The second haul of clay was just enough to shape a goblin at normal size.
Gauss and the others were rolling up their sleeves, ready to "fish" the burrowing worm up a third time the same way, when the unexpected happened.
No matter how Alia urged nature's power—no matter how far that green gleam sank into the ley—the depths stayed dead and dull. Not a flutter in reply.
It was as if the worm had vanished.
"Huh? No reaction?" Alia tried again, baffled. Still nothing; her magic sank like a stone.
A moment later, a low, structural crrumble rumbled from below.
At once the rims of the two deep pits the worm had punched open began to trickle and collapse. The mouths shrank visibly and slumped in, until loose earth buried them entirely.
Only two darker, shallow depressions remained, as if nothing had ever broken the surface.
"Looks like the burrower… left?"
Alia lowered her oak staff and spread her hands, helpless.
"It's fine. We did well enough," Gauss said, steadying his tone and tamping down the twinge of regret at not squeezing out more.
He knew full well: against a creature that swims the earth at will, if it chose to avoid a fight, there was nothing he could do to stop it.
They gathered every last Eroded Ichor-Soil Pellet.
Gauss called shaping magic again, mind focused on the tiny clay goblin. The rat-sized brown figure melted at once, a thickened flow that poured into the fresh soil-balls. The clay heaved and turned; under magic it fused with shocking speed.
In moments, a clay construct a meter and a bit tall—indistinguishable from an ordinary goblin—stood before them. Its body was far denser than before; the joints moved with solid strength, nothing like that slumpy, ready-to-fall-apart feel.
Unlike the figure Gauss had sculpted by hand, a spirit-fed clay creature molded itself—livelier in look. The only oddity was the color: a deep earth-brown, as if its skin had… mutated.
Gauss tossed it a short knife. The clay goblin caught it clumsily.
On the thread of thought Gauss sent, the goblin turned, gripped the blade, and trudged into the beds to start hacking at the weeds.
Its wits were nothing to brag about, but it carried out the order without complaint.
Under Alia and Serandur's fascinated stares, the "goblin" got to work—no technique to speak of, but plenty of arm and speed. The edge hissed through tough stems, chaff flying.
Unless told to stop, it would work without fatigue at "clear weeds" until the mana powering it ran dry.
"This is… too weird." Alia shook her head.
A goblin… working? Even knowing it was clay, she couldn't help the sense of absurdity. Anyone who didn't know better would take it for a real thick-headed goblin.
In most minds, goblins have nothing to do with order, production, or diligence. They're bywords for violence, laziness, and chaos.
"Agreed," Serandur nodded. Set that thing down in a corner of a town, and within minutes a watchman or a helpful adventurer would "clean up" the monster on reflex.
Gauss pinched his chin, watching its motions, and nodded, pleased. Humanoid shapes had a real edge—clever hands meant tools and finer work. Shame the goblin-spirit stockpile was still too thin; even with enough clay, its fighting value wasn't much yet.
But if, in time, he piled up enough goblin spirits and clay—why not mold a colossal goblin juggernaut?
Picture it: a giant goblin mud-giant wading into a goblin mob—he had to smirk.
For now…
He cast again—recalled the goblin's spirit and let the body dissolve. Then he fed in several spider spirits. Clay and spirit took, and a squad of deep-brown spiders hauled themselves out of the soil.
In the end he stood with one white, three brown—four big springing spiders.
For the time being, spiders were perfect for harvesting base creatures and monsters. Eight legs meant leaps, reach, and terrain mastery. He needed a few more to patrol on "auto," gathering spirits while he walked.
"Let's move."
The detour to the ruined garden had paid off: not only a haul of casting stock, but also the knowledge that burrowers produce special clay. One day, strong enough, he could simply net a few and force round-the-clock production. Then he'd never worry about components again.
Of course, by then he might look down on such low-grade material…
They walked on.
Suddenly a thunder of blasts, wrapped in a swell of cheers, rolled from ahead.
"What now?"
Gauss halted, weighing routes. To skirt it would mean a long backtrack.
"I'll scout." He told the others and set off toward the noise, stride quick and light.
As he neared, the din sharpened. A great sunken space opened ahead—laid out like an ancient arena, tiers of seating ringing a central floor.
