Primordial Awakening: I Breathe Skill Points!-Chapter 16: The Ritual!

Chapter 16: The Ritual!
Dungeon classification was typically straightforward—F through S rank based on the average strength of monsters encountered within.
An F-Rank dungeon contained creatures at levels 1-10, E-Rank held threats from 11-20, and so on up the ladder. Simple, logical, easily understood by anyone with basic System education.
But there was a special classification that made experienced awakened pale when mentioned: Special Class Dungeons.
The designation didn’t refer to power level—a Special Class dungeon could theoretically be F-Rank in terms of raw combat capability. What made them special, and infinitely more dangerous, was the presence of sentient species inside them.
Goblins, kobolds, ratkin, and other intelligent creatures that didn’t just attack on instinct but could think, plan, and coordinate.
Where a normal F-Rank dungeon might contain wolves that operated on pack tactics and territorial aggression, a Special Class dungeon held goblins that could set ambushes, use flanking maneuvers, employ ranged support, and adapt their strategies mid-combat based on enemy behavior.
They had roles. Scouts, warriors, archers, and—Zeph’s stomach dropped as his tactical glasses highlighted three larger heat signatures among the swarm—shamans or leaders that coordinated the lesser troops.
Three E-Rank goblins. Twenty or more F-Rank soldiers.
Against a level 2 awakened with limited resources and exhausted tricks.
’I’m fucked,’ he thought with crystalline clarity. ’Completely, utterly, absolutely fucked.’
The math was brutal and unarguable. Even with his enhanced attributes from runes, he was looking at effective stats barely above a level 5 awakened.
The E-Rank goblins would each have 50-100 attribute points worth of enhancement over him, plus whatever racial abilities and skills their species provided.
And they had numbers. Coordination. Tactical positioning that had boxed him in while he’d been focused on looting corpses.
’Classic tunnel vision mistake,’ he noted distantly, part of his mind already cataloging the failure for future reference—assuming he had a future. ’Got greedy, got careless, got surrounded.’
But even as the tactical assessment painted a picture of certain death, Zeph felt something unexpected settle in his chest: acceptance.
He’d made the choice to come here. He’d evaluated the risks, calculated the odds, and decided the potential rewards justified the danger.
This outcome—dying in an ambush because he’d gotten cocky after his first easy kills—was always one of the possibilities he’d accepted when he’d set up his trap.
No regrets. No whining about unfairness or bad luck. He’d rolled the dice and they’d come up snake eyes.
’At least I’ll go down fighting,’ he thought, his grip tightening on Phantom’s hilt. ’Better than bleeding out in some forgotten corner of the ruins.’
The goblins were closing in now, their formation tightening with military precision that would have impressed a sanctuary drill sergeant.
Archers maintaining overlapping fields of fire. Warriors with crude shields forming the front line. And those three larger goblins—their leaders—hanging back to coordinate and probably throw whatever magic or enhanced abilities they possessed.
Escape was mathematically impossible. His bike was surrounded, any attempt to run would result in arrows through his back, and even if he could break through the cordon, the goblins’ demonstrated coordination suggested they’d just track him down systematically.
Fighting was equally hopeless. His Force enhancement gave him maybe sixty seconds of doubled capability, after which he’d be facing E-Rank opponents with baseline stats.
His Phantom Step could reposition him five times before his stamina ran dry. His enhanced hearing and tactical glasses would let him track threats with perfect clarity while being utterly unable to counter them all.
’Dead man walking,’ he observed with dark humor. ’Finally get my cheat system, finally have the potential to become unstoppable, and I die in my first major engagement because I got cocky after killing three dipshits with a pit trap!’
The irony was almost funny enough to make him laugh.
Almost.
The lead goblin stepped forward, its yellow eyes gleaming with malicious intelligence as it pointed its rusty sword at Zeph and chittered something that might have been orders or might have been mockery.
The surrounding troops laughed—an unsettling sound that was too human to be comfortable—and began closing the final distance.
’Well, fuck it. If I’m dying, I’m taking as many of these green bastards with me as possible!’
Ooom!
Zeph activated Force, feeling the familiar surge of doubled capability flood his system. His enhanced perception showed him every goblin’s position with crystalline clarity, his body moving with inhuman coordination as muscle memory from weeks of practice kicked in.
He was about to launch himself at the nearest warrior when movement behind the front line caught his attention.
A taller, fatter goblin pushed through the ranks, its body covered in crude ritual scarring and bone jewelry.
In its gnarled hands, it held a staff that pulsed with sickly green light—actual mana channeling, suggesting this was their shaman or whatever magical support their species possessed.
