Chapter 35. Tavern Sink

  Raven scanned the camp, the late morning sun casting long shadows over the struggling survivors. The lines at the makeshift kitchens still stretched across the plaza, people clutching empty bowls and hollow expressions. He watched as a mother handed her portion to her two children; her own stomach left empty. This wasn’t sustainable. These people weren’t just running low on food—they were running out of hope.

  A soldier approached, his expression blank, professional. "Come with me. Captain Trenholm wants to see you."

  Raven nodded, falling into step beside the man as they weaved through the camp and back toward the hall. He expected to find Lisa there, maybe a full council, but as he stepped inside, he was met with only Trenholm, sitting alone at the long wooden table. The captain didn’t bother with pleasantries.

  “Why were you scouting that area?” Trenholm asked, his tone direct, his sharp gaze pinning Raven in place. “It wasn’t on our patrol route for another few days.”

  Raven barely hesitated before giving a casual shrug. “If we hadn’t, you wouldn’t know about the fort.”

  Trenholm’s expression darkened, suspicion flickering across his face, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he moved on, his tone clipped and commanding.

  “You’ll be part of the raid on the fort.”

  Raven raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Just like that?”

  Trenholm ignored the sarcasm. “We know you have a trait, and we need every advantage we can get. Every man and woman of age who has any ability to fight has been conscripted in some capacity. That includes you.”

  Raven exhaled slowly, measuring the weight of those words. Conscripted. Not volunteered—ordered. It was clear Trenholm wasn’t asking. Before he could respond, the captain leaned back in his chair, his expression turning even colder.

  “For now, your friend stays with us,” Trenholm added, voice like iron. “Just to make sure you don’t try anything… unwise.”

  Raven’s fingers twitched at his side, his jaw tightening. So that was the play. A not-so-subtle way of keeping him in line. He met Trenholm’s gaze, expression neutral, hiding the slow-burning anger growing inside him.

  He forced a smirk. "Guess I’d better play nice then, huh?"

  Raven followed Dillon through the bustling camp, the weight of Seymour’s words pressing on his shoulders. He didn’t like being conscripted, but for now, he had to play along. Dillon led him through a winding path of tents, keeping his voice low as he spoke.

  "You need to tread carefully, mate. Trenholm's got eyes everywhere, and he doesn’t trust you."

  Raven smirked. "Yeah, I got that impression."

  Dillon stopped in front of a small tent near the edge of the town hall. He lifted the flap and gestured for Raven to enter. Inside, Lisa sat at a simple wooden desk, looking over maps and documents.

  Lisa looked up as they entered. "What did Trenholm want?"

  Raven exhaled and leaned against the tent pole. "He’s conscripting me for the raid. Apparently, I’m too valuable to be left out. And just to make sure I stay in line, Carlos is under their watch."

  Lisa frowned. "I expected something like this. Trenholm handles military matters, so for now, go along with it. But keep your eyes open—I need to know what he's planning beyond this raid."

  Raven nodded. "And the sink?"

  Lisa set her papers aside and folded her hands. "Can we take it?"

  Raven hesitated. "It’s already been claimed. I could feel it. But if we take out the goblins, it should be up for grabs again. The question is—who claims it first?"

  Lisa’s gaze hardened. "We will."

  Within the hour, the camp was a hive of movement. Soldiers in full combat gear lined up in ranks, rifles slung across their shoulders and ammunition strapped to their vests. Alongside them, the scouts stood in stark contrast—dressed in dirty clothes, wielding mismatched weapons. Some had bows or crossbows, others crude spears or repurposed tools. It was clear who was trained and who was improvising.

  Raven stood amongst the scouts, taking in the scene. This was a real military operation—organized, disciplined, and well-supplied. It was also a reminder of just how different the hospital was compared to this place. They had fighters, but they weren’t an army.

  Trenholm strode to the front of the formation, barking orders. "We move in staggered formation. The moment the gate is down, hold the line and cut them down before they can regroup!"

  A sniper stepped forward; rifle raised. The moment the goblin in the closest tower came into view, a single shot rang out, dropping it instantly. As the body slumped, a team of soldiers rushed forward carrying what looked like blocks of grey putty.

  "Covering fire!" Trenholm ordered.

  Gunfire erupted as soldiers laid down suppression, forcing any goblins inside to take cover. The demolition team worked quickly, pressing the putty against the thick wooden gate and withdrawing.

