Through the Walls

Grashok swung back down from his Yzobu in one fluid motion, boots striking the cobbles with a thud. The beast snorted behind him, its breath rising in great plumes. Elenara followed, her emerald skirts flaring as she dismounted, high-heeled boots clicking sharply as she landed beside him. Behind them, the sounds of battle raged—steel clashing, spells detonating, the guttural cries of goblins and the eerie silence of the Pallid Claws.

Skarn fell into step beside him with a low growl, hackles still bristling from the lingering tension of the battle above.

He strode the few steps to join the Rock Troll and Sypha, as they finished trotting up the slope. The troll loomed, mottled grey skin glistening, iron-shod club resting against one shoulder. Sypha stood beside him, glowing blue spots pulsing faintly on its cap, staff twitching with fungal resonance. Glowing pots of alchemical fire hung from its belt in crude slings, their contents pulsing with unstable potential.

The Rock Troll gave a grunt of recognition.

Sypha tilted its cap upward and looked at Grashok with those pinprick eyes.

::We are ready.::

Grashok pointed up the street gesturing to the buildings—two-storey timber-framed structures with jettying upper floors that cast shadows over the street. Shuttered windows, crooked signs, and soot-streaked plaster gave them a weary charm. Some were homes, others shops—bakers, cobblers, herbalists. Most had shuttered windows or were pocked with crossbow bolts. Here and there, cracked glass glittered like teeth.

“We’re going through the houses. Timber-framed, narrow, but they’re lined all the way to the square. We smash through, flank the Claws, and plant the fire while they're still locked down.”

“Start with that one.” Grashok jabbed a finger at the nearest house—a clothier's shop, judging by the faded signage and the torn mannequin torso lying in the doorway. They filed inside and came to the connecting wall leading to the house up the street.

“You—” he pointed to the troll, “smash the wall. We’re going through, not around.”

The Rock Troll rumbled and lifted its massive club, bringing it down on the wall with an ear-shattering CRACK.

A translucent red [Wall Hitbox: 180/180 HP] appeared.

Another swing.

[Wall Hitbox: 124/180 HP]

A third.

[Wall Hitbox: 51/180 HP]

With a fourth, the club crashed through timber and plaster. The wall exploded inward, showering the interior with debris and dust. Elenara stepped aside just in time to avoid a loose beam.

Grashok ducked through the shattered gap, stepping over a fallen loom and scattered spools of dyed thread. The shop was in disarray—dresses half-finished, bolts of cloth unravelled across the floor, and a terrified elderly couple huddled behind a table.

Grashok raised a hand. “Stay down. We’re ending this.”

They moved quickly.

They pressed on.

Through a bakery, the air still heavy with the stale scent of flour and scorched crusts. A tray of forgotten pastries lay half-eaten on a counter, dust-coated and grey. Through a scribe’s shop—scrolls fluttering like wounded birds. Each time, the troll smashed through walls, reducing hit boxes with brutal efficiency. The path climbed steadily, each house a step closer to the square.

The next building was worse.

Grashok heard the whimpering before the troll’s club even rose. As the wall came down, a scream followed—high, terrified.

Inside, three depraved Ratkin had a human woman utterly at their mercy, her once elegant blue dress now in tatters, barely concealing her flushed, sweat-slicked skin. Raven tresses tangled around her bloodied face as she lay spread-eagled on the cold flagstones, a pitiful sight of ravaged beauty. Her delicate high heeled ankle boots, scuffed from her futile struggles, kicked weakly, rhythmically entrancing the onlooking Ratkin. To the side in a pool of blood lay a loot bag and two smaller ones, perhaps a remanent of her loved ones.

The woman's muffled sobs filled the air as the Ratkin trio assaulted her, their bestial forms a scene of hedonistic abandon. One creature, its pointed ears twitching obscenely, grasped her breasts in greasy paws, its ministrations mirroring the frantic thrusts of its engorged member as it rubbed against her side, leaving a trail of eager pre-cum in its wake.

