Strength Based Wizard

Chapter 9

Gate Initiation, Part III

(Here, there be gobblins!)

The factory looms ahead, an ugly gray box of a building, squat and industrial, with soot-streaked smokestacks belching into the sky.

Behind it, a forest. A big one. It stretches out so far it might as well be the edge of this world for all I know. The trees look ordinary, like something I’d expect to see at one of the National parks dotting the Midwest back home on Earth.

I don’t see or hear a river, and there doesn’t seem to be any sign of civilization other than the factory. No village, town, or even a single road. Just trees, grass, and one very out-of-place industrial complex.

Which makes me wonder—who the hell builds a factory here?

I don’t see anyone outside. No guards, no workers, no friendly NPCs standing around with exclamation marks over their heads. Just a long row of dirty, narrow windows lining the second floor. I wish these Gates came with a sort of helpful ‘game guide’ or something. I shoot a glance at the blue jelly creature pressed against my hip.

“You don’t happen to be tutorial-style game guide, right?”

The slime didn’t humor me with a response.

“Right.”

I adjust my grip on the slime, still cradled under my arm like a wobbly gelatin football, and carefully approach.

The front doors are massive—easily twice my height—thick slabs of metal reinforced with riveted steel bars. They’re streaked with rust, the paint long since peeled away, leaving behind a patchwork of corrosion. The doors are slightly ajar.

I don’t trust them.

This is a game. Maybe not exactly like one, but close enough that I know better than to walk through the obvious entrance like an idiot. I would likely find myself face-to-face with an entire gang of enemies and I’m not sure this is the type of situation I could talk myself out of.

Instead, I move around the side of the building, scanning for something less… death-trappy.

That’s when I spot the fire escape.

Metal stairs, bolted to the side of the building, leading up to the roof.

Perfect.

I shift Jelly Boy to my other arm and start climbing. The metal groans under my weight, rust flaking off as my boots hit each step. It’s slow going, mostly because carrying a squishy slime one-handed while climbing an ancient fire escape is surprisingly difficult.

By the time I haul myself onto the roof, my arms ache. Good thing it was leg day today.

I stand up and get my first real look at the forest.

It’s even bigger from up here. A sea of dark green stretching out forever, the treetops swaying gently in the breeze.

I take a deep breath.

For a Dead World, it sure doesn’t feel . . . well, dead. Something about the name—and the System’s need to announce it, still doesn’t sit right with me.

I crouch down and place the slime on the roof’s concrete floor.

“Okay, Jelly Boy,” I say, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t run away. And do not jump off the roof. Please.”

He (at least, I’ve been thinking of it as a ‘he’) vibrates.

I have no idea if that’s a yes or a ‘screw you, I do what I want,’ but I choose to believe it’s agreement.

“Thank you,” I say, giving the slime a light pat on the top of its… head?

I scan the rooftop. If there’s a fire escape, then there has to be some way to access the roof from inside. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Bingo! I spot it— a door, just like I was hoping for. Maintenance, emergency exits… whatever the reason, I don’t care. It means I have a way in that doesn’t involve kicking open the giant front doors like an idiot.

I step over to the door. I try the door's handle. The handle turns easily. Unlocked. That’s either a good sign or a terrible one. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being railroaded into taking certain actions.

I ease the door open, careful to shift the slime out of its path with the gentle nudge of my foot. On the other side, I find a short flight of stairs—maybe five steps—leading down into dim light. From beyond, I hear it. The steady clank of metal. The hiss of steam. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of something massive driving an assembly line forward. I’m immediately met with a blast of heat.

And voices. Guttural. Harsh. A mix of barking orders and disgruntled muttering. A busy factory.

I exhale slowly. This is either extremely stupid or exactly what I’m supposed to be doing, I think. I hope it’s the latter.

I take my car keys and wallet out of my coat pocket and slip them into the side pocket of my pants. I then slip out of my coat. The heat radiating from the open doorway would kill me if I had the thick winter layer on. The coat drops to the floor and I release a sigh of relief. Much better!

The slime near my feet curiously bobs around the coat, as if inspecting it. Jelly Boy hops—er, rolls . . . I'm not entirely sure how to describe the slime's movements—from my discarded winter coat to the open door, examining it with a sense of curiosity.

