Hours after Renn upgraded the Stink Shack to Level 1, the swamp started acting like it had a bad case of the heebie-jeebies. The gnarled trees whispered among themselves, their branches creaking like gossipy old hags spilling dark secrets. The air thickened, heavy as a bowl of rancid soup nobody bothered to chuck out, and the fog swirled in zy spirals, like it was plotting something sinister in its spare time.

  The geyser gurgled with a deeper glup-glup than usual, a sound that thumped in your chest like a moldy drum. The stench of sulfur and rot clung to the skin like greasy sweat, and even the flies seemed to buzz slower, droning with all the enthusiasm of a hungover bard. Renn perched on a log outside the shack, flipping through How to Run a Zoo at Home with grimy fingers, hunting for some batshit idea to turn his muck-pit into a goldmine.

  The shack, now Level 1, wasn’t just a soggy pile of sticks and damp twigs anymore. Hardened mud walls stood a little prouder, ced with braided vines and sbs of dark bark propping up a mossy roof that looked like a lopsided hat—ugly, but sturdy. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but at least a stiff breeze wouldn’t send it toppling into the slime.

  Serilda, the Mud-Croaker, squatted on a root near the poison puddle, her buggy eyes glinting with suspicion. Her blue-green skin shimmered in the dim light, her stubby, finned tail twitching like she’d just sniffed trouble. “I don’t like this, Renn,” she croaked, her voice sharp as shattered gss. “Even the mud smells off today—like something’s scheming down there.”

  Renn gnced up from the book, scratching his beard with a crusty crunch. “Rex, you paranoid toad,” he said with a dry chuckle. “It’s just the geyser farting again. Always grumbles weird when I dump more essence into the swamp.”

  “Don’t be a moron,” Serilda snapped, hopping closer with a plop that spttered mud on his boots. “This ain’t normal. Even the flies look twitchy.”

  “Pfft, swamp farts,” Renn insisted, flipping a wrinkled page. “Stop croaking like some granny spooked by thunder. I’m figuring out how to make this dump bigger.”

  Then the core in his neck buzzed like a jumbo mosquito stuck in his ear. A message fred in his mind, slicing through the fog with a blue glow:

  [System: Your stinking climb has lit a greedy fire under the Broken Bog goblins. You’ve got 24 hours to fortify your shack against a pack of savage scavengers—or watch them turn it into a reeking trine. Hold fast and cim your Grime Throne, or lose it all to these crawling vermin! Reward: 50 Toxic Sludge, Goblin Core. Time remaining: 24 hours.]

  Renn blinked, digesting the words, then let out a groan that was half-ugh, half-annoyance. “These green snot-rags again? Don’t they have anything better to do than raid my stinky hovel?”

  He scratched his head, shedding more filth onto the ground, and shot Serilda a sarcastic smirk. “Well, Your Muddy Majesty, looks like we’re defending the throne again. Just you and me, though—this is gonna be a clown show.”

  Serilda croaked, leaping onto the log beside him. “And what’s your pn, you oaf? Fight with your dirty water and pray they don’t squash you ft?”

  “Nope, croaker,” Renn said, tapping the core with a grimy finger. “I’m summoning something big this time. Picture it—a mythic dragon, gleaming scales, wings that shred the sky. I’ll be a glorious lord astride my winged beast!”

  Serilda squinted at him, croaking a ugh that sounded like a nail scraping metal. “You, riding a dragon? Ha! With your luck, you’ll get a gimpy, toothless frog. Keep dreaming, you useless lump.”

  “Laugh all you want,” Renn shot back, closing his eyes with a dreamy grin. “This time’s different. Something powerful, something to make those smug Lords quake. Get ready to see me shine, croaker!”

  Then he frowned, dropping the book into the muck. “Y’know what? Screw summoning more critters. They all hate me like you did at first, and if I call up something mythic, it’ll probably chomp me in one bite.”

  Serilda leapt at him, croaking with outrage. “Don’t be a wimp, you clod! We need more for the goblins! Or do you want those green snots to make you their supper?”

  “No, croaker,” Renn grumbled, stepping back. “I’ve got enough of your venom already. What if the next one’s a gorgon that turns me to stone for looking at it funny?”

