Strength Based Wizard

Chapter 10

Gate Initiation, Part IV

(Class Struggle)

Fuck me.

I stare at the glowing notification window like it just spat in my face. Seize the Means of Production? Kill the four gobblin superintendents? What the hell kind of sick, leftist-themed, corporate dystopia dungeon is this?

I risk another glance at the gobblins.

Level 3.

I, for the record, am Level 1.

With two useless cantrips.

I barely managed to phase a basic slime. How the hell am I supposed to kill four corporate-goblin-bosses who look like they could sit on me and turn my ribcage into paste?

My first thought? Sneak out. Bail. Get the hell out of here and come back when I actually have a plan. That’s what I would do if this was one of the countless open world RPGs I’ve played in the past. Accidentally stumble into something that seems like it’s a little over your head? That’s fine! Come back to it later after leveling up a few times and picking up some better equipment.

I start to slowly back my way towards the door to the rooftop.

But then—

The timer.

I must've accidentally triggered the mental command and the numbers flare into existence in the bottom right-hand corner of my vision.

12 hours, 6 minutes until Elimination (Culling).

The Gate. I needed to clear the Gate.

I still don’t know what clearing this place actually requires, but what if the gobblins are part of it? What if killing them is the requirement? What if I leave and lose my only chance at this?

Fuck.

Okay. Okay. Breathe.

My hands grip the railing of the balcony as I try to steady myself.

You can’t control the challenges life throws at you, Dad always said, but you can control how you face them.

I take a deep breath. Alright, Dad. Let’s see if I can do you proud.

I force myself to focus, eyes scanning the factory floor, searching for something, anything that could be of use. A way to turn this from a hopeless, unwinnable fight into something I can actually survive.

The gobblins are still giving their bullshit speech, waxing poetic about the joy of being a wage slave. The pukwudgies listen in silence, their expressions blank, their bodies rigid. No one argues. No one fights back. Poor bastards.

I need to move before this little corporate pep talk is over.

Then, my gaze lands on something.

The massive, kettlebell-styled counterweight sitting on the edge of the walkway wrapping around the perimeter of the factory floor. Part of the factory’s pulley system. It’s thick. Heavy. Probably at least forty-five pounds or more of solid iron by the looks of it.

I lick my lips.

My mind jumps back to my poor attempt to slay Jelly Boy. Okay… This could work, I think.

It’s not much of a plan. Hell, it barely qualifies as a plan. But it’s all I’ve got.

I’m gonna do exactly what I tried to do to Jelly Boy—except this time, I’ll be using a much higher height and a much heavier weight.

I’m no expert in physics, but that should help.

I stay low, moving in a crouch as I creep along the balcony. My heart is hammering so hard it feels like it’s trying to jailbreak out of my chest. Below, the gobblins are still droning on about the dignity of hard work and how fulfilling it is to contribute to something greater than yourself—you know, standard corporate cult nonsense.

I reach the kettlebell counterweight and get a closer look. Thankfully, it’s not attached to any rope or chain. If I can drop this right on top of one of those gobblins, that should at least take one of them out.

Alright. No time like the present.

I pull my wand from my Inventory. I focus on the weight and access my spell list. I cast Wizard’s Hand and am met with the haptic sensation at the front of my mind. My mana bar appears on the HUD, but doesn’t drop thanks to the effects of my wand.

A spectral hand—silver, glowing, slightly translucent—appears in the air. I mentally command it to grab the handle of the weight and lift.

It tries. Struggles for a moment and then gives up. Floating limply above the weight as though it were already tired from the effort.

I re-issue my command.

Nothing happens.

The hand just kind of… strains. If a floating ghost-hand could sweat, this one would be dripping.

Ping!

A notification flashes across my vision:

Weight Limit Exceeded.

I grit my teeth. “Oh, for—” I cut myself off before I can yell in frustration. Instead, I take a deep breath.

Okay. Okay. No big deal. The hand has a weight limit. That’s fair. Annoying, but fair. It is only a cantrip, after all.

Another idea strikes me.

I cast Wizard’s Hand again.

A second, separate spectral hand appears. I notice that this one is right-handed, where the first spectral hand was left-handed. Again, my mana bar appears on the System interface but doesn’t budge.

I exhale in relief. Okay. Let’s hope this actually works.

I get both hands into position. They each grab one side of the weight’s handle.

I tighten my grip on the railing and brace myself. This is it.

Lift, damn it!

The hands strain, their edges flickering like bad holograms as they try to haul the kettlebell free.

Ping!

Weight Limit Exceeded.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I hiss under my breath.

Okay. Fine. Whatever. Fuck it.

I cast Wizard’s Hand a third time.

To my surprise, it actually works.

A third spectral hand—this one a second left hand—pops into existence beside the others.

Whump!

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

A pulse rolls through my skull like someone flicked the inside of my brain. A new notification appears:

Cape of the Arcane Student triggered! Daily free Cantrip expended.

[Item will refresh in 23 hours, 59 minutes.]

Huh.

