can dodge, but I’m nowhere near strong enough to take down the big one!”

“Good. Dodging works.” I hear a sharp exhale behind me. “Throw me the dagger. NOW!”

There’s no time to argue. If he wants to fight, I might as well give him a chance. I plunge my hand into my pack, locate the hilt, and draw the blade. Flipping it in my grip, I toss it handle-first to Ken without taking my eyes off the advancing threats.

“I-I’ll take the big one! Keep the small two off me!” he barks, charging forward before I can protest.

I sprint after him, closing in on the nearest small goblin and driving a low kick into its kneecap, sending it sprawling.

It barely slows it down.

The second goblin, enraged, lunges at me with a rusted shortsword.

The sheer speed of the thrust catches me off guard. I jerk my upper body back just in time—a few strands of my white hair are sheared off, floating softly through the air amidst the chaotic melee.

With the goblin’s sword arm overextended, I duck under its guard and execute a sweeping low kick, taking its legs out. But the first goblin is already back on its feet, charging me with a heavy wooden club.

I can’t dodge in time. The goblin brings the club down in a brutal overhead strike. Remaining in my low stance, I raise my left forearm to redirect the blow. The impact rattles my bones, and sharp pain shoots up my wrist.

While ducking the next swing, I steal a split-second glance at Ken. To my absolute shock, he’s... holding his own against the hobgoblin. His footwork is tight, his movements precise. I have no idea where he learned to fight like that, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

The sword-wielding goblin lunges at me again, while the club wielder swings from my flank. An idea flashes in my head, and a vicious grin touches my lips.

There.

With a quick flick of my tail, I trip the sword goblin just enough to force its head down. Using its bent back as a launching pad, I plant my palm on its head and flip over it, shoving it forward as I land.

THWACK.

The stumble forces its rusted blade straight through the chest of the club-wielding goblin in a spray of dark blood.

One down!

Capitalizing on the chaos while the survivor’s weapon is stuck in its comrade, I close the distance and drive a heavy kick into the side of its head, dazing it. As it staggers, I snatch the fallen club from the ground and bring it down with everything I’ve got onto the back of its neck. I strike two more times until the monster stops moving entirely.

Panting heavy, I turn to check on Ken.

The sound of shattering wood fills the hall as the hobgoblin’s heavy iron mace obliterates another chair. Yet Ken is still standing, nimbly weaving through the wreckage with the rusted dagger in hand.

As the hobgoblin swings its mace in a wide arc, Ken slides duck-low between its thick legs. With two rapid cuts, he slashes deep into the back of its ankles, severing the Achilles tendons. Dark blood spurts across the flagstones.

The beast roars in agony as its legs give out. Before it can recover, Ken leaps onto its back, wrapping one arm around its jaw and driving the rusted blade deep into the side of its neck. He pulls down with his full body weight, ripping the blade through flesh and artery.

The hobgoblin lets out a wet, dying gurgle before collapsing heavily onto the stone floor. Silence falls over the hall.

Exhausted, Ken drops to his knees, his chest heaving violently as he gasps for air.

I sink onto a nearby bench, my hands bruised, bleeding, and trembling from the impact of the fight. As the adrenaline fades, the dull ache in my wrist turns into a throbbing pain.

But as I look around at the bodies, one fact remains.

We survived.

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Yahoo!

It’s me again with another chapter! This one was… interesting to write, to say the least. I continuously underestimate how many words I end up using, so my planned chapters keep having to be split in two!

When I took a quick break during the first draft, I was already at 1,700 words, and fitting everything into a single chapter seemed impossible—so I hope you’ll forgive me for splitting it up! I did make sure to keep this one nice and chunky so we could finally get to the big fight.

I teased in the last chapter’s notes that Ken is a bit more than meets the eye, and here he finally gets to show a bit of his true colors!

With all that being said, I’ll be back with Chapter 4 in a week. Next time, the focus will be much more on answers, questions, and some sweet interactions between the other kids, so be sure to tune in!