  “Summon, you dolt!” Serilda insisted, hopping closer and shoving him with a sticky paw. “If you don’t, I’ll drown you in my puddle and do it myself!”

  Renn growled but threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine, you bossy toad! But if it hates me, it’s on you.”

  He let his Filthy Magic pour into the reverse portal. The air shivered, the mud bubbled, and a whirlpool of murky water yawned open in front of the shack. The geyser spat hot steam, and from the mist staggered a gaunt, haggard figure: the Mud Banshee. Her gray skin sagged like an old rag, her stringy, algae-clogged hair dangled like rotten moss, and her empty eye sockets gaped like dark pits. She unleashed a piercing wail that shook the puddles, stabbing Renn’s ears like a rusty nail.

  The mind-screen flickered:

  [System: New troop summoned. Mud Banshee (Grime, Level 1)]

  [Stats: Strength 3, Agility 12, Endurance 6, Magic/Sound 10]

  [Special Ability: Weak Wail (Active) - A scream that briefly stuns nearby enemies, dealing minor sonic damage]

  Renn sized her up, his dreamy smile curdling into a grimace. “This is it? A shrieking scarecrow? I wanted a dragon, not a bag of bones with a whistle for a voice!”

  Serilda erupted into a cackle that echoed across the swamp. “Ha! Where’s your mythic dragon, glorious lord? You got a twiggy screamer that’ll snap if you sneeze on her!”

  “Shut it, croaker!” Renn snarled, kicking the mud in frustration. “This is a betrayal! I wanted to ride a dragon, not cuddle a screeching corpse!”

  The Banshee whirled on him, jabbing a bony, trembling finger. “You, you dung-footed wretch, dragged me out of sweet oblivion!” she shrieked, her voice rasping like wind trapped in a cave. “Another Lord to use me and toss me like trash! I’ll rip your soul out and chuck it in the sludge!”

  Renn raised his hands, backing up as mud sloshed under his boots. “Whoa, skinny, chill out. We’re all rejects here—I’ve got no shiny core or crystal throne.”

  “Lies!” the Banshee screeched, drifting closer with a wail that rattled the branches. “You’re just like the rest, a useless lump who’ll ditch me when I’m no good!”

  Serilda croaked from the log, hopping with a mocking gleam in her eyes. “Wow, Renn, you summoned the drama queen! Give her a prize for loudest tantrum or what?”

  “Shut up, Serilda,” Renn snapped, dodging a bony swipe. “This is your fault for making me summon.”

  The Banshee spun toward her, her wail pitching higher. “And you, slimy toad, shut that yap before I yank out your poison tongue!”

  Renn sighed, scratching his neck as the scream’s echo faded among the trees. “Well, this feels familiar,” he muttered. “Serilda wanted me dead at first too, and now she’s my mud queen. I’ll tame this skinny screamer the same way.”

  He fished the book from the sack, thumbing through it with clumsy fingers until he hit a crumpled page: “What to Do When an Animal’s Rabid.” He read aloud in a mumble: “Give it a warm hug and pet its head. Affection tames the grumpiest beasts.”

  He grinned like he’d struck gold. “Easy! Serilda, hold her tight.”

  Serilda stared at him like he’d asked her to kiss a pile of dung. “What?! Love?! You’re insane!” she croaked, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “That thing looks like it’ll eat you, not love you!”

  “Trust me, croaker,” Renn said, waving the book at her. “The book never fails. Grab her, and I’ll handle the rest.”

  Serilda croaked a theatrical sigh but sprang with agility, snagging the Banshee with her sticky paws. She wrapped her in a slimy grip, pinning her like a fly in honey.

  The banshee filed and shrieked, “Let me go, you filthy beasts! I’m not your toy!”—but with her measly Strength 3, she didn’t stand a chance against the mud queen.

  “Hold her steady!” Renn called, lunging with arms wide. “Easy, little one, just wanna be your pal,” he bellowed, engulfing her in a bear hug and burying his face in her algae-strewn hair, which reeked of ancient swamp and stale dampness.

  The Banshee thrashed, her wail hitting a pitch that sent birds fleeing and frogs diving for cover. “WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, YOU MADMAN?!” she screamed, her voice booming like fractured thunder.

