---
The floor trembled as the champion stomped forward.
The goblin wasn't just big — he was enormous, towering over the others like an orc stuffed into the wrong species. His arms were tree trunks wrapped in veins. His tusks gleamed like ivory knives. His club was a solid iron beam that looked like it had been stolen from a cathedral bell tower.
Every step rattled mugs and sent feathers from half-eaten chickens drifting into the smoky air.
The goblin crowd thundered their approval. Some banged mugs, others pounded the tables with their fists. A few had already started carving Harold's tombstone into a bread roll for good measure.
Harold's throat went dry. His hands trembled on his chipped staff.
He was not ready for this.
He was never ready for this.
The Goblin King rose from his chair, crown slipping sideways, wine dripping down his cloak. "BEHOLD! My champion, Grak the Bone-Crusher!"
"Bone-Crusher?!" Harold squeaked. "You gave him a name that literally describes what he's about to do to me?"
The crowd screamed Grak's name in unison: "GRAK! GRAK! GRAK!"
Grak pounded his club into the stone floor. Each slam shook dust from the ceiling.
Harold backed up a step, his boots slipping on spilled gravy. He glanced to the side for help.
Arion Dawnblade, Hero of the Radiant Order, Chosen of the Gods, Slayer of Ten Thousand Shadows, was face-down in a plate of mashed potatoes. At some point, goblin children had stacked bread rolls on his back and were taking bets on how many would stay balanced.
So much for divine intervention.
"Boss!" Greg shouted. He was still being carried around by goblins like a parade float. His flamingo shirt was already stained with beer. He thrust a mug in the air. "You got this! Don't explode!"
"Wonderful advice!" Harold shouted back, his voice cracking.
The Goblin King flung a turkey leg into the air like a starter's pistol. "BEGIN!"
---
Grak charged.
The iron club came down like the hammer of a god.
Harold shrieked and rolled aside. The club smashed the stone where he'd been standing, sending a shockwave across the floor. Plates rattled, mugs toppled, and a nearby goblin was flung face-first into a bowl of soup.
Harold scrambled to his feet, fumbling with his staff. "Right. Magic. Spells. Do the thing."
He pointed the staff at Grak, shouted the first incantation that came to mind, and fired.
A skeletal hand materialized in the air — and slapped Grak's cheek.
It was the kind of slap you gave a mosquito.
Grak stopped. Slowly. His massive green head turned toward Harold. His beady yellow eyes narrowed.
"…Uh oh," Harold whispered.
The club swung again. Harold dove backward, skidding across the floor on his cloak. His staff clattered away and landed under the feast table.
"Bad start!" Greg yelled encouragingly.
"Shut up, Greg!"
Grak roared, spittle flying, and stomped forward. He swung again. Harold ducked, grabbed the nearest object he could find — a loaf of bread — and flung it.
The bread bounced off Grak's forehead with a soft thud.
The champion paused, crumbs sliding down his face.
The goblins burst out laughing.
Harold blinked. "…That actually worked?"
Then Grak roared louder, picked up the entire feast table, and hurled it at him.
---
"MOVE!" Greg yelled.
Harold dove, barely clearing the table as it smashed into the wall. Roast chickens exploded against the stone. Bread rolls rained down like hail.
Harold rolled onto his back, gasping, just in time to see Grak looming over him.
The club raised high.
Harold threw his hands out. "WaitwaitwaitwaitWAIT!"
Instinct kicked in. Words tumbled out of his mouth, half-remembered from late-night study sessions in necromancy school. Black smoke poured from his fingertips.
The shattered chicken bones on the ground rattled. They clinked together, then rose into the air, forming a rattling, greasy skeleton with drumsticks for arms.
It wobbled uncertainly, gravy dripping from its skull.
Grak stared. The goblins stared.
The chicken skeleton clucked.
"…attack?" Harold suggested weakly.
The chicken skeleton leapt at Grak's face, pecking wildly with its beak.
The massive goblin bellowed in confusion, swatting at the greasy abomination clawing at his eyes.
The crowd howled with laughter. Ale sloshed. The goblin band struck up an impromptu tune.
Greg threw both arms in the air. "YEAH! Poultrygeist!"
Harold scrambled to his feet, panting. "I can't believe that worked."
Grak finally ripped the chicken skeleton off his face and hurled it into the crowd, where it immediately started pecking random goblins. The audience roared their approval.
But Grak's fury had doubled. He stomped toward Harold, veins bulging, tusks bared.
The club rose.
Harold's legs moved on their own. He bolted.
---
He dashed between feast tables, goblins leaping out of the way or cheering him on. Plates crashed. Ale spilled. A goblin chef hurled a pie at his head, shouting something about "wasting food."
