Here it is. The moment I’ve been moving toward my whole life. My body trembled—not from fear, but from exhilaration, from the anticipation of what was about to happen. The smell of gunpowder, the hiss of a fuse. The ringing in my ears from the explosions that had already torn through the air.

  Like any sentient being (or something close to that) in their final moments, time slowed for Smyslok. The life of a goblin was rarely complicated—perhaps because of its brevity. Birth—existence at society’s bottom—death. The chain was so short and dull that, long ago, one goblin decided at least one link in it should bring maximum pleasure. So he blew himself up. Just like that—yes.

  Some theorize that our world began with a big bang, but there’s no theory about how the goblin world ends—with the same bang. Yes, they might be overly loyal to tradition.

  This view of life allows for considerable freedom. If you’ve got even one stick of dynamite in your pocket, you can do whatever you want. Because no matter what happens, it’ll all end exactly the way you want it to.

  Smyslok, a young, exemplary goblin, had already done everything a respectable goblin should do: violated an elf maiden, defecated in glass jars (every now and then, an adventurer rummaging through a goblin camp finds an unusual yellow potion and gets to discover its effects firsthand), acquired a wife and children, and, of course, wrapped his body in a generous supply of dynamite. And now, the final touch. The last, beautiful, and most important stroke of the brush on the canvas of his life: the explosion.

  A week ago, his parents blew up. The old, classic goblin trick with a chest on the road. All goblins love it. Sitting in the chest is a great honor, reserved for the oldest goblins in the camp. This time, it was Smyslok’s father. They celebrated all night when the squad left with the chest, and when they learned that adventurers stumbled upon it and wiped out the entire squad, they partied for an entire day.

  Everyone congratulated him; the whole family gathered, drinking dubious alcohol from barrels, laughing, and, of course, sharing a bit of good-natured, familial envy.

  And then, those same adventurers, driven by revenge for their obliterated companions, tracked down the main camp and attacked under cover of night. The settlement was ablaze, hysterical goblin laughter echoed from every direction. Smyslok’s wife and children blew up almost immediately. A tall, slightly scrawny adventurer hadn’t expected each member of the goblin brood to have their own stick of dynamite.

  Smyslok and his brother charged at the surviving adventurer. The fuses on their dynamite vests were already ablaze. Nesmyslok (he was the younger one—goblins dislike name confusion) jumped first. The adventurer quickly raised a hand. The brother slammed into an invisible wall mid-air, and there was a deafening explosion. Green blood splattered both Smyslok and the adventurer. Both staggered. No time left.

  Smyslok leapt. Just a few more inches, and he’d grab onto the iron breastplate. The explosion would be immense—neither of them would survive. In that moment, he was elated. A few paltry seconds more, and he would die. And what comes next would, of course, be better. He’d see his entire family, all his ancestors. A slew of bound elf maidens to violate as much as he pleased, alongside his brother, father, and little son. A tear of joy rolled down his cheek. They say a goblin can only be this happy right before an explosion.

  He slammed into the adventurer’s armor, clutched at it, and gazed into the man’s eyes with pure, unbridled happiness. In those eyes, he saw frozen terror.

  That was something he’d never understand. Fighting and fearing death? Goblins considered that unnatural.

  Once, when Smyslok was young, he walked through the camp with his father. They heard a woman’s scream and followed the sound. It was a scouting party returning with loot: sacks of supplies for the camp, pistols, and the source of the noise—an elf maiden.

  “Papa, why is she screaming? It doesn’t sound like us.”

  His father crouched down, wrapping an arm around his son’s shoulders.

  “She’s screaming from fear, son. From terror. She’s afraid of us, afraid of death. She’s not like us. They care about their soft, pleasant-smelling skin. But we live only until we can make a grand exit, slamming the door loud and hard. Remember, son, a real goblin only screams out of pleasure.”

  Those words etched themselves into Smyslok’s heart forever. And so did what happened to the elf maiden afterward.

  Humans and their ilk constantly delay their deaths, dreaming of passing quietly in their beds. No. We goblins are different. We only scream from joy.

  “MGAAA-AAa-AAa-AAAH!” Smyslok roared, victorious over life. He lived as he had promised his father. A cry of joy and happiness rang out across the battlefield.

  And nothing happened.

  “Mgaa-aa…?”

  The last thing Smyslok remembered was the heavy metal gauntlet slamming into his face. His fingers loosened their grip on the armor, and he was flung aside.

  What happened next was every goblin’s nightmare after such a battle. Smyslok opened his eyes. The sun shone down on his face as he lay like a ragged doll beneath a tree. Forcing himself up, he saw his hands, slick with green blood. Blood that wasn’t his.

  Everything came rushing back. Charging alongside his brother toward a glorious death, only to be shamefully thrown aside like a puppy unworthy of licking milk from the bowl.

  Smyslok shot to his feet. The camp around him was in ruins. All the tents were burned, his comrades and family dead.

  “Perfect ending! Why am I still alive?” He inspected himself frantically.

  Every stick of dynamite on his body had a fuse, all intertwined into one large one. And it was drenched in dried blood.

  “Blood… It doused the fuse… This can’t be! You’re all dead, and I’m here. Alone. What am I supposed to do?!” His words grew louder, tinged with something foreign to his voice: sorrow.

  Never in his life, not since birth, had Smyslok felt this way. If goblins had any form of education or saw books as more than kindling, Smyslok might have realized he was grieving the loss of his loved ones. But he was a goblin. A goblin who only screamed out of pleasure.

  So he made a logical goblin conclusion. He felt this way because he lacked explosives. Always, he had something to blow up, and always, he felt good.

  The melancholy goblin stripped off the soggy, blood-soaked dynamite belt. He surveyed the burned camp. With a kind smile at the remains of his tribe, he set off to find a door to slam louder.

  A long, endlessly stretching road. For the first time in his life, Smyslok was so far from home. Without dynamite. He felt utterly defenseless and hollow. What would happen to him if he died not in battle? Would he never see his family again? Where would he end up if he were to suddenly get crushed under the wheels of a wagon racing down the road?

  That would hardly count as “slamming the door.” If he was lucky, the wagon might veer off the road and crash into a nearby tree. The kerosene lamp would shatter, sparking a fire. The entire crew would perish, and a lone wheel would dramatically roll out of the blazing wreckage. Yes, that would resemble a proper ending.

  But no, it still wouldn’t count as slamming the door because it wasn’t intentional. At most, it would qualify as a slight draft closing a window.

