Chapter 57 Unstoppable Force of Annihilation

As we stumbled from our hiding place, the hatchlings remained snugly wrapped in our ear cocoons, their presence a small but significant reminder of what we were fighting for. We scuttled around, desperate to find an escape from the breeding farm. The ground beneath us was uneven, littered with debris from the battle.

As we huddled together, trying to stay out of sight, the full horror of what we had witnessed sank in. The adventurers were not just enemies; they were an unstoppable force of annihilation. Their presence turned our already dire existence into a living hell, and the memory of their cold, unyielding faces would haunt our dreams for years to come.

Clinging to a desperate hope for escape, we began to move again, searching for any way out of this nightmare. Our bodies were battered and weak, every step a painful reminder of our suffering. We limped and hobbled, our limbs trembling from exhaustion and fear, our eyes wide with panic as we scanned the surroundings for a glimmer of hope.

We searched for an escape from this slaughterhouse, our movements frantic and clumsy. We stumbled over debris, our knees buckling under the strain, our hands raw and bloody from clawing at the ground. Our breaths came in ragged gasps, the air thick with the stench of blood and sweat. The walls loomed high above us, a towering barrier that seemed insurmountable. We stared up at them, our hearts sinking with despair. They were too tall to climb, and even if we had the strength, the jagged edges and slick surfaces offered no handholds.

Desperation clawed at us as we searched for any holes in the wall or cracks that might offer a way out. We crawled on our hands and knees, our fingers scraping against the cold, unyielding stone. Every time we found a potential opening, it was either too small or led nowhere. Our hopes were dashed again and again, each dead end driving us further into despair.

Grill’s face was a twisted mask of sheer desperation, his eyes wide and wild as he pointed frantically toward the small, foul-smelling tunnel at the far edge of the goblin farm. His whole body trembled with a mix of fear and urgency, his voice cracking with panic.

“There! There!” he screeched, barely able to get the words out as he jabbed his trembling finger at the tunnel. 

“That might be our way out!”

The opening was barely more than a jagged crack in the ground, reeking of rot and filth, its black maw filled with the stench of goblin waste. The foul odor clung to the air, thick and suffocating, but to us, it was a promise of salvation.

“It’s a drainage tunnel! If we dig… if we dig hard enough, it’ll lead us out! It has to! It has to! I know it! We can get out!” 

The tunnel was narrow - so narrow that even the smallest of us would have to crawl through on their bellies, scraping against the damp, fetid walls. 

“We have to try!” Grill's eyes were wide with panic, darting around the farm as if the walls themselves were closing in on us. 

"If we don't, we'll die here - worse, we’ll rot in this place! It's either dig through the filth or face the adventurer’s blade!" His voice rose to a fevered pitch, each word trembling with the weight of terror and urgency.

We scuttled toward the tunnel, our movements awkward and pitiful. Kaka, still wobbling awkwardly with his torch tail, stumbled and nearly fell several times, each misstep eliciting grunts and whimpers of pain. The torch handle in Kaka's butt, a humiliating symbol of his suffering, wagged pathetically as he scuttled forward, his face contorted in pain and discomfort.

We scrambled toward the tunnel, our hearts pounding with fear and hope. The tunnel was our only chance of escape, but as we neared its entrance, the stench hit us like a physical blow. 

Kaka gagged and stumbled back, his eyes watering profusely. 

"By the creator of all things and the forest spirits, this smell! It's like rotting corpses!" he choked out, his voice strained with the effort to keep from vomiting.

Grub and Grill, who had been desperate until now, doubled over, retching violently. Grub's face turned a sickly green, his whole body convulsing with the force of his dry heaves. Grill covered his mouth and nose with his hand, his eyes wide with terror and disgust. 

"This... this is worse than the torture of licking orc filthy feet," he muttered between gagging breaths.

The hatchlings, already traumatized by the day's events, reacted with sheer panic. Their tiny bodies shook with uncontrollable tremors, their eyes wide with horror. Some clung desperately to the older goblins, their tiny claws digging into our flesh as if seeking an anchor in this stench.

I took a deep breath, which I immediately regretted as the putrid air filled my lungs. I coughed violently, feeling the bile rise in my throat. 

"Come on, everyone. We have to get in the tunnel," I urged, my voice hoarse.

 "Stay close and don't breathe too deeply."

