CHAPTER 173: CHAPTER 172: HEARTBEAT IN STONE

Lumberling exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders. In truth, he had never expected things to turn this way, entangling himself with such beings.

But there was no use for regrets now.

The chaotic energy inside him pulsed, raw and volatile. He could feel it shifting through his veins, a gift, or perhaps a curse. It was the same element that allowed Skitz to absorb spells like water drinking flame, the same venomous power the high priest had infused into his weapons, corrosive enough to melt metal, destructive enough to rot through armor and bone alike.

He turned to Skitz.

The goblin still stood rooted in place, his frame trembling, not from fear, but from the aftershocks of the essence he had just absorbed.

"How is it?" Lumberling asked.

Skitz’s grin was sharp, but his hands twitched as if they couldn’t decide between gripping his blade or clawing at the air. "It’s like drinking fire and ice in the same breath... it burns, but I don’t want it to stop."

Lumberling studied him for a moment. The goblin’s usual swagger was there, but beneath it, something had shifted, an undercurrent of awe, even reverence.

"Did you get the answer you were seeking?"

The grin faltered. Skitz’s eyes lowered for a brief second before he straightened again. "...I did. And I’m sorry for dragging you into this, my Lord."

Lumberling shook his head. "It was my choice."

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the chaos element swirling between them, alive yet still.

Then Skitz stepped closer and bowed, not the mocking half, bow he had offered in the past, but a deep, deliberate one. "Thank you for fulfilling my request."

Lumberling’s brow lifted slightly. "I didn’t do it for gratitude."

"I know," Skitz replied, his voice firm now. "And that’s why I’ll follow you until the day my blood runs dry."

Something passed between them then, an unspoken pact forged not from command or collar, but from shared risk and survival. Lumberling nodded once, accepting it without ceremony.

"So, what do you think of being a Goddess’s child?"

Skitz snorted. "Her child or not, I only serve one Lord." His tone carried no jest, only iron.

Lumberling’s brow lifted slightly.

"And I don’t think she was a Goddess," Skitz went on. "A strong being, for sure, but Gods are entirely different."

"How so?"

Skitz’s gaze drifted for a moment, as if recalling something etched deep into instinct rather than memory. "Gods are... different. It’s hard to explain. We monsters only know of six true Gods. And when you encounter one, you don’t question it, you just know. Morvagoth, the Father of Beasts. Nyzorrak, the Flesh-Twister. Shuth’raal, the Night Terror. Zathog the Ever-Hungering. Ghorvash, the World-Breaker. And Ul’Zaroth, the Chained Horror."

His voice lowered slightly. "Those are the six monster Gods. That so-called Naxxiriss? I think she’s just someone beyond Stage Five... but definitely not a God."

Lumberling said nothing at first, turning the words over in his mind. He, too, doubted Naxxiriss’s divinity. Nie Fenghun, the cultivator he had devoured had been blessed by a being whose presence was utterly different from hers. The memory of that entity still lingered in his mind, vast, undeniable, divine in a way Naxxiriss could never imitate.

No... she was strong. Dangerous. But not a God.

But that didn’t make her any less of a threat. Now they were enemies, and her followers would not forgive this insult.

He would have to be ready.

"Call for the captains," Lumberling said at last. "We still need to check the area."

Skitz nodded sharply and moved to obey.

Moments later, the captains and vice-captains arrived.

"What happened to that madman?" Krivex asked, his voice sharp but tinged with curiosity.

"We killed him," Skitz said, voice flat as stone, nodding toward the high priest’s corpse.

The captains looked over, recoiling at the grotesque sight.

"We’ll talk on the way. For now, let’s check for their dens. Move out," Lumberling ordered.

Without another word, they plunged back into the water, cutting through the dark depths until the shattered cave came into view.

The water was colder here, heavy with silt and the faint metallic taste of blood. Faint ripples from their movements disturbed the silence, revealing drifting scraps of kelp and broken weapons resting on the seafloor. A half-buried mask of the cult’s design stared up from the sand, its once-gleaming surface cracked down the middle.

Shapes loomed in the distance, jagged silhouettes of collapsed pillars and splintered stone. It was a graveyard now, stripped of its former menace. Even the echoes were gone, as if the place itself had died with its master.

The place was a ruin, torn apart by the high priest’s rampage and Skitz’s explosives.

They began clearing debris, stone by stone. Bits of charred wood and shattered bone floated alongside them. The stench of burnt flesh still clung to the air, thick even beneath the damp scent of the cavern.

Now and then, they uncovered a lizardman still breathing, trapped under rubble. None were spared. A quick strike ended their lives, and the victors drew in the fading wisps of essence without hesitation.

As they pressed deeper, the remnants of battle gave way to something darker. Broken statues lined the path, their features warped into sneering, alien visages. Sacrificial altars lay cracked and bloodstained, a monster’s den reshaped into a place of worship for the Fang Eternals.

At the largest altar, the truth of their depravity lay exposed, slain lizardmen, piled with the remains of beasts. Their own kind offered up like cattle.

The sight churned something deep in Lumberling’s gut, the image pulling him backward years ago. He saw again the charred ruins of Sangun Village, its people butchered for the same twisted cause. The way the air had tasted of ash and blood. That smell was here too, faint but undeniable.

Only now, there was a difference.

He had struck back.

He had cut down their priest, shattered their den, and left their god without offerings.

Perhaps fate had dragged him into this fight from the very beginning.

....

The deeper they pressed into the den, the stench of damp stone and reptilian musk thickened. Shadows shifted in the torchlight, revealing rows of eggs the size of a man’s head, unhatched lizardmen, their mottled shells glistening with condensation. The air seemed to hum faintly, as though the clutch still carried the heartbeat of their tribe.

The captains noticed them immediately.

"Your orders, my Lord?" Skarn asked, voice low, as if wary of disturbing the silence.

Lumberling studied the clutch for a moment, weighing their worth. Then his lips curved into a decisive line.

"Take them to the village. We’ll raise them as our own. Trained well, they’ll make fine soldiers, better still, they’re creatures of the water. In time, they could sail the seas for us."

His tone was calm, but in his mind, the choice was clear, this wasn’t a gamble, it was an investment. One that might even tip the scales against the pirates.

The order was carried out swiftly. One by one, they harvested the lizardmen’s corpses for useful parts, scales for armor, sinew for bowstrings, fangs... Merchants would pay well for such materials, and the rest could be reforged into weapons. The eggs were handled with care, wrapped in damp cloths and placed in baskets lined with moss. Thirty-eight in total, each a small, living promise of future strength.

When there was nothing left to salvage and no hidden chambers to discover, they began their ascent back to the surface.

Halfway to the surface, a basket trembled in Skitz’s grip. A sharp, brittle crack rippled through the water.

Lumberling glanced down. One of the mottled shells had split, a sliver of darkness curling from within, not mist, but something alive, writhing, reaching toward him.