  The scariest part of all this was the fact that he was even thinking about it. It terrified Smyslok to the core. The thoughts wouldn’t leave his head, piling up layer by layer.

  It was too much. A self-respecting goblin wasn’t supposed to act like this. In fact, goblins despised thoughtful individuals even more than those who freed captured elf girls out of pity.

  But how could one halt the thinking process, especially when it happened for the first time? Smyslok could feel himself spitting on age-old traditions and the entire legacy of his people.

  He stopped, filled his lungs with air, and slowly released it. The last thing he wanted now was to disgrace the camp’s honor. Thinking? What’s next? Bathing and getting a job? Though the latter might also go against the concept of “thinking.”

  The small stone he had been kicking down the road for over an hour began to bounce slightly. His green, pointed ears twitched, trying to catch a sound. In the distance, the clatter of many hooves reached his ears. Someone was trotting briskly down the road.

  Once, like any young goblin, Smyslok dreamed of joining the scouting unit of his camp. Recruitment happened almost weekly. Everyone in the settlement would gather to welcome back the heroes who roamed forests and villages beyond their walls. He remembered the joy on families’ faces when a goblin scout returned with a worthy haul—and their even greater happiness when one didn’t return at all.

  Little Smyslok had also dreamed of disappearing one day, vanishing in a noble fight for a sack of grain. Those who did return would gather around the campfire at night, clutching a hard-earned crate of ale, and recount wondrous tales of the outside world. It was from these tales that all young goblins learned how the universe worked beyond their tiny palisaded world.

  From those same tales, Smyslok knew that if someone was racing down the road, it was time either to hide in a chest thoughtfully placed in the middle of the path or to take cover in the bushes and shoot at the passersby with everything you had.

  He darted toward the bushes but froze in mid-stride, paralyzed with fear. He had nothing to fight with. No one had ever taught him what to do without dynamite—or even a weapon. He could try leaping onto one of the horses, biting its leg as hard as he could. That would surely cause it to rear, tangling the reins and sending the presumably old driver tumbling off his seat. The man would hit his head and lose consciousness. Then Smyslok could snatch a pistol from the man’s belt and show what a lone, desperate goblin could do.

  When you do something for the first time, it’s hard to track the passage of time. A first kiss on a pleasant winter evening feels like it lasts only a moment until you start walking home and realize some of your toes might only remain as memories.

  It was the same for Smyslok. For the first time in his life, he plunged so deeply into his thoughts that a plan began to form. This might have been a historic moment for his entire tribe. If it had happened just a couple of weeks earlier, he might have changed everything for the better—ending hunger and cannibalism, heralding an era of prosperity. Or he might have been exiled as a heretic. And eaten.

  In this chaotic storm of thoughts, Smyslok felt as though mere seconds had passed, but in reality, the carriage had already drawn up and stopped right in front of him.

  “Hey! You there! Are you alone?”

  Smyslok’s heart raced. How was this possible? Just a second ago, they hadn’t even been on the horizon. This wasn’t right. It defied all… it definitely defied something.

  The goblin slowly turned and looked at the figure that had pulled him from his mental whirlwind. Sitting on the driver’s seat was not an old man but a dark-haired human male. He held a rifle pointed squarely at Smyslok with both hands.

  No chance of reaching the horse now. The leap was too far, and if he started running, he’d be shot on the spot. The man’s marksmanship somehow didn’t seem questionable. The carriage would roll on its way, and Smyslok would never see his family again, dying a dishonorable death. What good was thinking then?

  Time wasted, and his situation had only worsened. This was definitely punishment for rebelling against his nature. The ancestors were punishing him for thought crimes.

  “Boy, when you’re asked a question like that, you’d better answer quickly,” the man said, giving the rifle two gentle taps.

  “Uh… y-yeah…” Every fiber of Smyslok’s being screamed at him to shout something nonsensical and charge at the man, but something else in his mind kept him rooted to the spot, answering honestly.

  Rarely did goblins have anything in their heads beyond the weapons that had killed them.

  “You sure? Boy, I’m not joking. If this is an ambush, you’ll all be dead before I even get down from here,” the man lazily adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. “But judging by your silence and lack of movement, this isn’t an ambush. Shame. What a shame. What kind of world is it where goblins on the road stop to chat with you? This world’s going straight to hell.”

  “Loli, my friend, let him in,” came a voice from within the carriage.

  When Smyslok tried to catch a glimpse of the speaker, the small gap in the curtains quickly closed.

  You know the face babies make when they taste lemon for the first time? That’s exactly how Loli looked upon hearing those words. He said nothing, simply placed the rifle beside him, pulled his hat lower over his eyes, and stared straight ahead.

  “Don’t be afraid, goblin friend, come on in. We’ll give you a lift,” the voice from the carriage said again.

  In just a day, Smyslok had gone from eating disgraced comrades to sitting in a carriage with strange humans, heading to who-knows-where.

  The opulence inside the carriage, which Smyslok glimpsed when he hesitantly pulled the handle (and not because he was unsure of what he was doing, but because he had never before touched a carriage handle), would have overwhelmed any creature in his place.

  The goblin surveyed the small wheeled chamber with a practical eye, unable to fathom why so many materials were being wasted so pointlessly. The sofa’s upholstery (silk) could be turned into sleeping bags or tents, though it didn’t look very durable. Numerous plush squares (velvet cushions) were beyond any practical goblin use—except perhaps as deconstructed components for backpacks to gather firewood.

  The entire interior was lined with red fabric and wood inlaid with intricate designs. Such craftsmanship amazed even goblins. No matter your education level—or even your ability to speak—any creature could marvel at something well-made by hand.

  The owner of the voice, who had promised to “give him a lift,” turned out to be a young human man with long golden hair tied into a braid. He was adjusting clothes that matched the carriage’s lavish décor perfectly.

  “Ah, there you are! Sit down quickly. You must be tired of wandering alone along the road. Care for some wine? Ale? Everything else is, unfortunately, gone—been on the road for a week, after all. Hey, Loli, what are you waiting for? Let’s go!” The blonde man rapped the carriage ceiling with his cane, and it began to move.

  “Well then, will you have a drink? I’m sure you have a fascinating life story. How could you not? You’re a goblin! You’ll want to wet your throat before sharing your tale with a fellow traveler. And what better setting than watching the trees blur by the window?” The man made himself comfortable and fixed his comet-like glowing eyes on the goblin.

  Smyslok sat down on the sofa, which was so soft that for a few moments, he feared he might sink straight through the bottom of the carriage. When the fear of drowning in silk upholstery left his heart, he took the offered bottle of ale, popped the cork, and began to drink.