The creature raised its staff and began chanting in a language that hurt to hear, syllables that seemed to twist reality around them.
’Oh, that’s not good.’
Zeph tried to move, tried to dodge or attack or do anything productive, but his body was already betraying him. Sudden exhaustion crashed over his system like a physical weight, Force deactivating involuntarily as his enhanced capabilities drained away.
The world tilted sideways.
His knees hit concrete that suddenly felt miles away. Phantom slipped from nerveless fingers as coordination abandoned him completely.
’Sleep spell,’ his fading consciousness identified. ’Fucking magic bullshit!’
The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the goblin shaman’s yellow eyes gleaming with satisfaction and the surrounding troops closing in with nets and chains.
Then nothing.
-----
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by the worst headache Zeph had experienced since his reincarnation.
His enhanced hearing came back online first, picking up the creak of wooden wheels, the shuffle of multiple small feet, and chittering conversations in that same grating language the goblins used. The world swayed rhythmically, suggesting movement.
’Carriage,’ he identified groggily. ’I’m in a fucking carriage.’
His eyes opened to confirm what his ears had already told him. Crude wooden cage on wheels, pulled by some kind of mutated boar that looked like it had been crossbred with a tank. Goblin guards walking alongside, their eyes occasionally flicking toward him with expressions that mixed amusement and anticipation.
And chains. Heavy iron shackles around his wrists and ankles, connected to the cage’s support structure with barely enough slack to sit upright.
’They captured me alive,’ he realized, checking his body for injuries and finding only bruises. ’Which means they want me for something specific.’
That realization was somehow worse than the prospect of immediate death.
His gear was gone—Phantom, his tactical glasses, even his boots. They’d stripped him down to his pants and torn shirt, removing anything that could be used as a weapon or tool.
The only thing they’d missed was his storage ring, probably because it looked like ordinary jewelry rather than spatial compression technology.
Small comfort when he couldn’t access its contents anyway.
The carriage rolled through terrain that suggested they’d left the industrial district entirely. Zeph’s enhanced hearing picked up forest sounds—not unusual for the Seattle ruins, but not common either. Whatever destination the goblins were heading toward, it was deep in territory he’d never explored.
’Professional operation,’ he noted grimly, watching the guards maintain disciplined formations despite the long march. ’They’re not just raiders grabbing random victims. This is organized, purposeful, heading somewhere specific.’
Which raised disturbing questions about what exactly these creatures were planning.
The carriage suddenly lurched to a stop, eliciting excited chittering from the guards. Rough hands grabbed Zeph’s chains and dragged him out of the cage without ceremony, his bare feet hitting packed dirt as he stumbled into a clearing that made his blood run cold.
Hundreds of goblins. Easily three to four hundred of the creatures, arranged in a massive circle around a central pit that had been carved into the earth.
Their eyes gleamed with fanatical excitement as they chanted in unison, a rhythmic sound that made his enhanced hearing pick up harmonic frequencies that suggested magic or ritual significance.
And standing beside the pit were six of the fat, staff-wielding shamans, their bodies covered in elaborate ritual scarring that glowed with faint green light.
They were all staring at him with expressions of joy and anticipation, like he was their salvation rather than their prisoner.
’Oh, this is bad.’
Goblin warriors grabbed his arms and dragged him toward the pit, their grips strong enough to bruise despite their small size. The surrounding crowd’s chanting grew louder, more frenzied, building toward some kind of crescendo.
Thud!
They threw him into the pit without ceremony, his enhanced durability saving him from serious injury as he hit the bottom hard enough to crack normal bones. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, leaving him gasping while the chanting reached fever pitch.
The fattest shaman—the one who’d cast the sleep spell, Zeph recognized—stepped to the pit’s edge and began drawing symbols in the dirt with its staff. Complex geometric patterns that pulsed with the same sickly green light, forming a circle around the entire pit.
The other shamans joined in, creating an intricate web of glowing runes that Zeph’s gaming instincts recognized immediately.
A ritual circle.
A sacrifice!
’They’re going to sacrifice me to something,’ he realized with horrifying clarity. ’Some kind of summoning or empowerment ritual that requires a human offering.’
The goblins’ celebration made sense now. They weren’t just raiding—they were preparing for something bigger. Some kind of magical working that would presumably strengthen their tribe or summon an ally or achieve whatever goal their twisted civilization pursued.
And Zeph was the main ingredient.
Rumble!
The chanting reached a crescendo as the ritual circle completed, glowing lines connecting into a perfect geometric pattern that surrounded the pit like a cage made of pure mana.
The lead shaman raised its staff, yellow eyes gleaming with fanatic joy, and began the final incantation!