  Renn, unfazed, squeezed tighter and patted her head with a grubby hand. “Rex, skinny! It’s just a hug, I’m not gonna bite! Shhh, shhh, Papa Renn’s got you.”

  Serilda, still holding on, croaked a ugh that shivered through the air. “Ha! Looks like you’re massaging a corpse! Keep going, oaf, this is comedy gold!”

  “Shut up and help, croaker!” Renn shot back, dodging another bony fil. “This is art, not a joke!”

  Right then, the geyser erupted, spewing a jet of hot sludge that spttered all three of them. The Banshee fred with a spectral green glow, her body shuddering as the swamp’s muck mingled with Renn’s embrace.

  The mind-screen blinked:

  [System: Mud Banshee has evolved to “Gray Howler” (Puddle, Level 2)]

  [Rarity increased: +25% to all stats]

  [Troop: Gray Howler (Puddle, Level 2). Stats: Strength 6, Agility 19, Endurance 10, Magic/Sound 16]

  [Strength: 3 → 6 | Agility: 12 → 19 | Endurance: 6 → 10 | Magic/Sound: 10 → 16]

  [Special Ability: Resonant Echo (Active) - A stronger scream that stuns and deals moderate damage to enemies in a small area]

  The change hit fast. The Banshee’s wrinkled skin smoothed into a glossy gray, like a puddle under moonlight. Her stringy algae-hair thickened into dense, wavy locks that rippled like they had a mind of their own. Her empty sockets sparked with green flickers, giving her a magical, imposing vibe. Her scrawny frame stretched into something less skeletal, more elegant—still ghostly, but with style.

  The Gray Howler stared at her hands, then her hair, and growled in confusion. “What did you do to me, you stinking oaf?”

  Renn released the hug, cpping like he’d just won a prize. “Knew it! My book’s unbeatable! Look how pretty you got, skinny!”

  He yanked the book from the mud, kissing it with reverence. “Blessed be How to Run a Zoo at Home! My bible, my holy guide! With this, the swamp’ll be a kingdom of wonders!”

  Serilda gave him a dead-fish stare, her face ft as a lifeless puddle. “You’re nuts, oaf,” she croaked, hopping onto the log with a spt. “That book’s trash, and you’re a fanatic.”

  “Bsphemy, croaker!” Renn barked, clutching the book to his chest. “This is my religion now! Look at her—a swamp queen, thanks to my faith!”

  The Gray Howler hovered a bit off the ground, arms crossed. “Don’t think this softens me, you dungheap,” she snarled, her hair rippling like it had its own temper. “I still think you’re an idiot.”

  “Perfect,” Renn said, wiping mud off his face with a useless sleeve. “Gray Howler, get ready for the goblins tomorrow. With that scream, we’ll send ‘em scampering like spooked rats.”

  He turned to Serilda, winking. “See, croaker? My zoo’s growing. Two queens against a horde of green snots. This’ll be a riot.”

  Serilda croaked, spshing into the poison puddle with a spt. “A riot for me, oaf. Just don’t get squashed—I’d be bored without someone to torment.”

  “Don’t worry,” Renn replied, eyeing the Banshee. “With this screamer and your venom, those goblins are toast.”

  The Gray Howler drifted closer, her voice low and cutting. “If those goblins are as dumb as you, it won’t be hard,” she said, her green sparks glinting in the fog.

  Renn ughed, but a thought stopped him cold. “Still… no more summoning after this. I’ve got two who hated me on sight already. If I call up something mythic, it’ll definitely eat me whole.”

  Serilda croaked from the puddle, her tone sharp. “Coward! You’ve still got summons left. What, rather the goblins eat you instead?”

  “No, croaker,” Renn growled, kicking the mud. “But if I get something worse than this shrieker, we’re screwed.”

  The core buzzed again, fshing a final message:

  [Remaining Summons: 3. Next: ?]

  The swamp settled into a heavy silence, broken only by the geyser’s bubbling and the distant hum of flies. Renn eyed the reinforced shack, then his two troops, and mused: A goblin raid, a howling banshee, and Serilda’s venom. If we survive, maybe the swamp’ll start fearing us for real.

  The fog closed in, and a shiver crawled up his spine. “Let the snot-rags come,” he muttered with a bitter chuckle. “We’ll see who stinks worse by the end.”