  “Wow! Straight from the bottle! Of course, my friend, don’t hold back—you must be parched from the endless road,” the man said, pouring wine into a glass and taking a few small sips. “What’s your name? And why are you wandering alone along the road?”

  Smyslok pulled the bottle from his lips, and drops of ale dripped down his neck onto the silk. Goblins rarely wiped their faces—it was a given that their hands were always dirtier than their faces. Using cloth? That would surely get you eaten.

  “Smyslok.” The fifteen gulps of ale seemed to restore some of the confidence he had lost without dynamite. “Name’s Smyslok. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Vern. A pleasure to meet you, Smyslok,” he replied, extending a hand with a leisurely motion. Smyslok hesitated for a moment before handing Vern the ale bottle.

  “Ahem… So what were you doing on the road? “

  “Walking.“

  Vern smiled knowingly and handed the goblin the bottle of ale.

  “And where are you headed, my friend Slyshlok? “

  “I’m looking for a door I can slam louder than any other. “

  “A door to slam louder? Now, that’s intriguing. Is it a riddle? A code? Some goblin deity? Wait, wait! Don’t tell me—I want to figure it out myself. I love puzzles like these“, Vern leaned back, wrapping a strand of his hair around his finger with practiced intensity.

  Slyshlok was devouring everything he deemed edible with a silver fork—not the one he had pocketed earlier, but another. The food was a chaotic mix: cheese skewered with tiny wooden sticks, strangely boiled eggs, and other oddities on separate plates. Goblins typically tossed all their food into a giant cauldron and boiled it until the senior cook declared the stew ready. The method for determining readiness was a closely guarded secret, passed from one senior cook to the next.

  Once, several years ago, their senior cook suddenly passed away, leaving the entire settlement on the brink of starvation.

  “A door… An anagram for ‘door’ is… hmm, ‘rood’? Slam… crash… louder… cacophony? Are you searching for a crash-louder cacophony? “

  “Mmph“, Slyshlok, mouth stuffed with food and eyes filled with confusion, stared at Vern.

  “So that’s wrong, then. What kind of door are you looking to slam louder, and why here, in the middle of an empty road“

  Vern studied the goblin closely. He wasn’t interested in the fork sticking out of the creature’s pocket or the food-filled mouth. Years of traveling the trade routes had taught him that those who spouted such nonsense were often the best antidotes to boredom. At the same time, he knew he would inevitably regret inviting a lone, unknown traveler into his carriage. Thus, his hand remained firmly gripping the pistol hidden beneath his seat.

  “I’m looking for a worthy death. One worthy of a goblin. That’s what my old man said about that door. Every goblin must leave this world with dignity. That’s why we’re here“, Slyshlok washed down his meal with the last of the ale.

  Vern tried to swallow the lump in his throat as quietly as possible. This time, the game promised to be particularly interesting.

  He was a merchant in the twelfth generation.

  You could say he was fighting centuries of inherited boredom. In any fragment of the multiverse, you’ll find a jaded wealthy soul risking everything for a fleeting sense of vitality. The lower classes look on in bewildered judgment, and rightly so. How could anyone gamble their life for a brief thrill when they already have everything?

  Vern understood this. What he couldn’t comprehend was how the creature sitting across from him—clumsily poking at a canapé—could so easily resign itself to death.

  The goblin hadn’t experienced, seen, or understood even a fraction of what Vern had in his lifetime, yet already seemed certain he was ready to die. And the most absurd part was that this crude, green lump of flesh could potentially take Vern’s life in the process. The thought made Vern’s hand tremble, gripping the pistol tighter against his sweaty palm. But oh, the thrill! If a fight broke out, within five seconds, Lolly’s rifle would appear through the hatch above, seeking its next victim. But in situations like these, five seconds could feel like an eternity. Whatever happened, Vern would fire first.

  “And… ahem, do you have any ideas about your door? “Vern asked, his voice calm, but his eyes darting nervously over the goblin. Visibly unarmed, tattered clothing unlikely to conceal anything…

  His gaze flitted from the goblin’s hands to its legs, its body, and head, then back again. Goblins were utterly unpredictable—they could do anything at any moment.

  “No ideas so far, Slyshlok mumbled through a mouthful of half-chewed food. “Hey, what’s this thing? “

  “That’s a canapé, Vern replied, forcing the words out. What game is this goblin playing? Asking about canapés? Does he take me for a fool? Thinks I’ll let my guard down and miss something. No, I’ve been in this game far too long to fall for that. “So, you just wander along the roads, waiting for a fitting moment to die? Moments have to be created, my friend. Those who rely on fate or some higher power to handle things for them never die as they wish.“

  A faint smile spread across Vern’s face. A simple manipulation, a call to action: Now or never. Why overcomplicate things when playing against a goblin?

  “Create moments? Slyshlok’s eyes glazed over“ not from drink but from the start of another thought process. “You’re saying I need to create, not find, the door I want to slam? “

  “If that analogy resonates with you, then yes. You need to create the door. Otherwise, you’ll end up slamming whichever one you find.“

  The carriage raced down the road. Darkness had fallen, and through the windows, shadowy outlines of trees and distant hills flashed by. Inside the carriage, fiery dancers performed on their slowly melting wax stage.

  A bead of sweat slid down Vern’s forehead, rolling to the tip of his nose before beginning its endless descent toward the red silk below. This was its grand finale. Its explosion.

  “Is there a weapon in here somewhere? Slyshlok asked quietly, almost in a whisper, setting down his fork.“ I can smell gunpowder anywhere.

  Time froze for Vern. He knows everything. He’s seen through me from the start and has been playing me this entire time. From the moment he stepped into the carriage, he knew I had a weapon. And he’s been eating and drinking with his enemy so casually.

  Feigning foolishness… but in reality, this is the most dangerous enemy I’ve ever faced. I won’t have time to call for Lolly, nor will I aim properly—sweat blinds my eyes. To hell with it. With goblins, you fight goblin-style. I’ll just fire in every direction. I refuse to die anonymously!

  With lightning speed, he pulled out his pistol and aimed it toward the green blur. His finger tightened on the trigger. His other hand quickly wiped sweat from his eyes.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  …but Slyshlok was peacefully asleep on the seat across from him.

  “Idiot.“

  A large, spacious tent. Nearly the entire camp was gathered. It had been a fantastic catch, and the head cook had been delighting everyone with delicious stew for three days straight. Warmth. Not just in the tent or outside, but simply… simply warmth.