Meanwhile, the second, larger, Ratkin pinned her legs apart, its slick, pulsating rod driving mercilessly into her dripping, helpless sex. Her high-heeled ankle boots kicked out reflexively with each brutal thrust, slender toes curling and uncurling in a futile struggle against the unrelenting bestial violation.

A guttural, muffled moan, part sob and part desperate plea, forced its way past her bloodied lips. Her ragged breaths mingled with the obscene, wet sounds of the Ratkin's frenzied rutting. Her bucking, futile attempts to wriggle free only seemed to stoke the creature's depraved lust, its pointed ears twitching with perverse excitement as it mercilessly pumped into her.

The obscene slapping of flesh against flesh, the ragged gasps of the violated woman, and the Ratkin's guttural grunts of savage pleasure blended into a twisted harmony of torment and depravity. Saliva dripped from the beast's snapping jaws as it rutted with savage abandon, lost in the dark pleasure of violating its helpless, bleeding prey.

The third, smaller Ratkin stood slightly aside, its beady eyes fixed intently on the depraved scene. One small, clawed hand stroked its diminutive, yet still prominent, cock with greedy desperation. The other grasped its own balls, squeezing rhythmically as it watched its companions ravage the woman with dark, carnal hunger. Waiting with cruel anticipation for its turn to claim her shattered body, the Ratkin absorbed every agonised contortion and desperate plea, its own lust building to a fever pitch.

Grashok moved before the troll could.

Soulrend hissed from its sheath. He was on the first Ratkin in a heartbeat, cleaving straight through spine and plate with one brutal stroke. The body despawned mid-fall, coins clattering into the ash and stone.

The watching Ratkin turned—too slow.

Skarn leapt, jaws closing around its throat. It didn’t even shriek before it vanished in a shimmer of loot.

Elenara swept into the fray with the ferocity of a woman possessed, her emerald gown riding up to bare the length of her creamy thighs as she ran at the remaining Ratkin still thrusting into the woman on the floor. Despite lacking skill with a blade, her rage was a potent weapon, and the Ratkin's head soon tumbled to the floor as she struck with a savage overhand blow. The woman beneath them, finally free from her tormentors, sobbed, curling up on the stone floor.

“Stay,” Grashok barked. “It’ll be over soon.” Seeing Elenara’s concerned expression, he nodded for her to remain by her side, before signalling to the troll to continue.

On, into a clockmaker’s shop filled with shattered gears and dangling brass weights.

A butcher’s, red with old blood and half-carved haunches.

An apothecary, where strange herbs still clung to the rafters, mixing with the reek of scorched flesh. Grashok watched as a tendril snaked out from Sypha to grab a few herbs and place them in a sack.

They carved their path diagonally, ascending the hill to the side of the battlefield, until eventually, they reached a house level with the battle.

Grashok peered through a cracked shutter. Outside, the phalanx clashed with the Pallid Claws, spears driving into bone, sickles flashing. The Claws hadn’t noticed them—too focused on the wall of goblins pressing from below.

He turned and gave a sharp hand gesture—one more.

The Rock Troll lumbered past with a low grunt, gripping its club tight. It brought the heavy weapon down with a thunderous crack.

[Wall Hitbox: 156/156 HP] → [78/156 HP] → [0/156 HP]

The timber wall exploded inward, dust and splinters flying as the troll stepped through, unconcerned by the wreckage. Grashok followed close behind, keeping low as the debris settled.

The room they entered was a tailor’s, though most of it was in ruin. Threadbare curtains still hung limp in the windows, and a cracked mirror rested against one wall, its reflection warped and stained. Fabric scraps littered the ground, covered in ash and soot. The scent of smoke and old dye hung in the air.

Grashok spotted the stairway immediately—narrow, wooden, winding up along the wall.

He turned to Sypha, who was placing a pile of pots carefully to one side, and nodded once, then began to climb.

The steps creaked under his weight, the wood old and strained. Sypha trotted up behind him with surprising grace, staff tapping softly against each stair.