  "DOWN!" one of them shouted as they sprinted back.

  The explosion rocked the air, a shockwave of heat and splintered wood blasting outward. The once-imposing gate was reduced to a shredded, burning wreck.

  For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, from the dark interior of the fort, a chorus of guttural screams erupted. Goblins poured from the opening—far more than they had anticipated. Dozens turned to hundreds in the space of seconds.

  "Hold the line!" Trenholm roared.

  The battle had begun.

  The air was thick with the smell of blood and gunpowder as bullets tore through goblin flesh, cutting down the front ranks with ruthless efficiency. But even as the bodies piled up, it became clear—there were too many. The sheer volume of goblins pushing through the breach overwhelmed the steady rhythm of the gunfire. The first few broke past the bullets, rushing forward with terrifying speed, and then chaos erupted.

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  The scouts, to their credit, didn’t flinch. Those who had been standing behind the soldiers waiting for their moment surged forward, meeting the goblins head-on. Raven saw weapons flash and skills activate—men striking goblins with bone-crunching force, others carving through them like they were made of paper. But these men didn’t have cores. They were tapping into something instinctive, using traits or skill-stones they had acquired, but without cores it wouldn’t last.

  Then, the goblins started fighting back with more than just numbers. A scout was sent flying, his body whipping through the air as a goblin blurred forward, its speed unnatural. A soldier cried out as an arrow pierced clean through his chest, the projectile continuing to embed itself into a scout behind him, dropping them both.

  Raven didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the fray, slipping between strikes as if he were a phantom. A goblin lunged with a serrated blade, but he phased, letting the weapon pass through him before appearing behind it, driving his dagger into its skull. Another came at him with a spiked club—he ducked, twisted, and slit its throat before it could react. Wherever he moved, goblins died.

  But then he felt it—a shift in the battle. The goblins around him weren’t just mindless creatures swinging wildly anymore. They were adapting. The armoured ones, bigger and better equipped, stepped forward. They fought with coordination, protecting each other, covering gaps in their formation.

  Raven dodged a spear thrust that shot forward with the force of a ballista, the air splitting where it passed. A goblin barrelled toward him, its shoulder lined with iron plates, and he barely phased in time to avoid being sent sprawling. He reappeared just as a crude iron club smashed into the ground where he had been, cracking the earth beneath it.

  He was being pushed back. He wasn’t just cutting through fodder anymore—these goblins were fighters.

  He withdrew, moving toward the human lines, catching his breath as he scanned the battlefield. Despite the losses, they were winning. More goblins lay dead than humans, and the numbers were thinning.

  Then through the ruins of the fort gates two figures emerged.

  The first was massive—a brute, larger than any Raven had seen before. Its monstrous frame carried an enormous axe, the metal worn and chipped from countless battles. Its slow, deliberate steps sent a wave of dread through him. He recognized that size, that presence. It was the same as the one that had almost killed him.

  The second figure was worse.

  An old goblin, its white hair spilling from beneath a cracked leather hood, walked beside the brute with deliberate, measured movements. It raised its hands and began to weave strange gestures in the air, fingers twisting in unnatural shapes.

  Then, every goblin’s eyes turned red.

  A wave of primal, unrelenting bloodlust washed over the battlefield. The goblins screamed, throwing themselves at the humans with reckless abandon. Where before they fought with some measure of self-preservation, now they didn’t care if they died.

  Gunfire ceased as weapons jammed rifles refusing to fire, as if the goblins’ madness had infected the very steel. Soldiers struggled with their weapons, cursing and fumbling as the frenzied creatures overwhelmed them. Scouts swung wildly, cutting down goblins only to be tackled and dragged into the swarm.

  And through it all, the brute kept walking.

  Slow. Unstoppable. Axe in hand.

  Raven clenched his jaw, gripping his dagger tighter. The fight had just begun.

  Raven sprinted toward the brute, weaving through the chaos as goblins fell to blade and bullet alike. The battle raged around him, but his focus was singular—if that monster reached the human lines, it would carve through them like paper. He knew bullets wouldn’t stop it. The last brute he had fought had been nearly unstoppable, and this one looked just as bad, if not worse.

  The brute noticed him.

  With a thunderous roar, it raised its axe and slammed it into the ground, sending a shockwave of force outward. Goblins skittered back, forming an eerie, instinctive circle around the two of them. They knew what was happening. This was a challenge.