  Everyone experiences such moments in life. A mayfly at sunset — both of the day and its life — might remember moments when it simply felt warm. How it joyfully flew over a field of flowers or perched on the trunk of a giant tree during a rainstorm (if it happened to be a melancholic mayfly by nature).

  Everything around Smyslok was smiling at him. Not anyone in particular, nor everyone all at once — it was life’s energy itself that smiled at him.

  A loud clap. One after another, claps began to ring painfully in the goblin’s ears. These were gunshots.

  Normally, gunfire in the camp signified something positive: an attack, the approach of death, a suicidal explosion — all the joys of goblin life. But something was off this time. Each shot hammered his head; the whistle of bullets sliced the air. The world around Smyslok began to melt; everything quickly ceased to smile.

  And he opened his eyes.

  Across from him sat Vern, with a nearly empty bottle of wine and a gaze quite unlike how he used to look at the goblin. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

  Shots rang out again. Smyslok instinctively covered his head.

  “You woke up, huh? Why’re you covering your head? Weren’t you the one so eager for a glorious death?” Vern’s voice carried a hollow tone as his gaze passed right through the goblin. He wasn’t really in the carriage at that moment.

  “A stray bullet isn’t what I’d choose. I’ll create my own door. That’s more my style,” Smyslok rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What’s happening?”

  “My advice is popular with goblins now!” Vern laughed. “Maybe I should open a counseling center.”

  Another round of shots interrupted his sarcasm.

  “Loli’s dealing with the bandits.”

  The goblin shifted uncomfortably closer to the window. Dawn was just beginning to break outside. The twilight of early morning, paired with the flashes of gunfire, illuminated the battlefield. On the frost-covered ground lay dead men.

  Some clutched weapons in their hands or sank into pools of blood illuminated by torchlight. Honestly, it was hard to call this a battle. “Slaughter” fit much better.

  Never before had Smyslok watched a fight from the sidelines without taking part. He looked at the fallen bandits with envy. They had created their own door and slammed it with all the dignity they could muster, falling together in combat.

  That option no longer suited him. It was one thing to die fighting shoulder to shoulder with comrades, another to recklessly charge at someone alone.

  Goblins never fought without purpose. Every battle was for their place in the world, their identity. A logic incomprehensible to other races — and, likely, to goblins themselves — somehow actually carved out a niche for goblins in the world.

  Great heroes whose names echoed through cities, newspapers, and books, slayers of dragons, immortal vampires, and giants, often met their end or became cripples after encountering a squad of goblins.

  You could sharpen a stake to face a vampire. Forge a legendary shield from dragon scales to face a dragon. Build stilts, and… well, you get the idea.

  But nothing could prepare you for a creature wrapped in dynamite, firing wildly, and thirsting for death.

  A dragon fought for its gold. A vampire, for its eternal life. A giant… does anyone even know what giants are after?

  A goblin, however, fought to grab you by the leg and explode into atoms.

  The main tactic on the roads was simple: if there was any hint of goblins nearby, you ran without looking back.

  Hundreds of tons of written guides sold under flashy slogans like “10 Easy Ways to Kill a Goblin” or “Helpful Tips for the Road” turned out to be utterly useless in practice.

  Sure, the well-known chest trick was a goblin favorite, but it was far from the peak of their ingenuity. Lately, newspapers had been buzzing about goblins of a “new creed.” They operated on the principle, “Since I’m going to die anyway, I should make the most of it.”

  There were increasing reports of goblins launched by slingshots between two trees, or drenched in kerosene, leaping onto carts from trees and igniting themselves. The people called this the “Goblin Cocktail.”

  The final rifle shot from Loli rang out. A minute later, he was back in his seat, and the wagon moved on.

  “Damn, you gotta envy these guys!” Smyslok moved away from the window and slumped back into the spot where he’d fallen asleep.

  Vern was finishing another glass. Two empty wine bottles stood on the table.

  “What? Who?” The Wheat-haired man’s bleary eyes fixed on the goblin.

  “Those guys, of course! To die like that! In the predawn forest, fighting with friends for a common cause!”

  “You mean to croak like a pack of fools, lose to one guy with a rifle, and rot in frost until wild animals scatter your remains by evening? That’s what you can ‘only envy’?” Vern lit a cigarette. “If that’s your dream, I take back my words about creating your door.”

  “What does it matter how they lost? They died giving it their all, doing what they were meant to do!” Smyslok stared into Vern’s tired face. “They weren’t sitting in a cozy carriage watching it all from a window. They were making their door!”

  “That wasn’t creating a door; it was spitting on the toil of thousands of generations that brought them into this world,” Vern yawned and shifted into a more comfortable position. “No, goblin, there’s nothing noble in such a death. Charging into battle because you can’t find another way to get food or money is just pitiful. A pathetic death of a loser.”

  These words set the neural gears in Smyslok’s head spinning.

  “A pathetic death?”

  His goblin nature couldn’t grasp it. For goblins, there was no such thing as a pathetic death. For them, nothing was pathetic at all.

  Why, then, didn’t he charge at Loli now? A noble death exists, but a pathetic one doesn’t? There can’t be white without black. There’s only death. It’s always the same, whether you meet it in battle with comrades or in bed, surrounded by family.

  In that case, all his life’s beliefs were hollow? And no matter how you slam the door, it’ll close silently for everyone else.

  Smyslok said nothing. There was no point—Vern was already snoring loudly in his seat.

  Smyslok felt feverish. Even in times of illness, he had never entertained such thoughts.

  Memories began surfacing. Once, it seemed, he had seen a goblin go through something similar.

  Old Goblin Zhyga was responsible for the campfire in the settlement, keeping it burning and ensuring it never went out. Zhyga never joined battles, raids, or anything of the sort. He didn’t socialize with other goblins and simply fulfilled his fire-keeping duties.

  The children always teased him for living to old age, and the adults threw suspicious glances his way whenever he passed by.

  One day, a rumor spread through the settlement that old Zhyga was reading books in his tent and engaging in strange activities. Father Smysslok was furious. He immediately gathered some men and went to search Zhyga’s tent.

  But in the end, they found nothing.

  However, if not for the massive bonfire Zhyga lit that evening, Smysslok might not have remembered that day at all. The flames soared as high as six goblins.

  Some time later, Zhyga fell seriously ill. They said his body couldn’t withstand his age—it was unnatural for a goblin to live that long.

  When someone in the village gets sick, younger goblins take turns watching over the patient. They don’t do much—goblin medicine insists that pampering the body with treatments only makes it weaker and prone to constant illness.

