CHAPTER 3 — “The Goblin’s Tax” #3
Rude. I save your life and that’s the first thing you ask? Not ‘thank you, noble rabbit, for your timely intervention’? Not ‘how can I ever repay you, magnificent creature’?
“You’re a rabbit.”
And you’re a human wearing a corpse like a cheap suit. We all have our burdens.
“You can read minds?”
Please. Your mind isn’t interesting enough to read. I’m a telepath, not a masochist. The rabbit’s nose twitches. I’ve been watching you since you entered the dungeon. Wanted to see if you were worth the effort.
“Worth what effort?”
The rabbit hops forward, circling me slowly, examining me from every angle. I feel distinctly like I’m being judged. Weighed. Found probably wanting.
You’re weak, it says finally. Pathetically weak. Your mana capacity is laughable, your skills are garbage, and you fight like someone taught you combat through interpretive dance.
“Thanks.”
But. The rabbit sits back, tilting its head. You’re also stubborn. Stupid stubborn. The kind of stubborn that walks into a boss room at Level 1 with nothing but plants and spite. That’s… interesting.
“Interesting enough to save?”
Interesting enough to invest in. The rabbit’s eyes meet mine—dark, ancient, knowing. I’ve been in this dungeon a long time. Longer than you’d believe. And I’ve been waiting for someone worth following.
I stare at it.
It stares back.
“You want to… follow me? A Level 3 healer with, as you put it, garbage skills?”
I want to follow someone who’s going somewhere. And you— The rabbit hops onto the chief’s throne, settling onto the skulls like it belongs there. You’re going somewhere. I can smell it on you. Destiny. Vengeance. Something big and bloody and absolutely inadvisable.
“How can you possibly—”
Your soul is fractured. Split. Pieces of you scattered across five different people who are still walking around using your power like it belongs to them. The rabbit’s voice goes cold. Hard. I know what that feels like. Having something taken. Having it used by people who don’t deserve it.
Silence stretches between us.
The fire crackles. Blood drips. Somewhere in the tunnels, goblins are probably still running.
“You’re not just a rabbit,” I say finally. “Are you.”
I’m whatever I need to be. The rabbit—the creature—shifts on its throne of skulls. Right now, I’m your partner. If you’ll have me.
I should say no. I should walk away from the magical talking rabbit that eats goblin faces, find the loot, and get out of this dungeon before anything else impossible happens.
But I’ve already died once. Already been betrayed by everyone I trusted. Already lost everything that mattered.
What’s one more impossible thing?
“I’m Velthar,” I say. “What do I call you?”
The rabbit considers this for a moment. Its nose twitches.
I had a name once. Before. It doesn’t fit anymore. Those dark eyes study me, unreadable. You can call me whatever you want. Names are just sounds anyway.
I look at this creature—this impossible, blood-soaked, telepathic creature that just saved my life and is offering to follow me into whatever hell comes next. At the casual arrogance. The complete lack of respect for anything. The way it’s sitting on a throne of skulls like it was born there.
“Johnson,” I say.
Excuse me?
“Johnson. You look like a Johnson.”
The rabbit—Johnson—stares at me for a long, dangerous moment.
Johnson, it repeats flatly. You’re naming an ancient creature of unfathomable power… Johnson.
“Would you prefer Mr. Johnson?”
I would prefer something with dignity. Something that reflects the endless depths of my existence, the cosmic significance of my—
“Johnson it is.”
The rabbit’s ear twitches. Once. Twice.
Then, incredibly, it laughs. Or the telepathic equivalent—a sensation like bubbles popping in my brain, bright and sharp and surprised.
Johnson. Another twitch. You know what? Fine. Johnson. I’ve had worse names.
“Worse than Johnson?”
I spent three centuries being called ‘Mr. Whiskers’ by a senile archmage who thought I was his pet. Trust me. Johnson is fine.
I feel my mouth doing something unfamiliar. Something I haven’t done since before the betrayal, before the death, before everything collapsed into darkness and revenge.
I’m smiling.
It feels wrong on this face. Rusty. Like machinery that hasn’t been used in too long.
But it also feels right.
“Welcome to the team, Johnson.”
What team? There’s you and there’s me. That’s not a team. That’s a tragedy waiting to happen.
“Then it’s a team of two tragedies.”
Johnson hops down from the throne, landing next to me with a wet splat that reminds me we’re both covered in goblin viscera.
Fine. Team Tragedy. I’ve been part of worse. He—it’s a he, I’ve decided, don’t ask me how I know—looks up at me with those ancient eyes. But if you die stupidly, I’m eating your body. Waste not, want not.
“Fair enough.”
And if you try to pet me, I’m eating your hand.
“Noted.”