I file that away for later. So normally, I can only summon two hands—a left and a right, which makes sense. But because of my cape, I just cheated my way into a third by expending my one free daily cantrip.

I glance down at the factory floor.

The gobblins are still rambling about the virtue of industriousness and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps while wiping pastry custard from their sagging chins. Man, these guys love the sound of their own voices.

I tighten my grip on the railing.

Okay, assholes.

Let’s see how virtuous you feel after getting pancaked.

The third spectral hand floats over and joins its translucent brethren. I mentally command them, feeling the arcane strain ripple through me. It’s . . . weird. Not like a normal physical effort, but something deeper. Like the mental exhaustion of grinding out one last rep at the gym—if the gym were deep inside my person, like inside my soul. I adjust to the feeling, settling into the strain.

And it’s working.

The kettlebell weight lifts.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the floating hands hoist it off the ground. I grit my teeth, my fingers twitching as if I’m physically gripping the damn thing myself. It drifts forward, passing over the balcony railing.

I do not breathe.

The gobblins below don’t even notice. They’re too busy listening to their peer finish his speech—a bloated, self-congratulatory rant about the “honor of toil” and “the sacred duty of production.” Ugh. Douchebag.

With a satisfied sigh, the gobblin pats his bulging belly, reaches into his waistcoat, and produces another one of those cream-filled pastries.

The pukwudgies freeze.

Their beady eyes lock onto the pastry like starving stray cats who’ve just caught a whiff of a can of tuna. A few of them salivate openly, drool literally dripping onto the floor.

The gobblin takes a moment to bask in the attention. He grins—a horrible, jagged-toothed thing—then widens his mouth to take a massive bite. The three spectral hands are right above the thing, dangling the heavy weight in their grip.

NOW!

I release the spell.

The spectral hands vanish.

The kettlebell plummets.

It slams down onto the gobblin’s head with a wet, crunching explosion.

His fancy top hat is obliterated. His skull shatters like a rotten pumpkin under a sledgehammer. A spray of brain matter rockets outward, splattering across the other gobblins and the horrified pukwudgies.

His fat, lifeless body collapses, twitching.

The pastry flies from his hand, soaring through the air, and lands with a pathetic splat onto the bloodstained factory floor.

I stare.

Holy shit!

I just killed a monster. Successfully.

With magic . . . I think!

The System pulses.

Ding!

You have defeated Gobblin, Level 3.

Level 1 increased to Level 2.

A Gluttony Elemental has been released.

QUEST UPDATE (Seize the Means of Production): 1 of 4 Gobblin superintendents killed.

QUEST UPDATE (Bright-Eyed New Adventurer): 1 of 5 monsters killed (Spell Streak: 1).

I’m elated.

I’m horrified.

I’m also pretty sure the other gobblins just realized what happened.

They turn toward the corpse. Their beady red eyes scan upward.

And then—simultaneously—they all tilt their grotesque heads directly at me.

I’m so screwed.

The pukwudgies scatter like roaches under a kitchen light, skittering into the shadows and trying to create as much distance between them and the three very pissed-off gobblins.

One of them lets out a gut-wrenching, blubbery scream.

“My BOY! Look what you’ve done to my BOY!”

Uh. Okay. I don’t think that was actually its kid, but sure.

Another one snarls, his triple chins quivering.

“You bastard!”

I don’t stick around for the rest. I bolt.

I tear across the steel balcony, boots clanging against the metal. Distance. That’s my advantage. If I keep distance between myself and the gobblins, I can figure out my next move. I might not have much firepower, but at least I’ve got room to think.

Then one of the gobblins moves in a flash.

I see it out of the corner of my eye. The fat bastard sprints toward the walkway railing and leaps like it’s a professional basketball player in the National Basketball Association, clearing the distance between the manufacturing floor and the walkway balcony like it’s nothing.

He’s like a large round, green cannonball with clawed feet. He slams down in front of me, landing hard on the steel walkway. The whole thing shudders beneath his impact.

His jowls jiggle as he glares at me, beady red eyes burning with rage. I skid to a stop. New plan.

I turn and run the other way.

Behind me, I hear the thunderous pounding of gobblin feet as he gives chase. But that’s not the worst part.

The other two? They’re running parallel to me. Down on the factory floor, running side-by-side like some gross version of Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.

They’re keeping pace. And ahead?

Oh, god dammit!

Stairs. They’re heading right for them. The bastards are planning to cut me off and trap me.

An image comes to mind: I’m Pac-Man. They’re the ghosts. And I’m about to get cornered without a power pellet in sight.

My eyes desperately scan the path in front of me and I spot an office door immediately ahead and to my left. I skid to a stop and fling the door open, leaping inside and slamming the door shut behind me. I hit the door hard, practically bouncing off it before throwing all my weight back against it.

BOOM!

The whole thing shudders, hinges screaming, the wooden frame bowing inward as something round, green, and fucking furious hurls itself against the other side.

BOOM!

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw pops. My boots scrape against the floor, trying to find traction. The door bulges against my back, but I hold.