  So, the young goblins sit with the sick to fulfill their last wishes—like wrapping them in dynamite, helping them into the woods, and lighting the fuse.

  That evening, it was Smysslok’s turn to sit with Zhyga. The old goblin was burning with fever and constantly asked for water. He also brewed some herbs but didn’t eat the plants—he only drank the water they were boiled in.

  Smysslok dozed off in a chair near the sickbed. The tent was always eerily empty. Items were oddly arranged, and what puzzled Smysslok most was that Zhyga always put things back exactly where he’d taken them. Everything about Zhyga was strange.

  A harsh coughing fit woke Smysslok. He jumped up and handed the old goblin a cloth. When Zhyga pulled it away from his face, it was stained with blood.

  “No, not like this. Not here, not this way,” the old goblin propped himself up on one elbow, quickly scanning the room. “Hand me that vial of dark water. On the table, to the left.”

  Smysslok obediently complied.

  “Blood on the cloth… Congratulations, Zhyga. Your time’s almost up. Have you decided how you want to go out? I can start preparing if you want,” Smysslok said, his face breaking into a cheerful grin.

  But the smile wasn’t returned.

  Zhyga downed the liquid in a single gulp and fixed his gaze on Smysslok.

  “You think this is funny? Then again, ‘thinking’ and you don’t mix,” the sick goblin sat up, rubbing his temples.

  “Uh… I don’t get it,” Smysslok stammered, caught off guard.

  It always happens when you’re made to sit with someone or do some other boring task, and everything starts going off-script.

  “Have you ever truly understood anything? Ever looked in the mirror and fully realized who stood before you? I’m sure that’s never happened. Easier to think you’re just a walking stick of dynamite. Perhaps self-destruction is the pinnacle of goblin philosophy. But what’s an explosion if there’s no meaning behind it?” Zhyga was now sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots. “Answer me!”

  “Uh… An explosion has… uh… an enemy behind it, someone we’re blowing up,” Smysslok searched desperately for an escape.

  Zhyga slipped on the other boot, straightened up, and locked eyes with the young goblin.

  “And who’s the enemy?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Didn’t expect a different answer,” Zhyga sighed strangely. “I’m feeling really unwell, boy. That’s why I’m spouting nonsense. Bring an old goblin some dynamite sticks, and we’ll start the preparations.”

  Smysslok’s face lit up. Not wanting to miss the chance to leave, he nodded and dashed out. It didn’t even occur to him how strange and unsafe it was that there wasn’t any dynamite in the tent.

  When the young goblin returned, the tent was empty.

  No one in the camp knew what old age looked like for goblins, so they decided he had wandered off alone into the woods to die, as some animals do. Zhyga was never seen again.

  Had he ever truly understood himself, looking into his reflection? Who was the enemy?

  Smysslok struggled to breathe—not because of the wine fumes and sweat in the carriage but because he realized Zhyga hadn’t been spouting the delirium of a dying goblin.

  Had he felt something similar in his youth? That terrible feeling of looking at someone and being sure you’d never become like them. Never old, weak, lonely, or a village outcast. You’d go out in a blaze of glory, and the whole village would dance, celebrating your grand departure.

  But now here he was, sitting in a carriage with a human, not even trying to attack him.

  Humans were supposed to fear him, not fall asleep as if he were nothing.

  Was he becoming like Vern? Like Zhyga? No! This had to end—this horrible, miserable life!

  “Well, here we are, buddy! The city! Finally, I can take a good bath,” Vern tossed his cigarette to the ground and politely stamped it out. “Then it’s straight to work on this festival. Say, did I behave decently last night? Might’ve gone overboard with the wine.”

  “Everything was… fine. So this is the city,” Smysslok muttered. “Why so much stone?”

  Vern grinned, raising a hand as if to pat Smysslok on the shoulder, but stopped short.

  “Yup! The pinnacle of engineering. A treasure trove of opportunities. The grand and dreadful city! But now I’ve got to go,” Vern hopped back into the carriage. Loli spurred the horses onward. “Good luck with the door, goblin!”

  Smysslok watched as the carriage disappeared behind a corner, kicking up a cloud of dust. Everything around him was made of stone. He’d heard of stone buildings before, but such wide pathways, also paved with stone, raised many questions.

  The whole concept of a sedentary lifestyle never appealed to goblins. First, staying in one place made it easy for goblin hunters to find them. Second, goblins loved to think everything belonged to them. What could be better than camping by a mountain lake? Fishing, swimming (but not washing), hunting. Then, a couple of weeks later, moving wherever they pleased. True freedom.

  Humans were trapped in their cities. Walking only on paved paths, never knowing the beauty of the world outside.

  “Sir, care for a newspaper? All the latest city news in one place! Plus, an exclusive feature: the best spots to view tomorrow’s festivities!” The voice came from an orc child.

  His voice was the only thing childlike about him—he was twice Smysslok’s size.

  “Uh… I can’t read,” Smysslok mumbled, not understanding why he decided to lie, and backed away slightly.

  “Where are you going, good sir? I can read it to you! Only three coppers, and every word will be responsibly delivered to your ears!” The enormous figure loomed over the goblin.

  Smysslok instinctively patted his pockets.

  “I’ve got nothing,” he squeaked, as if answering a robber in an alley, not a boy selling newspapers.

  The boy immediately turned his attention to another passerby, and Smysslok exhaled in relief.

  The orc child wasn’t the only exotic sight for the goblin, who had only heard of such races. Two minotaurs carried a massive tree trunk past him. To see them in full height, Smysslok had to crane his neck as if looking at the sky. A dwarf hammered away at an anvil under a canopy. Everything buzzed, moved, built, shouted, and shone. Smysslok’s head began to spin.

  All these creatures lived in one place, helping each other. Only goblins stuck to their own kind.

  Smysslok’s eyes widened as if something heavy had fallen on his foot. A look of horror spread across his face. His spinning head made him fall to the ground, clutching it. Across the street… walked a goblin in a business suit.

  Smysslok felt as though he were betraying centuries of tradition. But walking around a city in a business suit was too much. All his recent doubts and self-questioning faded into the background. Before him stood a traitor, and he had to act.

  Smysslok got up and began following his target. Inside, he burned with not just a simple feeling of betrayal but a centuries-long struggle. Goblin defiance of civilization. Only aquarium fish had resisted harder before succumbing.