Grak thundered after him, smashing through tables like they were made of twigs. Every swing of the club splintered wood and sent goblins flying.
Harold ducked under one swing, vaulted a bench, and grabbed the only weapon in reach: a fork.
He stared at it. "Oh, perfect. A fork. That'll save me."
Greg shouted from across the hall. "Go for the eyes!"
"It's a FORK, Greg!"
"Stab harder!"
Harold scrambled up onto the feast table and hurled the fork.
It bounced off Grak's shoulder and stuck in a turkey.
The goblins erupted into laughter again. Some began chanting, "Fork! Fork! Fork!"
Grak roared, swiping the entire table in one swing. Harold was launched into the air, arms flailing. He crashed into a barrel of ale, which promptly exploded, drenching him from head to toe.
He staggered out, dripping and reeking of mushrooms and hops. His cloak stuck to him like wet paper. His hair plastered across his face.
The goblins applauded wildly.
"Great entrance, boss!" Greg yelled. "Ten out of ten landing!"
Harold spat ale. "You're useless!"
"Support role, baby!" Greg shouted, raising a mug.
---
Grak roared and charged again, club smashing aside barrels and goblins alike. Harold had nowhere left to run. His back hit the stone wall.
The club lifted high.
The goblin crowd leaned forward in anticipation.
Arion snored into his potatoes. A goblin had drawn a mustache on his cheek with gravy.
Harold clenched his fists, panic and desperation surging.
And then something strange happened.
The bones scattered across the hall — chicken bones, turkey bones, pig ribs, fish spines — all rattled. They twitched. They rolled.
The necrotic energy Harold had sprayed earlier hadn't dissipated. It had soaked into the feast.
And now the feast was answering.
Skeletons of half-eaten animals clattered together. Roast turkeys reassembled themselves with glowing eye sockets. Pig ribs snapped into crude cages. Fish skeletons flopped across the floor, dragging themselves toward Grak.
Within moments, an entire undead banquet army rose, dripping gravy and grease, bones clattering.
The goblins went silent.
Grak froze mid-swing.
The chicken skeleton from earlier landed on his head and clucked triumphantly.
Harold blinked. "…I am both disgusted and impressed."
Greg gasped, clutching his skull with both hands. "Boss… you've created the Buffet of the Damned."
The undead feast shrieked in unholy unison and charged the champion.
---
The feast hall fell into stunned silence for a single heartbeat.
Greasy undead clattered to life across the tables and floor — turkey skeletons dripping with gravy, pigs' ribcages snapping into jagged cages, chickens with glowing sockets clucking murderously, and one particularly vicious trout skeleton flopping along the stone, tail bones rattling like castanets.
Then the goblin crowd erupted.
"YES!" one goblin screamed. "FOOD FIGHT!"
Mugs were hurled into the air. The goblin band immediately struck up a triumphant march, as if this was exactly the kind of madness they lived for. The whole cavern shook with stamping feet and roaring laughter.
Grak blinked, ale dripping down his tusks. He swung his club at the nearest turkey skeleton. It shattered into greasy pieces… which promptly scuttled back together, bone wings flapping.
The turkey pecked his nose.
Grak howled in pain.
Harold stood frozen, dripping ale, staff clutched in one hand. He hadn't meant to do any of this. The spell had been pure panic, a spray of necrotic energy on a bunch of table scraps. But somehow it had worked. The feast was fighting back.
Greg was on his feet now, wobbling atop a table, arms raised like a coach at a championship game. "YEAH, BOSS! SHOW 'EM THE POWER OF LEFTOVERS!"
"I didn't plan this!" Harold shouted over the chaos.
"Don't admit that! Own it!" Greg yelled back. "You're the Leftover King now!"
"I'm not—" Harold started, but his words were drowned out by another goblin cheer.
The Buffet of the Damned surged forward. Skeleton chickens swarmed Grak's legs, clinging to him with tiny claw bones. A pig ribcage clamped around his arm like a trap. Fish skeletons hurled themselves at his face, gnashing their sharp little jawbones.
Grak staggered, roaring. He swung his massive club, shattering skeletons left and right. But for every one he destroyed, two more reassembled from bones and scraps.
Harold blinked. "Oh. Oh no."
Greg tilted his skull. "What?"
"I think… I think it's feeding off the feast. There's… too many bones. Too much meat. It's just… endless."
Greg gasped. "You've created perpetual hunger!"
The crowd was ecstatic. Bets were being shouted across tables. Goblins were waving mugs of ale like fans at an arena, screaming either for Grak or for the undead food.
Arion, still snoring, now had a turkey skeleton perched on his head like a crown.
