The crawlspace felt infinitely more hostile than it had an hour ago. Before, he was the predator, the Lvl 2 terror of the Lvl 1 roaches. Now, he was just a sick, itchy goblin on a suicidal grocery run.
Every few seconds, his [Cave Rot] debuff would flare, a maddening, deep-tissue itch that made him want to scrape his arm raw against the stone.
"Focus," he hissed, his 6-point Agility feeling dangerously clumsy. "Itching is a privilege for the not-dying."
He crawled back to the fissure, his tiny, glowing-blue safe-zone already a distant, happy memory. The 24-hour clock was ticking. He had to scout. He had to plan.
He peered through the crack in the rock again. The main cavern was unchanged.
It was a massive, stinking bowl of goblin misery. The air was thick with the smell of despair and poor sanitation.
In the center, on his throne of garbage, the [Tribe Bully] was, miraculously, asleep. He was slumped over his club, a low, wet, bubbling snore echoing in the cavern.
Okay. That's good. That's... really good.
His 9-point (nerfed) Perception strained. The other goblins, the skeletal Lvl 1s and 2s, were giving the throne a wide berth. They were terrified of their leader, even in sleep. They huddled in the shadows at the absolute edges of the cavern, gnawing on... nothing. Or on each other. He didn't look too closely.
This was his chance.
He scanned the throne, his eyes zeroing in on the base.
'Appraisal' on the garbage pile!
[System: Mana Cost: 1. Target acquired. Current Mana: 3/4]
[Pile of Filth & Refuse (Hazard/Resource Node)]
Rank: (Varies)
Description: A multi-layered heap of goblin waste, half-eaten corpses, broken bones, and general filth. The sheer concentration of decay has created a unique, high-nutrient ecosystem.
Contents: [Goblin Bones (Junk)], [Rotten Meat (Hazard)], [Cave Rot (Disease - High Concentration)], [Sewer-Fly Larva (Protein)], [Bone-Shards (Junk)]... [Glow-Cap Colony (Immature)]
His eyes locked on the last entry. He squinted, his Perception skill pushing. There.
At the back of the throne, tucked against the cavern wall and partially obscured by what looked like a giant, discarded ribcage, was a pulsing, fist-sized lump of pale blue mycelium. It was the [Glow-Cap Spore-Cluster].
The good news: He'd found it.
The bad news: It was at the back of the throne. To get to it from the cavern floor, he'd have to walk right past the sleeping Lvl 7 brute.
A casual stroll past a sleeping cannibal-king who could one-shot him. While he was debuffed and itching.
"Yeah, no," he muttered. "That's a 'Level 50 Warrior' plan. I'm a 'Level 3 Rat' plan."
He was a rat in the walls. So, he would stay in the walls.
His eyes scanned the rock behind the throne. The throne was piled against the back wall of the cavern. And in that wall, just a few meters above the throne... was another black, fist-sized hole.
Another crawlspace opening.
His 14 Intelligence lit up. This was it. The crawlspace network had to be interconnected. He didn't need to enter the main cavern at all. He just needed to find the tunnel that led to that specific exit.
"Okay," he whispered, a plan forming. A terrible, desperate, rat-like plan.
He would navigate the dark, unmapped, roach-infested tunnels, guided only by his wits, to find an exit that might be the right one, so he could steal a mushroom from a pile of infectious garbage, right behind a sleeping monster.
"This is the dumbest thing I've ever done," he decided. "In two lifetimes."
He pulled back from the fissure and plunged into the darkness of the tunnels. This was new territory. He left the "roach-hunting" zone and moved deeper, following the faintest drafts of air.
The skittering was a constant, unnerving symphony. The smell of ammonia and rot was overpowering.
His arm flared with an agonizing itch. He gritted his teeth, his claws digging into his own leg to stop from scratching. Focus!
He was a Scavenger. This was his element. The dark. The filth. The margins.
He crawled for what felt like an hour, though the timer said only twenty minutes had passed. He took wrong turns, hit dead ends, and twice had to back away from nests of [Cave Roaches] too numerous to fight. His [Analysis] skill passively identified [Cave-Slime], [Iron Pyrite (Fool's Gold - Junk)], and [Fossilized Poop (Junk)]. He ignored them all. His mission was singular.
Then, the sounds changed.
The distant, wet snoring of the [Tribe Bully] was... closer. And to his left, he could hear the wet, miserable sniffling of the other goblins.
He was on the right path. He was in the wall directly adjacent to the main cavern.
He crawled another ten feet and the tunnel opened up.
It was the hole. The exit.
He poked his head out, his heart hammering so hard he was sure the Bully would hear it.
The view was... perfect. And horrific.
He was in the wall, about three meters off the cavern floor, looking directly down at the back of the [Tribe Bully]'s head.
He was so close. The monster's greasy, matted hair was just a few feet below him. The smell of the unwashed goblin, a thick, sour musk, hit him like a wall.
His [Cowardice] passive went absolutely ballistic, screaming at him. [DANGER. THREAT. SUPERIOR FOE. FLEE. FLEE. FLEE.]
His Agility felt like it dropped to 2. His hands were shaking.
Shut up! he screamed internally, battling his own racial instincts. I'm sick! I'm itchy! I'm busy!*
He looked down. The [Glow-Cap Spore-Cluster] was right there, sitting on the garbage pile, just below his exit.
The problem: The pile of refuse was sheer. It was a three-meter drop from his crawlspace onto a heap of... who knew what. He could jump down. But he, a 7-Stamina goblin, probably couldn't climb back up.
Especially not if the Lvl 7 king woke up.
It was a one-way trip.
He'd have to jump, grab the cluster, and then... what? Run? Run across the entire 100-meter cavern floor, past 30 other goblins, while diseased, itchy, and being chased by a Lvl 7 brute with a nail-bat?
His 14 Intelligence, even in its nerfed, panicked state, labeled this 'Plan: Stupid.'
He looked around, his 9-point Perception scanning frantically.
Rope. I need a rope. A vine. Something.
The cave was bare. Stone. Slime. Filth.
His eyes landed on his inventory. On his skills.
[Improvise (Passive)].
[Tattered Loincloth (Junk)]. [Diseased Rag (Junk)].
He had... cloth.
He ripped off his own loincloth. He tore the [Diseased Rag] he'd scavenged into strips. His fingers, guided by the [Improvise] skill, began to knot them together, his 14 Intelligence working at lightning speed.
It was a pathetic rope. It was, by all accounts, a string of dirty laundry.
'Appraisal.'
[Improvised Cloth-Scrap Rope (Junk)]
Rank: F-rank (Trash-Tier)
Description: A few rags tied together. It might hold the weight of a single, very small goblin. Or it might not.
Note: You disgustingly pragmatic, clever little creature.
He secured one end to a jutting rock deep inside the crawlspace, his hands shaking so badly he had to tie the knot three times.
He looked at the LAnalyst. It held.
He looked down. The Lvl 7 goblin snorted in its sleep and shifted.
He froze, his non-existent blood turning to ice.
The Bully settled. The snoring resumed.
He had one shot.
He held the [Improvised Cloth-Scrap Rope] in one hand, and a [Corroded Bone Shard] in the other. Just in case.
He took a deep, shaky, ammonia-scented breath.
"Okay," he whispered, his arm burning with the itch. "For the 65%."
He lowered himself out of the hole.