Time slowed for me as I watched Mug inhale a mouthful of gas. I saw it swirling into his mouth and around his teeth; the lime green of the gas contrasted with the white of his teeth and the pink of his tongue. His eyes were big and wet, looking at me with the same earnest expression he usually wore. In my head, I heard Foredrake Merri’s words—lungs melt, throat burn—and I tried desperately to think of a way to save my tiny squire. I compressed and blew air, but the gas was so thick it really just blew it around him as he took another large lungful, this time coughing on the exhale.

  I wanted to cry, watching him stand there with gas going into his nose and mouth. Even if he could jump into my hatch, there was no way I could make it back to the ground level and get outside before the gas did its evil work. I had never seen anyone die; now, I would get to see the closest thing to a friend give up the ghost in front of my very eyes.

  Mug coughed again, and I prepared for the worst as time resumed at normal speed, vowing to complete the mission for him—and maybe hurt Edvald if I got the chance for hurting such a pure, noble creature.

  Mug coughed. Then he scratched his armpit and wiped some of the slag leeches’ blood off his axe. He then reached down and picked up the mask, inhaling a large lungful for a wistful sigh. Through all this, he continued to breathe at pretty regular intervals. No blood hacking, no screaming, just… regular breathing.

  ‘Er, Mug… you feeling ok buddy? No lungs burning? How’s the throat? Feel any blood vessels bursting or anything?’ I asked cautiously. Mug shrugged, clearly unbothered.

  “I hope mistress Foredrake Merri doesn’t mind that I broke her mask. Do you think she’ll mind? She’s almost as scary as Master Edvald. Oh, I hope she doesn’t mind!” He began to fret with his broken mask, kicking the corpse of the slag leech out of my path and hopping in while trying to fix it. He didn’t even bother to pull the hatch closed.

  ‘So, just to be clear, you do NOT feel anything from the poison gas that was promised to be a horrible, painful death by a race that lives and breathes mining and dangerous subterranean environments? Like, you are, against all odds, feeling perfectly fine?’ I asked incredulously. Mug gave a tiny, polite cough.

  “Ah, no offense to the kobolds, but I think my training with Master Edvald has prepared me to handle all sorts of dangers! After all, once you can clean a chimney while the fireplace is lit, what’s a little green gas?” I wanted to scream and shake Mug and also hug and kiss him at the same time.

  ‘Are you telling me you think that you can handle poisonous gas from magical iron ore because your psychotic boss makes you clean chimneys while the fireplace is lit? Is that what I’m hearing? How long have you known this gas doesn’t affect you?’ Mug shrugged.

  “Well, Master Edvald’s training is very thorough! Probably to prepare me for events such as these! Ah, my master’s foresight is admirable! And I knew that this gas was nothing compared to my training five minutes into the mine. Why?” I thought about growing basic arms just to throttle this tiny green bastard I had riding shotgun in front of me.

  ‘If you knew the gas didn’t affect you, why did you keep the mask on?!’

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  “I thought I looked handsome with it on,” he said pretty bluntly. When Mug and I were done here, we were having a long talk about genealogy and his belief that he was a goblin. I couldn’t take much more of this. I didn’t have a heart, but I could see myself getting a heart attack traveling with this green psycho.

  ‘Void, does orc biology allow them to survive stuff like this? What about goblins?’

  ORCISH BIOLOGY IS SUITED FOR MANY HARSH ENVIRONMENTS AND IS CHARACTERIZED BY RAPID ADAPTATION TO MANY PHENOMENA. GOBLIN BIOLOGY IS CHARACTERIZED BY FRAILTY, FRAGILITY, AND GENERAL CLOSENESS TO DEATH. Well, there you have it.

  I could have sat and argued with Mug on the sheer insanity of the last few minutes for at least an hour, but we still had a job to do, so I figured it would be best to get a move on. I hadn’t made Mug throw the slag leech corpses into me for levels 3 and 4 out of consideration, but now that I knew he was totally fine in the gas, I made him scour every nook and cranny of level 5 for experience. In the end, I leveled another two times, turning me into a Level 16 Unadorned Trashcan with Moderate Enchantment. I gained no new abilities, and most of my stats didn’t change that much, except for my max mana, which is all I cared about anyway. From 200 to 250 was a big jump; each time I fired was about 10 mana, so the greater my max pool the better.

  With the housekeeping out of the way, we made our way to the lift and went down to the final floor. I had recycled another forty slug shots in preparation, and Mug was back in his seat. We ditched the hatch; I figured it was just extra weight since we now knew that Mug was apparently immune to organ-destroying gases. We were ready to slay the dragon. Well, slay a dragon’s much smaller, cave-dwelling cousin, in any case.

  The lift gate opened, and we were met with the sight of the final floor. Here, the silver-blue veins of mana-steel were much larger than the other levels, with some as large as Merri’s office building. There was an underground river that flowed underneath on the left of the lift; it wasn’t very wide, maybe fifteen feet or so across, but I could tell that its current was strong. About five hundred feet downriver was a watermill, the coursing river turning the wheel steadily.

  Just beyond the watermill was what had to be the strongest air pump that Merri had mentioned; it was nearly twice the size of her office building, with tubes and wires connecting it to the watermill. It was a clever machine made from bronze and wood with a leather bellows and a large outtake fan on the front. I’m sure that when it was working, it would definitely be capable of properly airing out even this massive space. Right now it was silent and unmoving, though, due to the green body perched inside its outtake fan.

  It was the fume wyrm. From where we stood, it looked about twenty feet long and dangerous. It was what I thought of as a wyvern: two legs and wings where arms would be. Its neck was long and sinewy, and its head was narrow and crocodilian. Its two legs ended in massive talons, each one looking strong enough to gouge out a chunk of my steel body with ease. The swirling green gases were thick, but it was so large and so distinct I couldn’t help but see it. I felt Mug trembling at the sight; I guess the confidence he had gained against the slag leeches only extended so far.

  I used Polymorph 1 to grow a basic hand and arm, and patted him on the back with it. He nearly jumped out of his skin, but turned around and gave me an unsteady thumbs up.

  ‘Come on Mug. We cleared the mooks, now let’s get the final boss. ‘Goblin and Lugenhelm vs. fume wyrm.’ Sounds pretty epic, huh?’ I was lying to both of us. The only reason I wasn’t trembling like a leaf was because all movement I made was a dedicated effort instead of instinctual. I didn’t want to be here, not really, but I had made it my responsibility. One way or another, my adventure here ended with that resting fume wyrm. Mug spoke quietly to not alert the wyrm to our presence.

  “Begging forgiveness, but it sounds like the wyrm has a slight advantage? Begging your pardon, Master Lugenhelm.” I agreed, but I couldn't say that.

  ‘In that case, let’s go beat the odds. Go ahead and load the cannon, Mug. We’ll start with some ranged warfare.’