And if you EVER buy me a collar, I’ll wait until you’re asleep and—
“I get it. No collars. No pets. No treating you like a regular rabbit.”
Good. Johnson’s nose twitches. Now. Are we going to loot this room, or are you just going to stand there bleeding like an idiot?
I look down at myself. He’s right—I am bleeding. From several places. The adrenaline is fading, and everything is starting to hurt.
But I’m alive. I’m Level 3. And I have a partner.
A psychotic, face-eating, telepathic rabbit partner, but still.
It’s more than I had this morning.
The loot takes twenty minutes to sort through, mostly because Johnson keeps providing commentary.
That’s junk. That’s junk. That’s definitely junk. Oh, that’s interesting—no, wait, it’s also junk.
“Do you have anything helpful to add?”
I’m helping by preventing you from filling your pockets with garbage. You’re welcome.
The chief’s throne has a hidden compartment—Johnson finds it, because of course he does—and inside there’s a small collection of actually valuable things. Coins. Mana shards. A tattered piece of paper that makes my heart stop.
“This is my handwriting,” I say, staring at the fragment of spellbook page.
You wrote that?
“Two hundred years ago. Before—” I swallow. “Before everything.”
Hmm. Johnson hops closer, examining the page with those too-intelligent eyes. So you’re not just a corpse-wearing human with a revenge complex. You’re a corpse-wearing human with a revenge complex AND a mysterious past.
“Is that better or worse?”
Better. Much better. Mysterious pasts are interesting. Revenge complexes are boring by themselves, but add some ancient secrets and suddenly we have a story worth following.
I carefully fold the page, tuck it into my pocket. My hands are shaking again, but not from exhaustion this time.
This is proof. Proof I existed. Proof I was more than what they reduced me to.
Somewhere out there, Sylva is teaching my spells to students. Calling them hers. Building a legacy on my stolen work.
And I have a piece of that work right here. A fragment of who I used to be.
You’re doing that thing again, Johnson says.
“What thing?”
The staring-at-nothing-while-radiating-murderous-intent thing. It’s very dramatic. Also slightly concerning.
“Sorry.”
Don’t apologize. I like it. Just warning you that your face is very expressive. Might want to work on that if you’re planning to be subtle about the whole revenge thing.
“Who said anything about subtle?”
Johnson’s ear twitches. Oh, I like you. You’re going to get us both killed, but I like you.
We finish looting—more goblin fangs, some crude weapons to sell, a few pieces of salvageable leather—and head for the exit. The tunnels are empty now, the surviving goblins having fled to whatever dark corners they can find.
Floor 1: cleared.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ DUNGEON CLEAR NOTIFICATION ││ Floor 1 --- Goblin Warrens │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ Status: CLEARED ││ Time: 3 hours, 47 minutes ││ Deaths: 0 (barely) ││ ││ LOOT SUMMARY: ││ --- \[Goblin Fang\] x12 ││ --- \[Mana Shard (Cracked)\] x3 ││ --- \[Tattered Spellbook Fragment\] ││ --- \[Rusty Goblin Knife\] ││ --- \[Goblin Chief's Cleaver\] ││ --- Assorted coins: 47 copper, 8 silver ││ ││ SPAWN RATE REDUCTION: 40% (temporary) ││ Note: Floor will repopulate in 72 hours.
││ ││ "Floor 1 of 10. Only nine more to go.
││ Plus the three that are sealed. ││ So six.
Six more to go. ││ Math is hard when you're covered in blood.
" │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
We emerge from the dungeon into late afternoon sunlight, and I have to stop, blinking, letting my eyes adjust. The farm looks the same—decrepit, overgrown, sad—but the light is different now. Warmer. Almost hopeful.
Or maybe that’s just the blood loss talking.
Johnson hops out behind me and immediately finds a sunny patch of dirt to sit in. He starts grooming, completely ignoring the fact that we’re both covered in gore and probably look like something out of a nightmare.
“I should get cleaned up,” I say. “Go to the village. Let them know the spawn rate’s dropping.”
You should eat something first. You’re shaking.
“I’m fine.”
You’re not fine. You’re running on adrenaline and spite, and both of those are about to crash. Hard. Johnson’s voice is matter-of-fact, almost clinical. Eat. Rest. Then go play hero.
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
I find some stale bread in the cottage—Edrin’s last supplies, barely edible but better than nothing—and force myself to eat while Johnson watches with obvious judgment.
That’s disgusting.
“It’s food.”
It’s a crime against food. When we have money, we’re buying actual provisions. I refuse to associate with someone who eats… that.
“You just ate a goblin’s face.”
That was fresh. There’s a difference.
I finish the bread, wash it down with water that tastes faintly of copper, and check my status.