At the top, they emerged into a small upper room. Here, the timber jetty projected outwards, hanging above the square below. Cracked glass windows lined the far wall, offering a clear view of the battlefield beneath.

Grashok approached the window slowly, crouching low.

From here, the market square opened up like a map. The clash of steel rang clearly through the glassless gaps, but no one looked up.

Directly beneath them stood the left flank of the Pallid Claws.

Unmoving.

Silent.

They stood in perfect formation, weapons at the ready—waiting. Their pale, bone-laced armour gleamed faintly in the sunset, red eyes glowing dimly beneath heavy helms. They didn’t glance up. They expected nothing from this direction.

Perfect.

Sypha stepped beside him, lifting its gnarled staff as its cap pulsed faintly.

::Here is sufficient. I shall begin.::

Grashok nodded once.

“Do it.”

Without another word, they turned and descended the stairs, the wood groaning beneath their weight. At the base, the Rock Troll waited, with Skarn sitting beside him, eyes lifted toward Grashok in silent question.

“You’d better sit in the next room, little friend,” he said to his oldest companion.

Skarn turned and trotted back the way they had come. Sypha moved forward with purpose, its small feet whispering across the ash‑laced floor as it passed out the pots.

::One by the wall, two at the central supports to start. We shall collapse the structure, pushing it outward.::

It gestured with the tip of its staff, glowing motes of blue drifting from the fungal tassels as it indicated precise placement.

The troll lumbered to the side and crouched awkwardly, setting the first pot where Sypha directed. A faint hiss rose from the seal, green vapour curling out and clinging to the floor like creeping fog.

::Place them gently. They wish to burn eagerly.:: Sypha’s voice echoed in their minds like a whisper over wet stone.

Grashok moved to the next location, careful to follow Sypha’s guidance precisely as he placed the pot.

[Item Placed: Alchemical Fire Pot]

[Status: Volatile / Primed]

Sypha worked with meticulous precision, its cap pulsing in time with the faint hum of its magic. The fire pots continued to release a slow, unnatural hiss—no smoke, only a sickly shimmer that distorted the air around them. Each was placed against a beam or brace, where faintly glowing liquid seeped from beneath the corks, soaking into the wood.

Grashok placed his second pot near the base of a blackened support beam. It hissed softly as it settled, releasing a thin trail of greenish vapour that curled upward like the last breath of a dying candle.

Sypha’s voice rang out again in their minds, clear and deliberate.

::Two more. One by the stair. One near the joist. The trail will bind them.::

Grashok nodded, then crouched low to position his final pot beneath the staircase, where the timber was warped and splintering. The troll, moving with surprising care, placed the next near a joist tucked between collapsed bolts of fabric and broken mannequins.

Rising slowly, Grashok stretched his back with a low grunt. He glanced across the room just as Sypha settled the final pot at the base of the central beam. A soft chime sounded as it clicked into place.

It was done.

Grashok stepped back and glanced once more through a narrow gap in the warped window frame, out toward the battlefield—still churning below.

He paused, peering through.

The forward ranks of goblins held strong, pressing against the Pallid Claws in brutal formation. The enemy fought in eerie silence, blades moving with unnatural precision in the fading light. But here, directly outside the building, stood the rear guard of the left flank. Rows of pallid Ratkin warriors—still, like statues of bone and hate—oblivious of what awaited them.

Across the square, Grashok spotted movement—quick and graceful.

High above the rooftop line, balanced atop the skeletal remains of a burnt‑out roof, stood Snippa.

Her long hair had come fully loose from its braids, dark brown strands dancing in the wind. Her green leather top clung to her form, sweat glistening on her bare arms as she drew her bow with swift, deadly precision. The short skirt she wore whipped about her thighs as she pivoted to nock another arrow, black knee‑high boots braced expertly on the slanted tiles. She looked like a spirit of vengeance—sharp, fast, radiant.

A faint shimmer rippled along her bowstring as she incanted a spell under her breath.