  Dozens of unfamiliar races rushed past him, and strangely shaped buildings blurred in his vision. Of course, any building seemed strange to him now, but some stood out. Round, oval, square, diamond-shaped windows—why bother if they all served the same purpose?

  All of it whirled in Smysslok’s mind as he pursued the betrayer of his ideals. Ahead, the goblin in the business suit walked briskly but carefully, avoiding carts and orc legs, and constantly adjusted his gray trousers, which were clearly too big for him.

  The day hadn’t started well for him either. He was late on rent for his tiny room and had to climb out the window to avoid his landlady’s nagging. He had no money for breakfast and was already late for work. It was hard to imagine what could make his morning worse.

  A hard shove from the side sent him off the main street into an alley.

  “Hey!” the suited goblin exclaimed, immediately adjusting his trousers after stepping on a pant leg. “What’s the big idea—”

  Their eyes met. From Smysslok’s tattered, strange-cut clothes and his hostile, confused glare, it was clear he was new here.

  “Calm down, kid, don’t do anything stupid. I know what you’re thinking. It seems crazy at first, but really, it’s the opposite.”

  “HOW DARE YOU WEAR SUCH—”

  The city goblin didn’t let Smysslok finish. He quickly covered his mouth and pinned him against the wall. Smysslok hadn’t expected this at all. He had been ready to punish the unfaithful, weak goblin who had forsaken his roots.

  “Quiet. A lone goblin doesn’t attract attention in the city. But if there are two of you, you’ll catch the guards’ eye. Groups of more than two goblins are bound to raise suspicion. Now nod to show you understand it’s better not to shout, and I’ll let go.”

  There wasn’t much choice. Smysslok slowly, reluctantly nodded.

  The suited goblin released him and went back to adjusting his trousers.

  “Traitor!” Smysslok tried to sound menacing but heeded the advice and spoke more quietly.

  “Me, a traitor? Where do you think you are? You’re in the city, kid, and as far as I can see, completely unarmed,” the city goblin pulled out a pocket watch from his jacket. “Damn, I don’t have time for this.”

  “I… I… ended up here somehow,” Smysslok stammered, completely losing control of the situation.

  “Look, I’m really in a rush. Either you come with me now, or you stay here alone,” the goblin extended a hand. “The name’s Tllit.”

  Tllit, the suited goblin, had lived here for about two years and considered himself a seasoned city dweller. He’d learned the alphabet, taught himself to read, and found a promising job. Now, in front of him was a lost kid, just as he had been once.

  Leaving him alone might lead to trouble.

  “Well, don’t hesitate. Time’s short. Shake my hand, and let’s go—I’ll show you around.”

  Smysslok awkwardly shook his hand. Goblins weren’t known for such gestures.

  Buildings blurred past again as the two goblins moved quickly, weaving through the crowd of hurried beings.

  “Where’s everyone rushing to?”

  “Errands or work. This is the city; life never stops here. Especially with tomorrow’s festival—everyone’s preparing. You should come, by the way—it’s breathtaking,” Tllit said as he deftly slipped between an orc in a bearskin arguing fiercely with a nearly nude woman wearing a flower crown.

  Smysslok didn’t realize it at first, but he felt at ease in Tllit’s company. The anxiety and dizziness subsided, and only now did the city reveal itself to him. Like a duckling following its mother, Smysslok trailed after Tllit.

  “What’s that?” Smysslok craned his neck as far as it would go. Before him was a tall stone tower crowned with a gleaming golden bell. The roof was tiled in red and tapered sharply at the top.

  “A church. Humans go there in the mornings on their days off,” Tllit explained. “Never really got the point myself.”

  Explosions replaced gods and occult entities for goblins. They knew other races worshipped deities and had even tried to imitate such practices once, but they never grasped the concept. Why worship something if you don’t have to?

  The gods’ punishments—hunger, disease, death—were just life as goblins knew it. They saw no reason to complain. In fact, they kind of enjoyed the latter.

  They turned somewhere and found themselves in an even larger crowd. It was impossible to move without bumping into someone. Various body parts belonging to wildly different creatures hit Smyslok in the face. The smells around him kept shifting—from fishy to chemical.

  “BUY NOW! EVERYTHING’S FRESH! THIS PIGLET WAS BORN JUST YESTERDAY. CAN’T GET ANY TENDERER THAN THIS!”

  “WHO?! How dare you call me a fraud?!”

  “Yes, sir, I assure you, it’s mackerel. I personally caught it in the sea.”

  “You haven’t told me your name,” Tllit reminded Smyslok, tugging on his arm.

  “I… I’m Smyslok,” the goblin replied, snapping out of his trance. “Why is everyone shouting?”

  “This is the city’s main market. Come on, Smyslok, not much farther now.”

  “Does being at a market mean you can only talk by shouting?”

  “It means if you don’t shout, you don’t earn. If you don’t earn, you don’t eat. And so on down the chain until you die.”

  “Doesn’t seem so bad. I’d never shout just to live. The best reason to shout is for death,” Smyslok said thoughtfully, wondering why he was even following this goblin.

  He’d wanted to teach a traitor a lesson, but now it felt like he was the one being taught. Why did he even need to learn about this city?

  “I get it, kid. I used to think like you,” Tllit said.

  The crowd around them began to thin. The goblins turned a corner, and the air became noticeably fresher, with a faint breeze brushing past.

  “‘Used to think’? But you’re a goblin—you can’t think otherwise!” Smyslok suddenly stopped. The fast-moving creatures adjusted their flow instantly, dodging around the obstacle.

  “I know what you’re trying to say, but this isn’t the time or place,” Tllit said, glancing at his watch again. “Let’s go!”

  Smyslok didn’t move. He’d met someone who understood him, someone who had already walked this path. But did that mean he’d become like Tllit? Put on a suit and run around the city?

  Tllit stepped closer, placing a hand on Smyslok’s shoulder.

  “Let’s make a deal. One day. You give me one day, and after that, I won’t hold you back. Do whatever you want. Go restore goblin justice, hunt down traitors like me,” Tllit said, looking Smyslok in the eyes. “I went through this alone, but you won’t have to.”

  Yes, he was wearing a suit. Yes, he had a watch. But he was green, short, and had pointy ears. He was still a goblin. Maybe things weren’t so bad. Maybe there was an entire community of city goblins who quietly mined the city at night, waiting for the perfect moment to set everything off.

  Either way, Smyslok decided to give Tllit his one day.

  The tiny stalls selling everything imaginable, with their throat-ripping (literally and figuratively) vendors, gave way to large warehouse buildings. The creatures working here were still shouting, but their words were more familiar to Smyslok. The warehouse workers were also familiar in appearance: dirty faces, tattered clothes, and a stench that reminded him of home.

