Troll

Steven stepped past the slumped skeleton, its rusted chainmail and Rusty Dagger glinting faintly in the golden glow of his night vision. He ignored them—chainmail clanked too heavy for his style, and weapons weren’t his game; his fists were enough. The Glowcap Mushrooms stayed in the crevice—he’d grab them later—his focus drawn deeper into the cave. The tunnel widened, sloping down until it opened into a vast chamber, a hollowed-out mining room carved by long-gone workers chasing ore.

The air hung thick, dust motes swirling in his radiant sight. Jagged walls stretched high, scarred with pickaxe gouges—some glinted faintly, veins of unmined stone shimmering like buried secrets. Crude wooden beams, warped and splintered, braced the ceiling, sagging under time’s weight. Scattered across the floor lay remnants of the miners’ toil: a broken cart, its wheel cracked, tipped beside a pile of rubble; rusted tools—hammers, chisels, a snapped shovel—strewn like forgotten bones. A shallow trough ran along one wall, dry now, once a sluice for water or ore dust.

In the center, a hulking shape loomed—a Cave Troll, ten feet of gnarled muscle, its gray-green hide mottled with scars. It hunched over a pile of bones, gnawing a femur with jagged teeth, oblivious to Steven’s approach. Nearby, a crude nest of twigs and furs cradled three Trollkin Eggs, each the size of a melon, their shells a mottled gray speckled with red. Against the far wall, a glint caught his eye—a small vein of Iron Ore, dull but promising, untouched by the troll’s brutish hands.

Steven stood at the edge of the mining chamber, his golden night vision bathing the scene in radiant clarity—the Cave Troll gnawing its bone pile, oblivious, the Trollkin Eggs nestled nearby, the Iron Ore vein glinting faintly. His Fists of Holy Fury, Feet of Holy Fury, and Saiyan Fury still blazed, golden flames licking his form, unbroken since the bear fight—speed and strength humming through him, his eyes aglow with holy sight. No need to cancel; he was a living torch, primed for war.

He crept forward, boots silent on the dusty stone, the troll’s grunts masking his approach. Ten feet of brutish muscle loomed—scarred hide, jagged teeth—but Steven saw an opening. He coiled, then sprang, Feet of Holy Fury igniting brighter as he launched a head kick—swift, precise, a golden arc slicing the air. His heel crashed into the troll’s temple—crack—the impact reverberating, a burst of holy fire searing its flesh. The troll’s head snapped sideways, bone splintering, a guttural roar cut short as it staggered, dazed, the femur clattering from its grip.

Steven landed, fists primed, ready to press the ****—the troll wasn’t down, but it was rocked, and the chamber was his to claim.