[New Story][The Multiversal Tool Seller of Skyblock]
[Chapter start]
The wooden sign hanging crookedly on the dungeon gate read in big, sloppy letters: {CLOSED}.
I stared at it. My party stared at me.
[Grey]: Too bad. I don't care about this sign.
With one push, the heavy doors groaned open, revealing not the expected yawning chasm of darkness, nor dripping stalactites and piles of bones.
Instead…
We were met with the soft hum of a lullaby. Wooden floors. Tiny chairs. Crayon drawings taped to the walls. A cracked chalkboard that read in messy scrawl: "Sharing is caring."
Dozens of small goblins peeked up from their toys, some holding dolls made of sticks and rags. In the corner, a Lich—yes, a full-blown skeletal archmage in ragged robes—rocked a cradle with surprising tenderness.
[Lich]: …Nap time, children. Remember what we practiced—indoor voices.
One of the goblins sneezed. The Lich snapped its bony fingers, instantly summoning a handkerchief of dark silk.
[Lich]: Gesundheit, my little terror.
Our entire group stood frozen in the doorway.
[Mitsuha]: …This… this is the dungeon?
[Ammar]: …I was expecting lava. At least spikes. Maybe a dragon?
[Grey]: …I… don't know if I'm horrified or impressed.
The goblins started tugging at our clothes, offering us badly drawn pictures. Stick figures, scribbles, and one suspiciously accurate sketch of a man eating pasta.
[Grey]: …Oh no.
[System]: Dungeon Event "The Lich's Daycare" Triggered.
[System]: Warning: Killing anything here will result in [Universal Karma Penalty].
[System]: New Quest Available — "Storytime."
[Lich]: …Ah. Visitors. You're just in time. Would you like to read the children a story, or shall I?
[Grey]: Will...
[One hour later]
The last of our group had slipped out, muttering excuses about "urgent errands" and "definitely-not-traumatized." That left only me, sitting cross-legged on the tiny rug, and Ammar perched on a chair far too small for his size, reading from a battered children's book.
The goblin kids sat rapt, wide-eyed and drooling slightly. Even the Lich was leaning on its staff, listening like a tired schoolteacher.
[Ammar]: …and that is how the goblin killed the hero. The end.
He closed the book with a snap. The room was silent.
One goblin sniffled. Another clapped. A third asked, in a squeaky voice:
[Baby Goblin]: W-was the goblin the good guy?
Ammar scratched the back of his neck.
[Ammar]: Uh… sure? In a morally flexible kind of way.
All of them cheered, like he'd just told the greatest fairy tale of all time.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, suppressing a laugh that would've sounded far too unholy for this daycare.
[Grey]: Great. Just great. You've rewritten morality for an entire generation of goblin toddlers. What's next? Teaching them tax evasion?
The Lich gave me a long, hollow stare.
[Lich]: …If you two would like to stay longer, I could use substitute teachers. Goblins absorb knowledge quickly. Even dangerous knowledge.
Ammar's eyes lit up.
[Ammar]: Oh, I love this dungeon.
[System]: Dungeon Quest Updated: "Become the Goblin's Favorite Teacher."
[Ten hours later]
I regretted everything.
The "lesson plan" had spiraled out of control the moment I answered a simple question about cooking.
Now, a dozen goblins in oversized aprons were marching around with frying pans like they were holy relics, chanting:
[Goblins]: PAPA PIA PROVIDES! PAPA PIA PROTECTS! PAPA PIA PASTA—FOREVER!
Ammar was at the front of the class, dual-wielding chalk sticks like daggers, sketching battle formations on the blackboard.
[Ammar]: And when the hero comes, you strike here, here, and here! Remember—crit the knees first, always the knees!
The Lich was actually applauding, skeletal fingers clicking together like brittle castanets.
[Lich]: Remarkable. In ten hours, you've turned these goblins into a… religious militia. This is the fastest indoctrination I've ever witnessed.
I buried my face in my hands.
[Grey]: …I just wanted to raid a dungeon. Do not create the next goblin holy empire.
A tiny goblin tugged on my sleeve, holding up a crayon drawing of me with wings, surrounded by pasta bowls.
[Baby Goblin]: M-Mama Pia… can you bless my spaghetti?