She loosed.

[Critical Hit – Backstab Bonus]

[Hail of Thorns – Detonation]

[+42 XP]

The Ratkin’s skull burst beneath the arrow, and the impact erupted into a spray of magical thorns that shredded the nearby vermin. Another loot bag dropped silently to the flagstones.

Grashok turned back.

Sypha stood in the broken opening between this house and the previous one they’d come through. An empty pot hung from its small hand, and a shimmering trail of oily fluid curled like a snake across the floorboards. It wasn’t just oil. It pulsed faintly—gold and blue, shifting like a living thing. Occasionally, sparks of green flared inside it like lightning trapped in liquid.

The trail ran straight through the fire pots, touching each one. Grashok’s eyes followed it to the far end of the room, where it vanished into the shattered frame of the original wall.

::It is ready.::

Grashok gave a tight nod. “Out,” he barked.

The Rock Troll lumbered through the breach, Sypha trotting behind, staff bobbing. Grashok paused only to glance once more at the deadly line of Pallid Claws—still unaware.

Once in the other house, where Skarn was waiting, his tail wagging, Sypha turned, raised a torch, and touched it to the edge of the enchanted trail.

The liquid ignited instantly, flames racing along the path with a hiss and a roar. The fire pots began to pulse, their glow intensifying.

[Alchemical Ignition Triggered]

::We should make haste.::

They exited fast, running through the gaps between houses, boots pounding across ruined timber. Skarn padded beside him, growling low and ready. Sypha waddled swiftly in their wake, and the Rock Troll following with slow, thunderous steps that shook the boards.

They burst into the previous house just as Elenara reached the doorway, supporting the injured townswoman. The woman sagged, barely conscious, her feet dragging uselessly.

Grashok didn’t hesitate. He swept the battered woman into his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Her face was streaked with grime, lips trembling, eyes wide with confusion and pain.

“Hold on,” he grunted.

Elenara fell into pace beside him, her emerald dress now torn and stained, golden hair flying behind her.

His interface pulsed sharply before his eyes as they ran.

SYSTEM RESET: 11:45 Minutes Until Scheduled World Refresh. Prepare for Incoming Features.

11:44

11:43

“Of course,” he snarled under his breath, adjusting the woman in his arms. “This is all going to have to be so quick.”

Skarn gave a low rumble of agreement.

Sypha’s voice rang in Grashok’s mind, calm and certain.

::This shall suffice. Brace yourselves.::

Grashok nodded and dropped to one knee behind a stone wall in the far corner of the house. He gently set the wounded woman down behind the thickest section of stone, then turned and pulled Elenara close. She stumbled slightly into his embrace, her blue eyes blinking wide with surprise as his massive arm curled around her, shielding her with his bulk.

She looked up at him, breath caught, awe and something softer in her gaze.

Grashok winked and kissed the tip of her nose. “Don’t worry, love. I’m built for explosions.”

She smiled, just as the world erupted.

When the alchemical fire pots detonated it wasn’t a single blast—it was a sequence. A chain reaction of deafening detonations that cracked the world open.

The building they’d mined convulsed outward, the entire frame bowing before shattering. Flame erupted from every seam, exploding through the broken roof and the gaps in the walls. Timber splinters flew like javelins. The shockwave struck the nearby buildings and staggered even the Rock Troll.

The street rippled, the very ground shaking beneath them. A massive gout of emerald flame burst from the breach, curling high into the sky before dissipating in oily smoke.

In the house in which they sheltered the air rippled, the walls groaned, and then a torrent of flame burst through the hole from the tailor’s shop, spewing molten fury across the room. The blast wave tore through timber and stone, sending shards of debris into the air. The house convulsed, windows shattering, beams collapsing. Fire licked across the cobbles, and the heat was suffocating.

But then it passed, and when it did Grashok was already moving.

The moment the blast faded, he rose with fluid strength, the woman still in his arms, bolting for the door. Skarn bounded beside him. They emerged into the street just in time to see the ruin the blast had caused.