  Raven grinned. Good. He had fought and killed one of these things before. He could do it again.

  The brute lunged forward with terrifying speed, swinging its axe in a diagonal arc meant to split him in two. Raven phased, letting the attack pass through his body, and reappeared at its side, dagger flashing. He slashed low, carving a deep gash into the brute’s ankle. The beast roared, stumbling for just a second before swinging wildly at where Raven had landed—but he was already moving, dancing out of reach.

  It charged. A limping, staggering rush, but no less deadly. Raven waited, watching, his breathing steady despite the exhaustion creeping in.

  It swung again.

  Raven ducked, phased, and reappeared behind it, dragging his dagger across its ribs. The brute howled, swinging back, but its strikes were wild, angry. It was slower than him. He had that advantage.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  The wounds he was inflicting weren’t deep enough. The beast was bleeding, but not nearly enough to bring it down. He was tiring, his ether reserves running low. If he didn’t find a way to finish this soon, he was done.

  Then an idea struck him.

  He had always phased himself. His body, his movements, his weapons—but could he manipulate the transition itself?

  The brute lunged again.

  Raven shifted to the side, dagger poised, but instead of slashing across its ribs, he phased his weapon through its thick hide—and then let it reform inside the creature’s body.

  The effect was instant.

  The brute roared in agony as the dagger materialized deep in its side, tearing through flesh and muscle. It staggered, its enormous form shaking as fresh blood spilled from the wound.

  Raven felt his grimoire pulse.

  Something had changed.

  But now wasn’t the time to check.

  He had an opening.

  His breath came in ragged gasps, his core nearly depleted, but he forced himself to move. The brute’s knee buckled from the pain, and Raven darted behind it, slashing low again. This time, he phased the blade straight through the other ankle—right through the tendons.

  The brute’s leg collapsed.

  It fell to its knees, bellowing in rage and pain, swinging its axe wildly as it tried to catch him.

  Raven was already in the air.

  He phased one last time, right behind the beast.

  As he reappeared, he drove his dagger down into its head, deep into its brain—and let it reform inside.

  The brute shuddered.

  Its body locked up for a brief second.

  Then it slumped forward, lifeless.

  Raven staggered back, barely keeping himself upright as he stared down at the fallen monster. His heart pounded in his chest. His core was nearly empty. But he had won.

  And whatever had just changed in his grimoire… he would figure it out later, that shaman looking fuck needed to die.

  Mustering his resolve, Raven pushed his exhaustion down, his body screaming for rest as he bolted towards the old goblin. It saw him coming and, with a shriek, started waving its hands wildly. A ball of green flame shot toward him at breakneck speed. What the fuck was that? he thought as he phased out of the way just in time. His heart pounded, but he didn’t slow down.

  The goblin fired another shot, but Raven was already rolling to the side, narrowly avoiding the second blast. As he sprang to his feet, he saw the goblin pull a dagger from its waist. It didn’t look confident, though. In fact, it looked desperate, its shaky hand barely able to grip the hilt.

  With a burst of speed, Raven closed the last few meters between them. The goblin swiped at him, but he ducked and weaved, dodging the blade. In one fluid motion, he planted his dagger deep into the goblin’s temple. It died instantly, a strangled gurgle escaping its throat.

  Raven felt a pulse from his grimoire, and he glanced back. The goblins, no longer fuelled by rage, were beginning to flee. They had done it.

  Raven exhaled, the adrenaline still rushing through his veins. The battlefield behind him was littered with goblin corpses, a fire casting long shadows over the wreckage. But he didn’t have time to celebrate.

  Seizing the opportunity, Raven sprinted toward the tavern. He phased through the wall and was immediately hit with the stench of rot. His stomach turned as his eyes took in the horrors inside. The walls were coated in the remains of animals, humans, and what could only be described as refuse. He pushed forward, stomach churning, until he found a staircase leading down.

  At the bottom, in a dimly lit storage area, he saw it—a sink stone, sitting untouched in the centre of the room. His fingers brushed the stone, and his grimoire appeared in his grip as if called by instinct. The text shimmered. “You have killed the owner of a sink. Would you like to claim it?”

  Raven hesitated. Then he willed the answer—yes.

  He felt the weight of the stone's power surge through him, the area coming under his control. As he started to turn and head back to the army, a voice, cold and chilling, broke the silence.

  “Don’t move.”