  “Why Tllit?” Smyslok asked as they walked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tllit doesn’t sound like a goblin name.”

  “Oh, that. Goblin names are too tricky for the city. You need something short, catchy, and free of bad associations. When I got here, I figured that out fast and started calling myself Tllit,” the city goblin said, covering his nose as they passed a fish warehouse.

  “What was your name before the city?”

  “Tonsillitis. My mother suffered from it a lot and eventually died from it. My dad thought it was a brilliant idea to name me after it. I remember how proud he was of that choice.”

  “Really classy. I’d never change such a memorable name. Naming your child after the disease that killed their mother—that’s some real goblin wisdom.”

  “Yeah… no kidding.”

  “This is where I work,” Tllit said, gesturing toward a small wooden building with a couple of windows. “At the checkpoint, I’ll say you’re my cousin. You’ll help out today—an extra pair of hands won’t hurt.”

  Smyslok stayed quiet, determined not to talk. He’d given Tllit one day but decided he wouldn’t fall under the city’s spell. If he spoke or asked questions, it would mean he was interested, that he’d succumbed. Simple logic, but reliable.

  The checkpoint was a half-door with a dwarf sitting on a stool beside it.

  “Am I seeing double?” the dwarf said cheerfully.

  “Very funny, Kir. This is my cousin, Smyslok. He’s helping me today.”

  Kir squinted at Tllit.

  “Does Kurshor know about your helper?”

  “I’ll handle it with him. Don’t worry—it’s on me.”

  Inside, the building was packed to the ceiling with wooden boxes.

  “A big wooden box filled with smaller boxes,” Smyslok muttered.

  Tllit got to work immediately, grabbing files, checking papers, and packing goods into boxes. Was this what he did every day? Pointless.

  “Why do you do this? Why did you convince me to spend the day with you?” Smyslok asked directly.

  “It’s more fun together, isn’t it?” Tllit didn’t even glance up from the papers.

  “What happened to your settlement? Why are you here pretending to be someone else?” the forest goblin said, snatching the papers and tossing them aside.

  “Because they all died.”

  “My people died too, but I’m not planning to live in the city and waste my time on nonsense like this.”

  “But you’re in the city now! Just like I was. And I know what it’s like to be the last goblin from your settlement to end up here,” Tllit said, sitting on a box. “It was like always: another raid, more explosions and deaths, another celebration. But then everything changed. Everyone died, and I was the only one left.”

  He sighed heavily and continued:

  “I stayed and watched adventurers mourn their fallen companions. They cried hysterically over the blasted remains. I’d seen it before, but these people… they knew I was alive and didn’t touch me. They knew I was one of the ones who had killed their friends, but they were so tired of violence and death that they left me alone. We sat in silence on the battlefield until late at night. No one spoke a word. Then they left, and I walked the other way. That’s how I ended up here.”

  The city goblin sighed again.

  “Spending all that time in silence with them—it changed something in me. I wanted to understand why they acted the way they did, why they were so different from us.”

  “They’re just stupid. They don’t understand the importance of death. Death is the most important part of life. It’s about slamming the door shut loud and clear,” Smyslok said dramatically.

  “Stupid? We attacked them first. We took their lives. If the goal is our own deaths, why do we take others’ lives?”

  “We never take lives for no reason,” Smyslok said, stepping closer to Tllit. “It’s always for the survival of the camp.”

  “Then why don’t others do the same? Why is it only goblins who try to take everything by force? Why can’t we grow our own wheat instead of killing for it? Or why don’t we just blow up the whole camp right away?”

  “Rubbish!” Smyslok waved dismissively. “That’s just our place in the world. Dryads live in trees, dragons in caves, cows give milk, goblins explode. That’s how it’s always been and always will be. You’re just a madman who thinks you’ve figured out what no one else understands!”

  “WHAT THE HELL?! What are you two green punks doing here?!” a gruff voice bellowed.

  A large troll in a black pinstriped suit stormed over.

  “Mr. Kurshor, this is my brother. He’s just helping me today. Completely free of charge,” Tllit said, shrinking even smaller under the troll’s glare.

  “Are you stupid? Forming a gang here? Planning a terrorist attack on my turf? I know your kind, brainless greenskins, always eager to blow something up!”

  “Please, Mr. Kurshor, no explosions. We come with nothing but good intentions, all for the benefit of the warehouse and supplies—we just needed an extra pair of hands. Right, brother?”

  The sight was too pitiful. Is this what happens to all goblins in the city? Tllyt inspired sympathy; he had gone through the same hardships as Smyslok, but it seemed he had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

  What remains when you take the explosion away from goblins as a race? Tllyt. Not as strong as an orc, not as wise as an elf, not as numerous as humans. The world would crush him, leaving nothing behind.

  “I’d love to blow this overgrown idiot up,” Smyslok said, stepping toward Kurshor and spitting at his feet.

  The response was immediate. Kurshor whistled loudly. Two orcs entered the room, and with a mere gesture, he directed them to Smyslok. While they beat him, Smyslok managed to stab a stolen fork from Vern into one of the orcs’ legs. Tllyt watched, shielding his eyes.

  Smyslok came to his senses when it was already dark. He lay on his back in a puddle, staring at the stars with one un-swollen eye.

  He didn’t even help me.

  Smyslok couldn’t move. All he could do was lie there and think. Think about the pathetic death Vern had mentioned. Think about the pathetic life Tllyt was living. It turns out that no matter what he did, it would all end in pity. Just a pathetic loser.

  The wind picked up. His body began to tremble from the cold, and the shivering made all his injuries, courtesy of the orcs, ache even more. The wind brought something and gently placed it on Smyslok’s face. With great effort, he moved his hand to remove the paper.

  “GRANDIOSE! ANNUAL! FIREWORKS FESTIVAL!!! MEMORIES FOR A LIFETIME!”

  The art of human explosions? Anyone who has spent a long time in a single field knows it inside and out. You could be an absolute fool in social interactions or relationships but still give a full breakdown of the plumbing system in the oldest elven city if you’re a skilled plumber.

  The same went for goblins. They could be idiots in everything except explosions. And now someone was shamelessly, in bold letters, trying to convince the world they knew even a little about their craft.

  And Tllyt was just going to watch this? Let humans take credit for their art? No!

  How many goblins, lost and deluded by the city, were out there, merely surviving rather than truly living? I must show them the right path, all those who have gone astray. I must show them that an explosion is not just entertainment accompanied by cotton candy nor merely a senseless death.