Hunching low, I step inside, keeping my footfalls as light as I can as I descend the steps. The stairwell opens onto a landing, and from there, I see it—an iron balcony that wraps around the entire second floor of the factory, overlooking the manufacturing floor below. The air is thick with smoke and the scent of oil, the space illuminated by the dull glow of industrial lamps and the pulsing embers of a massive furnace. Barely any natural light breaks through the grime-covered windows lining the one side of the factory. Across from the windows, the wrap-around balcony is lined with what looked like office doors.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

And the workers down below? Yeah. Definitely not human. I could see that clearly enough through the smog of the room.

Short, hunched humanoids scurry across the floor, tending to the factory’s endless demands. Some haul crates, others operate crude-looking machinery, and one particularly miserable-looking creature shovels coal into a glowing furnace, sweat running down its broad, flat face. They’re all greenish-skinned and covered in patches of coarse dark hair. They all have pig-like snouts and large, pointed ears that look as though they were pulled straight off of some large species of bat. The creatures all wear similar ragged gray uniforms: long shirts, trousers, cap. No shoes.

I feel a pulsing sensation in my mind. A soft chime, and glowing blue text flickers into existence above one of the worker’s heads.

[Pukwudgie]

[Minor Goblinoid]

[Level 1]

I stare. It stabs me with that same uncanny mix of wonder and dread. It’s going to take me a lot longer to adjust to the stream of text and information. The tech companies back home would kill to get their hands on something like this. I imagine a world where phones have been ditched in favor of brain implants and the almighty System. Is that what this integrated multiverse the Snake Guy had mentioned is like?

I glance down at Jelly Boy, who vibrates in what I assume is quiet excitement. I didn’t even notice the slime following me down the stairs.

Well.

This just got interesting.

I stare down at the slime and place a finger over my lips, indicating to be silent. Jelly Boy pulses twice in response. Yup, still no clue what that means.

The factory floor hums with frantic energy. The pukwudgies move in chaotic coordination, assembling . . . something. From my vantage point on the balcony, I can’t quite tell what. A vehicle, maybe? In any case, it’s some sort of large mechanical device. There are large metal plates, gears the size of my torso, and what looks like an oversized engine block being hoisted into place by a rusted chain pulley. There are other pulleys hanging from the ceiling and some lazily off the balcony, attached to large, unused metal weights that remind me of the kettlebells at my gym. Whatever it is they’re building, it’s big.

I may have stumbled upon the Ford automotive factory of this odd portal world.

In the far corner, a pair of pukwudgies work at a grinding machine, feeding long sheets of metal into its gnashing, mechanical jaws. Sparks shower out like miniature fireworks, bouncing off the grimy floor as the machine devours the steel with a shriek of tortured metal.

Then it happens.

One of the workers steps too close. Maybe he loses focus. Maybe he’s just exhausted. Either way, the grinder catches his sleeve. The machine doesn’t hesitate. It pulls.

The pukwudgie screams.

The wet, visceral crunch is swallowed by the grinding machine’s deafening roar. Blood sprays from the maw of the machine, misting the air in front of it in a gruesome, red haze.

I flinch. My stomach lurches. Jesus Christ.

A loud whistle cuts through the noise.

Everything stops.

Every single machine grinds to a halt in an instant. No slow wind-down, no lingering echoes. Just pure, deafening silence.

The workers freeze in place. No one moves. No one speaks.

Except for the other pukwudgie at the grinding machine. He rushes to his fallen co-worker, dropping to his knees beside the mangled mess that used to be an arm. The injured worker writhes, clutching the bleeding stump, his tiny, pig-rat face contorted in agony. The other pukwudgie fumbles with his uniform, trying to tear off a strip of fabric, but his hands shake too much to do anything useful.

I grip the balcony railing, knuckles white. My heart pounds.

It’s like I’m watching a scene from a goddamned Upton Sinclair adaptation.

A new set of creatures waddle onto the factory floor.

I say waddle because that’s really the only way to describe how they move. There are four of them in total, each about five feet tall, their rotund bellies stretching the fabric of their waistcoats to near bursting. Their skin is a sickly green, covered in warts and patches of something that might be mold. Long, hooked noses hang over their thick lips, and their beady red eyes glisten with something that isn’t quite intelligence, but more like hunger. The new fat goblin-looking creatures are all in full business attire: stiff-collared shirts, waistcoats, and jackets. Two of them even have top hats atop their bald heads. Like the pukwudgies, none of these four have shoes on their clawed feet.