I don’t realize there is a thin pane of frosted glass on the door until it’s too late and the glass shatters in an explosion. A fat, gnarled fist—green as rotten limes, covered in bulbous warts and slick with grease—punches straight through the frosted glass pane. The gobblin’s claws dig into my right shoulder.

“Fuck!”

White-hot agony rips through me. My interface explodes in the upper right corner with a damage notification. A red health bar appears and it begins to plummet.

I convulse against the door, my body’s alarm system firing on all cylinders—but before I can even react, something else happens. My wounds start closing almost as quickly as they had formed. I can feel it. The raw, shredded flesh along my shoulder—knitting back together. It itches, burns, pulls, like a hundred tiny needles stitching me up at lightspeed. I scream in agony at the almost painful, alien sensation.

But just as my brain starts to catch up I’m caught off guard again.

CRASH!

A second hand smashes through the narrow pane on the other side. The claws tear into my other shoulder, attempting to get a good grip on me. Holy fucking hell! The pain is unimaginable.

Both my shoulders are skewered, pinned like a bug in some sadistic biology experiment. My health bar is now dangerously close to empty.

My left hand scrabbles wildly for the lock. My fingers gloss against metal. I feel the lock and fumble desperately to get a hold of it.

Twist. Click.

With the door finally locked, I wrench myself away from the door. The gobblin’s claws rip free from my flesh. The health bar in the top righthand corner of my vision hits rock bottom. The outline of the empty bar blinks rapidly—and instantly, the healing stops.

Blood starts seeping heavily from the wounds. Hot, sticky. Everywhere. My shirt is drenched, dark and heavy against my skin. My head spins, but I grit my teeth and force myself to move.

I’m inside a small office. Four walls, one desk, two chairs—one on either side of the desk. A tiny-ass window that’s too high up to be useful, but at the very least lets in some of the natural light from outside the factory. There’s no way out other than the door that I came through.

I stumble forward, grab a chair, and jam it hard under the door handle.

On the other side of the door, the gobblin screeches in frustration, slamming against the wood with all its bulk. I don’t know how long the chair will hold.

A notification window springs into my vision.

[2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Points?]

I blink it away. Not now, dipshit.

Chest heaving, shoulders screaming, blood soaking through my shirt. Things aren’t looking great for me.

The gobblin outside is still losing its absolute fucking mind. “You bastard, just wait until I get my hands on you!”

The door shudders again. The chair under the handle creaks. A clawed hand reaches through the broken glass pane and scrapes against the door in a desperate attempt to reach the lock, leaving little streaks of my own goddamn blood behind.

I don’t have time. I don’t have a plan. Only a useless spellcaster class.

So, what the hell do I do? What’s my best path to survival? Because that’s all that matters right now. Not the class. Not the quests. Not the goddamn reward upgrade. Regular chest, advanced chest . . . who gives a shit!

I just want to live.

And if I have to fight tooth and nail for that, then I’m fighting with everything I’ve got.

No more half-assing this. No more running. No more panicking. I take a deep breath and try to steady myself. Control what you can. Work with what you’ve got. I can almost hear Dad’s voice.

I summon the System interface with a thought.

Stat points. Strength.

I dump both points into it, pushing my base Strength score from 5 to 7.

The System emits a soft chime, accepting my point allocation.

I don’t feel any different. No rush of power. No surge of strength. No sudden ability—as far as I’m aware—to flip a car or suplex a gobblin through the floor.

I flex my hands. Same hands. Same me. Damn.

I plant my feet and face the door as the wooden frame groans and splinters. The gobblin outside is hitting it like a battering ram, snarling and spitting curses through the shattered pane. Beady red eyes gleam with hate.

Alright, asshole. You want in so bad?

I cock my fist back and throw everything I’ve got into a right-handed jab—straight through the broken window and into the gobblin’s stupid, screaming face.

Crunch.

Something wet and brittle gives under my knuckles as my fist slams into the monster’s face. The gobblin squeals, his head whipping back, red spittle flying from his jagged teeth. It stumbles back, arms flailing.

I kick the chair to the side, yank the lock open, and fling the door wide.

The gobblin is staggering, clutching his busted-up snout, blood dribbling between his stubby fingers. His beady eyes snap up just in time to see me charging full speed. Too late.

I kick the gobblin square in the chest. Wham!

The gobblin flies backward like a sack of lumpy potatoes, slamming into the metal railing with a clang. His stubby arms pinwheel, but gravity wins—and he topples over the edge, screaming all the way down.

I dart forward and look over the railing.

The gobblin hits the factory floor like a busted piñata, limbs splayed. Not dead, though. Still moving, but definitely reconsidering some life choices.

I suck in a breath, chest heaving, adrenaline hammering through my veins.

Then, my attention is pulled away by a guttural snarl.

I whirl, eyes darting to my right.

Two more gobblins. Still on the walkway. Still pissed.

But between them and me?

Jelly Boy.

The blue slime vibrates angrily, pulsing like an overexcited Jell-O mold. The gobblins sneer. One of them lifts a clawed foot, ready to squash him like a roach.

“You little pest,” the gobblin hisses as it slams its heel down towards the slime.