The ruckus came from the middle. A small adventuring party was locked in a fierce struggle with a massive plant-monster.
Stranger still, the audience tiers—supposed to be empty—were filled with the translucent phantoms of insect-folk. They stared "down," bursting into voiceless cheers that could be felt, if not heard.
Wraiths again? Gauss didn't think so. True wandering wraiths he couldn't see with the naked eye, not yet—these lacked that soul-chill. They read more like a lingering imprint.
"Fine. People or shades, I'll know in a second."
He raised the white wand; its tip bloomed with immaculate light.
Light washed the stands.
As expected, the phantoms didn't react in the slightest. They kept "watching," roaring in silent frenzy.
His spell drew different attention—down on the sand, one of the fighters looked up and shouted, ragged with urgency:
"Hey! You there! Help—there's a mechanism! If you find it, you can end this!"
They were in a bad way. Four Level 1 against a carnivorous bloom at least rating 2, and they were penned—great gates shut, a translucent field sealing the arena, nowhere to run.
Gauss hesitated a breath, then turned and left.
Their hearts sank—until he came back, with Alia and Serandur in tow.
He'd explained on the way; after a quick debate, they'd agreed to help—as long as they didn't throw their own lives away.
"By the gate! There should be a lever!" yelled one of the trapped four, desperate to keep him from leaving again.
Gauss glanced over but didn't approach. He waved Alia and Serandur back to a safe distance and sent a clay spider to the doorway instead.
The spider's forelegs hooked the handle and hauled.
Click.
Something engaged.
On the sand, the man-eating flower vanished at once. The field shimmered and fell; the hordes of insect-folk faded like fog.
"Whump!"
One of the adventurers hit the ground in a tangle—the vines that had hoisted him now gone. The others were a patchwork of bruises.
But with the bloom gone, they slumped in relief, hauled each other up, and staggered out of the arena as fast as they could.
"Thanks, mate," panted the leader, pale under the grime. "Really."
A small mercy meant a lot this deep—most folks wouldn't lift a finger for strangers. Too many would rather see rivals die and take their gear.
"Mhm," Gauss nodded.
"A little thanks," the man said, setting a purse on the floor between them rather than coming closer. "No offense meant."
Gauss sent a spider to nudge it open—inside, a handful of gold and a scatter of silver.
Not a fortune to him anymore—but far from nothing.
"I'll take it," he said simply.
The man visibly relaxed. "We'll get out of our way. If we meet outside the labyrinth—drinks on us!"
They didn't linger—gone at a hobble, then a trot, swallowed by bend after bend.
"In a hurry," Alia observed.
"Worried we'd turn on them," Serandur said flatly.
Gauss shook his head. The caution made sense, and he took no offense. Pity he hadn't pried a few facts from them first—this "arena" felt like one of the labyrinth's special sites.
He stared at the empty sand. That man-eater—he could handle that. One more elite entry for the index would sit nicely; he needed points to evolve Reptile Strain to blue. New elites were the fastest route.
"Want to try?" Serandur had read his face.
"You two stay outside and cover. If anything goes wrong, pull the lever," Gauss said.
They nodded.
He didn't stroll straight in. First they camped just outside; he ate, rested, and let mana and mind fill to the brim. Then he walked alone to the center of the ring.
Seconds slid into minutes; nothing… no monster, no wraiths, only the whisper of air down the tunnels.
He frowned.
Then a clear, chitinous thrumming rolled across the air above—strange and crisp, but it went straight to the mind. Gauss, Alia, Serandur all understood at once:
[All party members must enter to begin the trial. Clear the trial and all shall be rewarded.]
He glanced back; the same thought was in their eyes: Really? A party-run?
He returned to the tunnel.
"Fetch those folks?" Alia scratched her cheek.
"It's been a while. They're long gone," Serandur said.
They conferred and decided to enter together.
Still nothing happened.
Gauss looked at the spiders waiting outside. Is the system flagging them?
He whistled the four clay spiders inside.
Finally—clack.
The insects sang again:
[Begin the melee.]
Gates and shield dropped together—and the rope Gauss had tied to the lever snapped in the same instant.