The room froze. Ammar choked on laughter. The Lich tilted its head, fascinated.
[System]: WARNING! New religion forming: [The Spaghetti Crusaders]. Estimated time until spread beyond the dungeon: 18 minutes.
[Grey]: …I'm going to kill Ammar. Slowly. With a ladle.
I stared at the Lich while the little goblins giggled, clutching tiny wooden ladles like relics.
[Lich]: I can't thank you enough. They're happier than the first time they ate a live adventurer… or when Uncle Demon taught them to skin someone properly. Lovely, wholesome memories. Their parents? Ripped to pieces and reforged into armor and weapons — just yesterday. Advertisers got in early this season.
The words landed wrong, like a note played slightly out of tune.
Advertisers? I blinked. The Lich's smile never wavered; its hollow eyes were honest and terrible at the same time.
I tried to remember the rumor mill: the dungeon had been closed for more than a month, villagers swore. If the goblins really were "a day old," they wouldn't be infants — they'd be running, crawling, brawling, bearded, and feral. If the place had been closed for a month, they'd be seasoned small tyrants with scars and stories.
Something in the sequence stank.
I looked at the smiling Lich. I looked at the goblins. The timelines didn't line up. The Lich's "yesterday" didn't mean what a human calendar meant. The room felt wrong in a way you only notice when you've eaten raw stars and survived the aftertaste.
I grabbed Ammar by the sleeve.
[Grey]: We leave. Now.
He looked at me, startled, then at the Lich and the children.
[Ammar]: But — they like us. They—
[Grey]: They're bait. If we wait to find out what for, they'll eat the bait and the hook.
Ammar went pale but moved. We backed toward the door, stepping carefully over crayon prayers and tiny, hopeful eyes. The Lich gave a soft, lilting chuckle that sounded like pages turning in a volume of bad decisions.
[Lich]: Go. Take your bread and salt. If you return, tell the children more stories. If not… We'll keep their memory warm.
We slipped out and down the corridor.
Outside the dungeon mouth, the air smelled almost normal — salt, tar, and seagulls fighting over discarded bread. Almost.
[Ammar]: My lady… are you okay?
[Grey]: No. Which means we're doing something right. Come on, Ammar — let's head east. Battlefront camp.
The carriage ride was mercifully silent, except for Ammar nervously flipping a knife between his fingers. The closer we got, the louder the camp's chaos rose: shouting, drums, the metallic stench of sweat, and far too much laughter for a battlefield staging ground.
When we finally rolled into the camp… I wished we hadn't.
I could try to describe the names floating over people's heads, but most looked like someone smashed their keyboard while drunk. To give you a taste, the most normal ones were things like [H####rfavoritejew], [P##oPope], and [M#####7$]. The rest? Unreadable curse words that sounded like they'd crash the filter system just by existing.
[Grey]: …No. I refuse. I'm not saying these names out loud.
We stepped into the main thoroughfare just in time to witness… a man being whipped with a leather strap.
Ammar and I both took three steps back.
The whip-holder raised a hand apologetically.
[SlaveMaster]: Stop! Stop—sorry you had to see that. Context. Jeff here rolled a Slave Warrior class. And, uh… when someone has SlaveMaster as their main, and the skill {Teach Slave}, it actually… boosts them. Damage, defense, the works. It's the system, not me.
The man on the ground looked up, bruised, smiling with a lunatic glint.
[Jeff the Slave Warrior]: +15% Strength, baby. Do it again!
The whip cracked. Jeff cheered.
Ammar gave me a side-eye so sharp it could've cut silk.
[Ammar]: ..Your world, my lady. Your rules.
[Grey]: …Don't you dare blame this on me. This is exactly why I avoid the east front.
Somewhere deeper in the camp, a gong rang. Players swarmed toward the noise, weapons gleaming with enchantments, banners snapping in the smoke-heavy wind.
And above it all, the camp's system notification blared:
[System]: New Event — "Battle of the Slag Plains."
Reward: Glory, XP, Loot… and Survival (optional).
I exhaled, pinched the bridge of my nose, and muttered the words I always regret:
[Grey]: …Let's see what kind of mess they're calling a war this time.
[Chapter end]
[Sorry for the short chapter]