---
Grak fought savagely. His club swept through skeletons, smashing turkeys into greasy feathers, pigs into cracking bones. But he couldn't get close to Harold.
And Harold… Harold realized something dangerous.
The Buffet was listening to him.
When he thought about retreat, the skeletons drew back. When he thought about pressing the attack, they lunged. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough.
His stomach dropped.
"Oh no," he whispered. "I've accidentally invented necro-catering."
Greg slapped his bony hands together. "NECRO-CATERING! Put it on a banner, boss. We're rich!"
"We're dead," Harold corrected.
"Rich first, dead later!"
---
Grak let out a deafening roar and ripped free of the skeletal horde. He stomped toward Harold, eyes blazing, club dragging across the floor. The stone screeched under its weight.
The goblins cheered louder.
Harold panicked. He thought about defense — and the skeletons responded.
Four turkeys, two chickens, and a pig ribcage leapt in front of him, stacking into a wobbly shield wall. Bones rattled. Gravy dripped. The audience went wild.
Grak brought his club down. The shield wall exploded into a rain of bones and meat.
Harold screamed, tripped on his cloak, and fell flat on his back.
The champion loomed above him, tusks bared, club raised for the final blow.
Greg screamed from across the hall. "BOSS, USE YOUR ULTIMATE MOVE!"
"I DON'T HAVE ONE!" Harold shrieked.
But instinct took over again.
He grabbed the nearest thing — a pie tin, slick with custard — and hurled it with all his might.
It smacked Grak directly in the face.
Silence.
The crowd froze.
The custard dripped down the champion's tusks. His yellow eyes crossed, trying to see the cream oozing down his nose.
Then the hall exploded with laughter.
Goblins toppled from their benches, shrieking. The band struck up a ridiculous jig. Bets were doubled. Someone started chanting "PIE! PIE! PIE!"
Greg leapt onto the table, arms in the air. "YES! HE'S A PIE-MANCER!"
"I'm not—" Harold started, but then he realized Grak was staggering.
The champion roared, blind with fury, swiping wildly. He slipped on the custard smeared across the floor, stumbled, and fell backward into a pile of skeletal pigs.
The pigs clamped onto him like a dozen ribcage bear traps. Chickens swarmed his head. The trout skeleton latched onto his nose and flopped furiously.
Grak roared and thrashed, but the Buffet of the Damned was too much. They dragged him down in a cacophony of clattering bones and clucking.
When the dust cleared, Grak the Bone-Crusher was flat on his back, groaning, completely pinned by undead poultry.
The hall went silent.
Then the Goblin King stood, raised his goblet high, and shouted: "THE SIDEKICK WINS!"
The hall exploded into cheers.
---
Harold lay on the floor, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. He was drenched in ale, gravy, and terror. His arms shook. His legs ached.
Greg danced on a table, waving a half-eaten drumstick like a banner. "THAT'S MY BOSS! PIE LORD! LEFTOVER KING! NECRO-CATERER SUPREME!"
"Shut up, Greg," Harold croaked.
The Goblin King strode forward, grinning so wide his tusks nearly poked his own eyes. He clapped Harold on the back hard enough to rattle his bones.
"Well fought, necromancer! You may lack muscles, but you have style!"
"I didn't—" Harold began.
"STYLE!" the King roared again.
The crowd chanted with him: "STYLE! STYLE! STYLE!"
Harold groaned.
---
Hours later, the feast resumed. Goblins drank, sang, and toasted Harold's "glorious victory." Grak sulked in a corner, covered in feathers, while goblin children poked him with forks.
Arion finally stirred, lifting his potato-crusted face. "Did I win?"
Greg patted his shoulder. "In your own way, champ. In your own way."
Harold slumped in his chair, staring into his untouched mug. His head throbbed. His staff leaned against the table, sticky with gravy.
The Goblin King sat beside him, grinning. "You have entertained us, sidekick. For this, I grant you… safe passage."
"Oh. Great. Wonderful," Harold said weakly.
"But!" The King's grin widened. "You have also impressed me. So I offer you a choice."
Harold froze. "…A choice?"
The King raised a finger. "Option one: you leave here with your Hero, never to return."
Harold nodded quickly. "Yes. That one. That sounds fantastic."
The King raised a second finger. "Option two: you stay… and become my Royal Necro-Chef."
The crowd roared approval.
Greg gasped, sockets glowing brighter. "Boss. BOOOOOSSS. That's your calling. Necro-chef! That's it!"
Harold buried his face in his hands.
The King's grin stretched wider. "Well, sidekick? What will you choose?"
Harold groaned. "Why is it always me?"
---