Nyxie stood nearby, her white stockings streaked with ash, brown leather halter singed at the edges. Her mini kilt fluttered in the heat haze, and her eyes were wide, mouth slightly open as she stared at the carnage.

Grashok stopped beside her and looked up the street.

Half the left flank of the Pallid Claws was simply gone.

Where once there had been perfect, silent formation—now there was chaos. Corpses had despawned in heaps, loot bags piled in uneven clumps. Shattered bone-laced armour lay in blackened pieces. Blades glinted amongst the wreckage. One of the Claws’ enchanted sickles was embedded in a wall three buildings down.

The house itself no longer existed—only a scorched crater, surrounded by fragmented walls and still-burning debris. Blackened timber hissed and popped. The fire trail had carved through them like a god’s finger.

The explosion had stunned everyone—enemy and ally alike. Adventurers nearby were frozen, wide-eyed.

But Grashok had planned for this.

He placed the woman safely on a bench and then turned, finding Elenara standing just behind. Her beautiful features were illuminated by the fires, a soft cut across her cheek, blonde hair tossed wildly by the shockwave. her dress torn, She looked utterly stunned.

He pointed up the slope.

“The way is weakened,” he said firmly. “I want you to issue a new quest. Kill the Vermin King.”

She nodded, eyes clearing, and stepped back. A golden exclamation mark blinked into existence above her head.

[New Quest Available: “Strike the Vermin King – Final Boss Battle!”]

Nearby adventurers gasped.

“Yo—final boss quest just popped!”

“LEGGOOO!”

“Tag it, tag it, tag it before reset!”

Grashok turned to the Rock Troll. “Lead the attack. Hit them there. Punch through.” He gestured toward the shattered flank.

The troll grunted and immediately lumbered forward, claws dragging its club behind it as it broke into a loping charge up the hill, each step shaking the ground.

“Nyxie!” Grashok barked. “Keep your mages on them. Don’t let them regroup!”

Nyxie snapped out of her trance, eyes blazing. “You got it!” she shouted, spinning toward her mages. “Burn them down!”

She raised her staff, a spell already forming at its tip.

Grashok turned to Sypha, nodding once.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “We’ve got it from here.”

::Then go. They have been softened like wet rot. Strike deep. Strike true.::

Finally Grashok smiled and turned to Skarn.

“It’s hunting time again, boy.”

The wolf gave a low bark and sprang forward, tail lashing. Grashok followed, Soulrend humming in his grip, boots striking sparks from stone as he surged after the troll, charging up the hill into the firelit dusk.

Behind them, Elenara’s quest marker glowed bright amidst the excited chatter of adventurers.

“I want that legendary loot!”

“Endgame event! Don’t miss the trigger!”

The final charge had begun

Grashok watched as the Rock Troll slammed into the shattered flank like a living siege ram.

Its iron-shod club swept wide, smashing through the first Pallid Claw with a crunch that sent bone-laced armour flying. The creature despawned mid-air, its loot bag clinking to the cobbles. The troll didn’t slow. It barrelled forward—each step a quake, each swing pure ruin. A second Claw tried to dodge—too slow. The club caught it across the chest, folding it in half before it vanished in a shimmer of sparks.

Grashok followed in its wake, Soulrend humming with dark hunger.

A Claw lunged at him, twin sickles flashing. Grashok ducked beneath the first strike, slammed his shoulder into the Ratkin’s midsection, then spun and drove his blade into its side. The creature shrieked and blinked out, loot bag bouncing at his feet.

Another Claw tried to flank him—Skarn was faster. The grey wolf lunged, jaws clamping down on pale flesh, dragging the Ratkin into the dirt with a vicious snarl. It vanished in a pop of loot, Skarn already bounding ahead.

To his left, the Goblin phalanx had broken through. Shields locked, spears jabbing, they curled around into the centre of the Claws, splitting their formation like a wedge into old timber. From the alleys to the west, adventurers poured in—slashing, casting, shouting.