The System pings. And words materialize over each of their heads.

[Gobblin]

[Gluttony Elemental Possessed Minor Goblinoid]

[Level 3]

Gobblin.

With two b’s.

Is that a typo? Did the System just have a stroke?

Then one of them pulls something from his pocket. A pastry. A delicate, flaky thing that looks like it’s stuffed to the brim with something. He shoves the whole damn thing into his mouth in one bite, mouth unhinging like a snake to reveal two rows of sharp, yellow teeth. Custard explodes from the sides, smearing across his warty cheeks, dripping down his triple chin like drool. He smacks his lips loudly, savoring every disgusting second of it.

Nope. Not a typo. Definitely meant to be ‘gobblin.’

The gobblins’ clawed, three-toed feet slap against the concrete floor as they waddle forward. They stop in the center of the room.

The pukwudgies all lower their heads, their tiny bodies going stiff. Even the injured one, still clutching the bloody stump where his arm used to be, goes silent. The only sound is the heavy, wet chewing of the gobblin still working his way through his pastry, swallowing with an audible gluck.

One of the gobblins—one of the top hat-wearing ones—steps forward and lets out a deep, wheezing breath and pats his massive stomach. His massive gut rises like dough left too long to proof, then he opens his mouth.

What comes out is a mess. A thick, wet, garbled noise, like someone trying to speak while gargling a mouthful of gravy. It’s guttural, uneven, slipping in and out of tones that don’t make sense to my ears. My brain fights to process it, but nope—not happening.

Then, like someone smacked an old television, the gobblin glitches

His face twitches, his body stutters mid-motion, flickering like a broken hologram. His voice distorts, stretching and snapping like an audio file that’s been chewed up and spat back out.

And then—

“…the prosperity of our great enterprise relies on each and every one of you…”

English.

Or, more specifically, posh English. The kind of accent you’d expect from a monocle-wearing aristocrat sipping tea out of a cup so thin it might snap in half if you looked at it too hard.

A pulse hits my mind. The System chimes and a notification briefly flashes across my vision.

[Language Integration complete.]

Huh. Neat.

The gobblin—top hat wobbling as he gestures with claw-tipped, sausage-like fingers—continues speaking, his voice oozing with self-importance.

“…the joy of work, dear friends, is in the freedom it grants you! Purpose! Duty! A sacred bond between master and laborer! Why, without the structure of diligent toil, what would we be? Lost! Adrift in a sea of sloth and decay! But you—oh, you fine creatures—you are the beating heart of this great machine! And your service, your sacrifice, does not go unnoticed. The Hand sees all. The Hand knows all. And the Hand appreciates you.”

I squint.

Did I… did I just get dropped into an ultra-capitalist nightmare? This is some bootlicking, company-town, live-in-the-factory-and-pay-your-rent-in-scrip kind of manifesto this thing is starting to spew. I half expect him to start handing out pamphlets about the honor of unpaid overtime. The right to work and all that bullshit.

The gobblins snap their fingers, and a pair of pukwudgies scramble forward.

The injured one—who, let’s not forget, just got his arm ripped off—whimpers as they grab him under the shoulders and start dragging him away. His rat-pig face is twisted in fear, but he doesn’t fight it. He just slumps, defeated.

“Wait, wait! Please, sir!” His voice—now also in English, because I guess the System translated everything—comes out in a panicked, cockney-accented plea. “I need this job! My family—what’re they gonna do now?”

I grip the railing tighter.

Something about this whole scene does not sit right.

The gobblin in the top hat simply shakes his head, clicking his tongue in mock sympathy. “Ah, tragic. But rules are rules. And you, my dear boy, are now . . . inefficient. If you were to be left on the floor, you would be betraying your comrades.”

The factory floor is silent as the pukwudgie is dragged off. His coworkers keep their heads down. No one moves to stop it.

Ding!

A pulse slams into my mind. A glowing notification window pops into existence in front of my face, accompanied by a small chime.

NEW QUEST: Seize the Means of Production.

[Description: Kill the four gobblin superintendents.]

[Reward: An Advanced Adventurer’s Chest (x1). A spell enhancement potion (x1).]