  An explosion is not an act of destruction. It is an act of life.

  “But first, I’ll have to do something I detest.”

  Smyslok sat up. He sat and began to think. There was no other choice. To create such a spectacle, he needed the best plan of his life.

  “The best place in the city to see tomorrow’s show in all its glory!” the young orc had said. That was the first point in the goblin’s plan.

  He rummaged through fourteen and a half trash bins to find the newspaper the boy had been waving around. It indeed contained sketches and descriptions of all the spots in the city where the fireworks would be most visible.

  Smyslok spent the rest of the night running through the city, visiting each location. Armed with this information, any goblin could deduce the launch site for the fireworks.

  He headed straight there. It was a clearing outside the city, near the docks he had visited the previous day. By the time he arrived, the sun was at its zenith.

  At the clearing, surrounded by a temporary fence, preparations for the fireworks were in full swing. People were bustling about, rolling barrels of gunpowder, carts of coal, and generally getting in each other’s way.

  “Amateurs,” Smyslok muttered under his breath.

  From Kurshor, Smyslok had learned that the reputation of goblin-made explosions had spread far and wide. Despite vaguely understanding and disapproving of human hierarchy, Vern could easily pass for someone in charge here. He had money, food, and guards. And if he, too, had mentioned the festival before leaving…

  Tllyt, on the other hand, had taught Smyslok about humiliation and how to humiliate others.

  Gathering his courage and piecing together the facts, he approached the guard at the entrance.

  “The road out of the city is closed here. Take the long way around,” the guard mumbled drowsily, like a mantra.

  “I’m a demolition instructor. Uh… because I’m a goblin,” Smyslok tried to sound as natural as possible. “Vern sent me.”

  The guard perked up immediately.

  “Of course, sir, go right ahead. And… since you know Mr. Vern personally, could you tell him I’m doing a great job here?”

  Smyslok said nothing and strode onto the worksite. It wasn’t hard to spot who was in charge. An old man resembling a raisin in glasses was waving a cane and barking orders.

  Smyslok approached him confidently.

  “Gather all the workers for a meeting in five minutes,” he commanded. “I’m from Mr. Vern!”

  The old man didn’t even have time to respond before rushing to comply.

  While Smyslok considered how well he was playing his role, all the workers gathered around him. He climbed onto a barrel of gunpowder, using it as a makeshift stage.

  “I’m in charge here now. The previous boss is demoted to my assistant. Uh… orders from Mr. Vern,” Smyslok declared, striking what he thought was a commanding pose atop the barrel.

  “But why? Mr. Vern didn’t notify me, and I have over forty years of experience!” the raisin protested, striking the ground with his cane.

  “Well… I’m a goblin…”

  The crowd, including the raisin himself, nodded in agreement, signaling that this was a solid argument. They all turned their attention to their new boss.

  “You’ve got a total mess here. No discipline, and you’re way behind schedule!” Smyslok’s words made the workers fidget awkwardly and scratch their heads. “Get back to work, uh… morons?”

  The workers really were behind schedule. Smyslok’s advice and orders turned out to be quite helpful, and within an hour, all doubts about him vanished.

  The first stars appeared in the sky. After lengthy calculations and adjustments to his plan, everything was ready.

  No sequential, beautiful bursts of light in the sky. No. One powerful, all-encompassing explosion directly above the main square. And riding it—a bound Smyslok.

  Perhaps other races wouldn’t understand the message, but all the city’s goblins would immediately recognize their error.

  “Ten minutes to launch!” one worker shouted into a megaphone. “Find proper matches this time! Sid, get out of the way!”

  This was it. Once again, his body trembled in anticipation of what was about to happen. The smell of gunpowder. But this wasn’t the same feeling as before. Too much had changed in the past couple of days.

  This explosion meant something.

  The launch site was surrounded by a small screen, and Chief Smyslok had forbidden anyone from entering. The fuse extended several meters away and was to be lit precisely on time.

  Smyslok double-checked his calculations—everything was correct. He tossed the papers aside.

  “All set,” the goblin said, picking up a rope and pondering how best to tie himself.

  “Not bad, what you’ve done here,” a voice came from behind.

  Smyslok turned quickly. A heavy blow to the head knocked him down. Before his eyes closed, he saw a green blur.

  He came to quickly. It felt like his eyes had been shut for only a few minutes. Rage filled him. No one would ruin his plan!

  As his vision cleared, he realized he was tied up. Sloppily, but still tied. In front of him, hastily strapping himself to the main part of the launch mechanism, was Tllyt.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” Smyslok yelled.

  “Sorry, brother. I have no choice. I know you wouldn’t let me do this, but I can’t act any other way,” Tllyt panted slightly. “I didn’t sleep all night, and in the morning, I didn’t go to work. I kept thinking about everything that happened. I feel so sorry! Sorry I didn’t stand up for you! I was a complete fool all this time… You reminded me what it means to be a goblin! What it means to not be ashamed of yourself, to stop pretending to be someone else.”

  “One minute to launch! Let’s not mess up with Mr. Smyslok watching!” the familiar voice shouted through the megaphone.

  Tllyt hurried to finish.

  “And so I came here. I heard about the goblin boss and knew it had to be you. Forgive me for everything, Smyslok, but this is something I have to do. To wash away the shame of the past two years with this explosion. To be an example for others.”

  Smyslok listened silently. There was nothing to say. A city goblin had once again remembered who he truly was, which meant the plan had already succeeded.

  The fuse hissed. There was a flurry of activity behind the screen as workers gathered to witness the fruits of their labor. Tllyt had fully strapped himself in.

  The goblins looked into each other’s eyes. The fuse danced joyfully toward the launch mechanism.

  “Farewell, friend Tonsillt,” Smyslok said with a genuine smile.

  Tonsillt said nothing in return. He smiled as a single goblin tear of joy rolled down his cheek—the very tear of happiness before an explosion.

  “MGA-A-a-A-aaa-a-AA!!!”

  With an ear-splitting whistle, the firework soared over the city. The explosion above the main square revealed something the townspeople had never seen before. Everything lit up with millions of colorful lights, slowly scattering in all directions.

  The buildings shook from the thunderous blast, and the city fell silent. All the noise of the festival, at its peak moments earlier, vanished. No one could utter a word. The city remained silent until dawn.

  Everyone had witnessed true art, though it would take time to comprehend it fully.

  “Mr. Smyslok, why are you tied up?”

  The End.