“Mob density’s insane—XP farm central!”

“AOE spam! Burn 'em down!”

“Flank clear! Push, push, push!”

The Pallid Claws, once a wall of precision, were now fractured. Their centre was under pressure from three sides—goblins to the front and left, adventurers to the right. More critically, they were no longer properly guarding the temple. Only a thin sliver remained between the enemy and the great doors: a desperate knot of clawed elites, standing shoulder to shoulder.

Snippa vaulted over a pile of debris and skidded to a stop beside Grashok, her bow already loosing arrows with deadly rhythm. Her hair was wild, her green leather top streaked with blood, her short skirt torn at the hem. She dropped a Claw mid-lunge with a snap-shot and grinned.

“Missed me?” she said, breathless.

“Always,” Grashok replied. He parried a wild sickle strike and answered with a brutal cross-cut. Soulrend shrieked through enchanted bone. The Ratkin dissolved, leaving behind only boots and gold.

The Rock Troll continued its rampage toward the temple doors, its roar rolling over the battlefield a heartbeat before its club fell. Bone-laced armour cracked like brittle shell. A Pallid Claw was lifted clean off its feet and despawned mid-air—loot bag fluttering behind. Another had its torso crushed sideways with a sickening crunch. The troll didn’t slow. It kept moving, sweeping its weapon in wide arcs. Heads caved. Bodies broke. Trails of red marked its path.

A high-pitched chime sang through the air—clear and distinct.

[Rock Troll has levelled up!]

Grashok didn’t look. No time.

Nyxie joined them from the far side, her halter top blackened with soot, hair frizzing from residual arcane charge. She hurled a blast of flame from both hands, immolating three Claws before they could flank the troll.

“Still breathing, boss!” she called out, eyes wide with battle-light.

“Keep breathing,” Grashok growled, cleaving a Claw’s arm and then kicking it backwards into Snippa’s waiting arrow.

The battle raged.

Grashok cut down another Claw, Skarn tackled a second. Snippa’s arrows sang. Nyxie’s spells roared. The troll smashed through a final defender, and suddenly—

The path was clear.

Grashok looked up.

The temple doors loomed ahead, untouched, waiting.

He checked his interface.

SYSTEM RESET: 7:22 Minutes Until Scheduled World Refresh.

7:21

7:20

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Not enough time.”

Behind him, the Claws had regrouped—temporarily sealing the breach. But they were buckling—too much pressure, too many enemies. Goblin spears and adventurer spells pressed from all sides. It was over for them. They just didn’t know it yet. But they would hold anyone else off from joining them.

Grashok scanned the survivors beside him.

The Rock Troll—bleeding heavily, one arm hanging uselessly—but its wounds already knitting, muscles twitching with regeneration.

Snippa—grinning, blood on her lip, hair hanging loose.

Nyxie—panting, but still conjuring sparks between her palms.

Skarn—hackles raised, muzzle wet, growling for more.

A handful of goblin scouts—cut, bruised, but ready.

And five adventurers—battered but unbroken. One, an amazonian, held a cracked shield, armour scorched and blackened. Another, a halfling cleric, clutched a bleeding side, healing light flickering in her fingers. A third, a human rogue, leaned heavily on bloodied daggers, grinning through a gut wound. The fourth, an elven archer, bow drawn with trembling arms, had only a few arrows left and one eye swollen nearly shut.

And the last was Liraen Shadowstalker—tall, lithe, her moon-pale skin smudged with soot and streaked with blood. Her snug black armour bore deep rents, the sapphire-blue dress beneath torn and scorched. Dark hair, tangled and matted, still framed those sharp cheekbones as she adjusted her grip on a notched blade. She spat red onto the stones, flashed Grashok a grin, and muttered, “Boss fight incoming. Let’s get that XP.”

Grashok stepped up to the temple doors.

He grabbed the ancient iron ring—still warm from fire—and heaved.

With a scream of rusted hinges, the doors flung open.