In a world where Lords reign supreme, they wage battles over resources like smug gods, their cores gleaming like beacons of power. Across floating isnds and scorched fields, dragons roar with fiery breath, griffins tear the sky with razor cws, and demons with bzing eyes march in armies that shake the earth. It’s all for the territory cores—those rare crystals that grant portals to chaotic pnes—or the magical minerals fueling their endless wars. Lords strut atop crystal thrones, summoning beasts that would make any mortal bnch, while the losers—those not born with a decent core or a lick of luck—end up reeking of defeat. And then there are the ones who don’t even py the game, the ones stuck picking up the rotten scraps of those glorious fights. Because someone’s got to clean up the shit, right?
Renn Tork didn’t know a damn thing about glory. His busted boots sloshed through a muddy path at the edge of the swamp, each step a wet sp that spttered greenish sludge over his tattered pants. At 29, with a face no one would remember and a nky frame more scarecrow than man, he hauled a sack of toxic muck that stank like the world had decided to use him as its trine. The stench burned his nose, but after so long living among the Lords’ refuse, he barely noticed. Another day hauling their magic shit, he thought, shifting the sack on his bony shoulder. What a goddamn miserable life. Around his neck hung a broken core, a dull, cracked stone he wore like a dead weight, a constant reminder of his worthlessness. I was born with this, he told himself, brushing it with calloused fingers. A piece of trash that can’t summon flies. Lords get dragons; I get dung. Lucky me.
The sun barely peeked through the gray clouds, casting long shadows over the uneven ground. He’d spent the morning gathering scraps at the swamp’s edge, a pce the Lords shunned like it was cursed. It wasn’t a territory worth conquering—just a forgotten dump where they tossed what didn’t shine bright enough: broken griffin wings, chipped demon horns, remnants of creatures that didn’t st a day in their grand armies. Renn didn’t have a choice. He was a garbage collector because no one wanted him around; he stank too much, and not just from the mud. I smell like death, he thought, kicking a rock that sank into a puddle with a sad plop. That’s why I live here, with the crap I clean. No one chases me out of a swamp.
He paused, dropping the sack with a soggy thud, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a grimy sleeve. He’d blown his st coins at a junk stall st week, a pce full of useless trinkets some fool like him would buy out of desperation. I don’t know how to handle money, he admitted to himself, a dry ugh escaping like a cough. Two coins for a stupid book, "How to Keep a Zoo at Home." Thought it’d be a ugh, not a damn prophecy. The book was in his sack, soaked and sticky-paged, but he hadn’t tossed it. It was the only thing he owned that wasn’t pure functional garbage.
He fished his broken orb out of the sack, a cracked sphere he’d scavenged from some careless Lord’s trash. It couldn’t summon or send messages in the regional chat, but it still picked up the boasts of those pompous bastards. He sat on a moss-covered rock stinking of rot, surrounded by magic scraps that reeked of decay and sulfur. A griffin wing y half-sunk in the mud to his right; a dented horn glinted faintly under the gray light to his left. Let’s see what bullshit they’re spouting today, he thought, tapping the orb clumsily. It sparked, and messages flickered across its surface in shaky letters:
[Lord_Korr]: "My new griffin flies high—who’s topping that?"
[Lord_Torm]: "My ice dragon, moron. Your feathers are a joke."
[Lord_Varn]: "The stinker went to the swamp to clean shit, big surprise."
Renn let out a dry, raspy chuckle. Korr and his feathers, what a showoff. He pictured hurling a fistful of toxic muck at their smug faces, watching those shiny robes turn green. If I could write, I’d tell them to shove their griffins up their asses. The orb sparked again and died, leaving him in silence. "Even my gossip’s busted," he muttered, stowing it with a sigh. The Lords fought over territories and resources while he fought to keep from sinking in the mud. That was the difference.
He stood, hefting the sack, and trudged deeper into the swamp. The green fog thickened, wrapping him in a damp bnket that smelled of rot and sulfur. Slimy vines brushed his legs, and the ground quivered under his boots, like the swamp was alive and pissed off. The geyser bubbled in the distance, a mound of mud spitting foul gas in uneven bursts. A goblin arm here, a troll eye there, he thought, kicking a floating bone. This pce is a graveyard for magic trash. He used his dirty water to shift a venomous puddle into his barrel, the green liquid glowing faintly as it slid across the ground. The Lords toss what doesn’t shine, and I pick it up. A goblin hand popped up and grabbed his ankle. Renn jumped, cursing as he kicked it off. "Stay dead, damn it!" he growled, watching it sink with a pathetic plop.
He stopped near the geyser, dropping the sack with a thud that spshed mud around him. He pulled the junk book from the sack, its pages sticking to his fingers as he flipped through it. "How to Keep a Zoo at Home," he read under his breath, a grimace tugging at his lips. Acarpet their heads and bathe them in warm water? I bought this crap for two coins—what a waste. He held it a moment, picturing a zoo of magic rats and living snot. Renn Tork, keeper of living shit, he thought, the bitterness heavy in his chest. He stuffed it back in, muttering, "At least it’s good for something."
The geyser bubbled louder, and Renn stepped closer, using his dirty water to shift a venomous puddle blocking his path. The green liquid slid toward the barrel, but then the geyser spat a jet of green gas that smmed into the puddle, making the mud glow like it was alive. The broken core around his neck hummed for the first time, a buzz that prickled his skin, and a green light erupted from the ground, blinding him. A reverse portal snapped open with a crack that echoed through the swamp, and Renn stumbled back, his heart pounding. What the hell—my core works? he thought, a spark of hope fring in his sunken eyes. I’m a winner, damn it! After all this time, I’m summoning something!
The light fred brighter, and a stumbling shape emerged from the portal. It was a scrawny, wart-covered anthropomorphic frog, its dull skin sagging, its croak a hoarse belch. It gred at him with bulging eyes and spat in his face, a slimy gob dripping down his chin. "What a shitty resurrection!" it croaked, its raspy voice slicing the air. Renn froze, mud soaking his clothes as the spark of hope died out. He gnced at the soaked book in his sack: It worked—damn it, I’m a genius! he thought, only to crash back down as he stared at the frog. He wiped the spit with a shaky hand, disbelief sinking in: "Great, my genius summoned an ugly frog… I’m screwed forever with this shitty zoo."
The frog lurched toward him, wobbling in the mud, and pointed a warty finger. "You brought me back, asshole! What’re you pnning to do with me?" Renn stared at it, drenched and weighed down by a bitterness heavier than the sack on his back. He flipped through the book by instinct, sticky pages trembling in his hands. "‘Pet its head,’" he read aloud, voice thick with desperation and mockery. "Seriously? This is what I’ve got?" The frog gred harder, croaking: "Touch me and I’ll poison you, idiot!" Renn dropped the book into the mud, running a hand over his face: "Well, shit, now I’m really in trouble."
