Max slipped into the cave just after dawn, moving slow and deliberate. Sneaking along the tunnel entrance while sticking to the shadows. It only took a minute before Max was at the makeshift gate. The goblin guard who had been asleep yesterday was gone, replaced by a pair of fresh sentries half-dozing in their posts. “Lazy goblins are my favorite type” Max joked under his breath. He waited until they were distracted, then Blinked past them in a shimmer of light, crouching low as he pressed deeper into the tunnels. The gate they had erected only came up to his waist and it was easy to jump over and continue down the tunnel further into the goblin base.

  The stench grew worse the further in he went — sweat, smoke, and something sour that made his stomach churn. Crude torches lit the stone walls, their sputtering flames barely holding back the shadows. The smoke dissipates into cracks in the ceiling and walls. The tunnels widened after a bend, opening into a cavernous chamber dotted with ramshackle huts and fire pits. You could hear the banging of hammers long before the bend in the tunnel.

  Max stayed pressed against the jagged stone wall, cloaked in shadow, watching. Dozens of goblins scurried through the cavern like ants, their guttural barks and snarls echoing in the underground hall. The sheer size of it made his stomach twist — this wasn’t just another outpost like the ones he’d already burned down. This was a fortress carved into the earth itself.

  Makeshift stalls lined the uneven walls, each serving a purpose. One corner rattled with the clang of hammer against anvil as blackened goblins worked their crude forges, sparks dancing in the dim firelight. They beat rusted iron into jagged blades, reshaping scavenged steel into something deadlier. Nearby, others haggled over slabs of raw meat, greasy cuts dangling from cords strung across wooden beams. The stench of blood and smoke hung thick in the air, burning his nose. He could hear the fat hissing as chunks were thrown into fire pits to roast, the smell half mouthwatering, half nauseating.

  But more than anything, Max noticed the tension. This camp didn’t just feel chaotic — it felt fractured. He watched as two goblins lunged at each other over what looked like a scrap of leather, snarling and throwing punches until a larger brute cuffed them both across the head. It wasn’t the first fight he’d seen in just a few minutes. Every interaction seemed one step away from bloodshed.

  “This camp doesn’t seem to get along as well as the others,” Max thought grimly. “Maybe I can use that against them.”

  The other goblin camps he’d wiped out hadn’t exactly been harmonious, but they at least carried a sense of order, a chain of command. Here? This was different. These goblins weren’t one tribe — they were fragments. He saw it in the details. Some strutted about with jagged beast skulls dangling from cords around their necks like trophies. Others had chainmail or leather armor of noticeably higher quality than the rest, gear that looked stolen rather than crafted. Even their weapons told the story — scavenged swords too fine for goblin hands, mixed with bone clubs and chipped axes.

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  It was a patchwork tribe, stitched together by force rather than unity. And that lack of cohesion… Max narrowed his eyes. That was something he could exploit.

  Then Max’s eyes froze on one figure.

  The goblin was smaller than the rest, hunched near a cookfire with a strip of charred meat in his hands. He wasn’t armored like the others, nor did he carry himself with the swagger of a raider. No — Max remembered this one for another reason entirely.

  It was the same goblin who had spoken to him once before, back when Max had been locked up in their camp in chains. Unlike the others, this one hadn’t jeered or struck him. Instead, it tried offering him a hunk of bread to eat. Max was so shocked at understanding the little guy that he didn’t register what it had said at first. Max hadn’t understood why it risked getting in trouble with the guards to offer him food, but he wasn’t going to let an opportunity pass up when he saw it.

  A Translation skill, Max thought. He spent his resources on communication, not bloodshed.

  That made him dangerous in a different way… or useful.

  Max’s first instinct was caution. He could step out of the shadows, cut the creature down, and never have to wonder if it would betray him. But some part of him hesitated. If there was even a chance this goblin could be reasoned with, could be an asset, wasn’t it worth trying?

  He waited until the goblin’s companions drifted away from the fire. Then Max slipped along the cavern wall, close enough to be seen without drawing the whole camp’s attention. He crouched low and whispered just loud enough to carry across the stone:

  “You. Over here.”

  The goblin stiffened, ears twitching, eyes darting toward the sound. When it spotted Max, its yellow eyes went wide. Its hand twitched toward the crude dagger at its belt, but Max raised a hand, palm out.

  “I’m not here to fight. Can you meet me at sundown, near the shoreline.” His voice was quiet, but clear.

  The goblin blinked. “Why would I do that?” it asked in surprisingly smooth, if heavily accented, English. The words weren’t perfect, but they were understandable.

  “Because you’re not like the rest of them,” Max said. “You know it. I know it. If you want to live, you’ll come.”

  The goblin glanced around nervously. Twice, it opened its mouth as if to protest, then snapped it shut. At last, with a small nod, it whispered back:

  “Sundown at the shoreline.”

  Max inclined his head and melted back into the shadows, slipping past the drowsy guards with ease and out into the night air. His pulse hammered in his ears.

  “Am I insane? Meeting with a goblin?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “No. Not insane. Calculated. I need to know what’s going on with this camp before I rush in and get myself killed”

  Either way, by sundown, he would know if this gamble was brilliance — or suicide.