The foul odor of rotting waste and stagnant water churned our stomachs, and we gagged as we forced ourselves forward. This was the goblin waste disposal drainage tunnel, a dark and damp passage that had not seen a moment of cleanliness in years.

The entrance was a narrow, jagged hole in the ground, barely large enough for us to squeeze through. As we crawled inside, the air grew thick with the stench of decaying matter. Our hands and knees scraped against the rough stone, but it was the least of our concerns. The ground beneath us was covered in a slick, putrid muck that squelched with every movement. The filth clung to our skin, a vile mixture of goblin excrement, decomposing food, and who knew what else.

The tunnel walls were coated in a slimy residue, a repulsive cocktail of mold and algae that thrived in the darkness. The ceiling dripped with a rancid ooze that splattered onto our heads and faces, adding to the layers of grime already covering our bodies. Every breath we took filled our lungs with the acrid smell of decay, making us gag and retch. The sound of our retching echoed through the tunnel, mingling with the distant noises of battle behind us.

The hatchlings, now beyond the point of coherent speech, whimpered and sobbed, their little bodies convulsing with each breath. They clung to us, their tiny claws digging into our skin, seeking any kind of comfort in this nightmare. As older goblins, we did our best to shield them. Their presence gave us strength, and their innocence, and vulnerability fueled our resolve to find a way to safety. We knew we had to protect them, to ensure they didn't suffer the same fate we had endured.

Grub, his face twisted in a grimace of disgust, muttered, "I don't know how much longer I can take this. It's like the air itself is trying to kill us."

 "Keep going," Grill urged, his voice strained.

 "The faster we get through this, the sooner we'll be out of this hellhole."

We moved forward, our progress slow and torturous. Our hands dug into the muck, feeling the squirming of unseen creatures beneath the surface. The tunnel floor was a minefield of sharp stones and broken bones, remnants of previous escape attempts that had ended in failure. The thought of those who had come before us, who had perished in this vile place, haunted us as we crawled.

We encountered a section where the tunnel narrowed even further, forcing us to wriggle through on our bellies. The filth was deeper here, almost swallowing us whole as we struggled to move forward. The sensation of the muck clinging to our skin was almost too much to bear. But we had no choice; turning back was not an option.

As we crawled deeper and deeper, we could hear the faint, pitiful cries of a few hatchlings up ahead. They must have tried to escape as well. The poor creatures were struggling to stay afloat in the filthy sewage, their tiny bodies buffeted by the currents of waste and debris. Some were clinging to pieces of rotting wood or scraps of cloth, their eyes wide with terror as they were swept along. Others were not so lucky, their fragile forms half-submerged in the muck, desperately trying to keep their heads above the surface.

As we pressed on, the cries of the hatchlings grew louder, more desperate. We saw one, a tiny goblin barely more than a hatchling, clinging to the remains of a dead rat, its tiny hands gripping the fur in a death grip. The hatchling's eyes were wide with fear, its small mouth opening and closing as it tried to call for help. Each time he opened his mouth, his cries for help were silenced by splashing water, filling his tiny mouth, drowning him. The rat's carcass bobbed in the sewage, a dreadful lifeboat in this sea of filth.

Another hatchling was trying to scramble up the side of the tunnel, its tiny claws scrabbling for purchase on the slick stone. It slipped and fell back into the muck, its scream of frustration and terror echoing in the confined space. The hatchling's eyes met mine for a brief moment, and I saw a plea for help in those wide, innocent eyes. We picked them up as we passed by them, wrapping them securely in our ear cacoons.

 Each step we took was a struggle, our hands and knees sinking into the foul mixture that coated the floor. The corpses of other slaves, left to rot and decay, lay in grotesque positions, their lifeless eyes staring up at us accusingly as we crawled past.

We moved as quickly as we could, driven by a combination of fear and the desperate need to help the hatchlings escape this hellish place. But the further we went, the worse it seemed to get, the tunnel narrowing in places so that we had to squeeze through, our bodies scraping against the filth-coated walls.

Kaka had it worse than any of us. The torch handle sticking out from his butt made his movements awkward and excruciating. Every attempt to crawl forward was met with the handle scraping against the tunnel's ceiling and walls, sending jolts of pain through his body. He whimpered with each agonizing inch, his face contorted in pain and suffering. The handle acted like a cruel lever, twisting and tugging at the raw flesh, amplifying his misery.