The scream tore through the night like a physical thing, jerking Mike from deep sleep to instant alertness.

  He sat bolt upright, ancient hammer already in hand, his mind still processing the sound when a second scream followed, then a third—each from different directions around the ruins.

  "Traps," Mike whispered, recognition dawning. He'd configured several of his more lethal designs to guard the primary approaches to his compound.

  Moving silently, Mike pulled on his boots and slipped the woodworking ring onto his finger. After a week of constant wear, he'd begun removing it at night, finding that its enhancement effects sometimes made sleep difficult—his mind continuing to analyze and improve structures even as he tried to rest.

  Outside, the night was clear and cold, stars piercing the darkness above. No moon meant limited visibility, but Mike had prepared for this. At strategic points throughout his compound, he'd placed covered lanterns that could be quickly uncovered for light without telegraphing his position.

  The screams had stopped, replaced by an eerie silence. Whatever had triggered his traps wasn't making noise anymore, but that didn't mean the threat was over. Moving with practiced stealth, Mike made his way to the nearest observation point—a reinforced platform built into the corner of his main building, providing views of the northern and eastern approaches.

  From this vantage, he could see nothing unusual. The traps that had been triggered were too distant to view clearly in the darkness. Mike considered his options—venture out to investigate immediately, or wait until dawn provided better visibility. Patience won out. If there were more intruders, blundering around in the dark would only make him vulnerable.

  Sleep, however, was no longer an option. Mike spent the remaining hours of darkness checking his defenses, ensuring each was ready for potential assault. The bamboo bombs were his most powerful weapons, but also the most volatile. He confirmed their placement at key chokepoints, their fuses accessible but protected from accidental ignition.

  As the first gray light of dawn touched the eastern horizon, Mike finally ventured beyond his compound. The nearest triggered trap lay about fifty yards out—one of his deadfalls, a heavy stone slab designed to crush anything beneath it. Approaching cautiously, hammer and spear at the ready, Mike found what had caused the first scream.

  A goblin lay crushed beneath the slab, only its head and one arm visible. Smaller than the ones he'd encountered by the stream, this one wore dark leather armor adorned with crude symbols painted in what looked disturbingly like dried blood. A short bow lay splintered beside it, along with a quiver of black-fletched arrows.

  "Scouts," Mike realized, examining the equipment. The bow suggested reconnaissance rather than direct assault. The goblin had been watching his compound, perhaps for days, judging the defenses.

  The second trap—a spring-loaded stake array triggered by a tripwire—had claimed another goblin. This one was riddled with sharpened wooden spikes driven through its torso and neck. Its equipment matched the first: light armor, bow, quiver, plus a wicked-looking curved knife. This bow had survived intact, as had most of the arrows in its quiver.

  The third goblin had met perhaps the most gruesome end, caught in one of Mike's pit traps. The creature had fallen onto upright spikes, then been further impaled by secondary mechanisms triggered by its weight. Little remained recognizable except the distinctive leathery skin and equipment similar to its companions. Remarkably, its bow and arrows had landed on the edge of the pit, completely undamaged.

  Mike examined each scene carefully, looking for clues about their purpose and origin. All three goblins wore identical medallions—flat stones etched with a symbol he'd seen before, on the goblins by the stream and later at their encampment. Tribal markings, perhaps, or indication of allegiance to a leader.

  "Three scouts," Mike muttered, collecting their weapons. The bows were smaller than standard human versions—more like short bows or recurves, clearly designed for the goblins' smaller stature. That might make them awkward for Mike to use, but still potentially valuable. He gathered all three bows and as many arrows as remained undamaged, along with the knives and other usable equipment.

  "Means something bigger's coming," he added, surveying the surrounding forest edge. No further movement was visible, but the scouts' presence suggested organization, purpose. They had been assessing his defenses, presumably for a larger force planning to attack.

  After completing his examination, Mike faced a practical problem—what to do with the bodies. His experience with the wolf carcasses had shown how quickly predators and scavengers were drawn to dead flesh. Leaving the goblins where they fell would only attract unwanted attention.

  Burning seemed the obvious solution, but Mike quickly dismissed it. The smoke would be visible for miles, potentially drawing the very forces these scouts had been reporting to. Instead, he would need to bury them, and quickly.

  The task was grim but necessary. Using a shovel he'd crafted from materials in the underground storage, Mike dug three graves at the far edge of the ruins, well away from his living area and water sources. The work was exhausting, made more difficult by the rocky soil, but by midday he had created sufficient depth to prevent scavengers from digging up the remains.

  As he worked, part of Mike's mind grappled with the moral dimensions of what he was doing. These were thinking creatures, not animals. They had attacked first, true, but they were still people of a sort. Should he say something over their graves? Offer some kind of acknowledgment?

  In the end, practicality won out. These goblins would have killed him without hesitation. Their scouts' presence meant more would come, likely with the same intent. Mike filled in the graves without ceremony, marking them only with small piles of stones to avoid digging in the same place in the future.

  Returning to his compound, Mike washed the dirt and grime from his hands in a basin, then laid out his newly acquired weapons on his workbench for examination. The bows were well-crafted despite their primitive appearance, made from some kind of flexible dark wood with sinew strings. The arrows featured stone heads, carefully knapped to wicked points, with fletching from black feathers he didn't recognize.

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  "Never used a bow before," Mike admitted to himself. Construction work had given him strength and coordination, but archery required specific skills. Still, the advantage of ranged attacks couldn't be ignored. If more goblins came, the ability to target them from a distance might make the difference between survival and death.

  Mike spent the remainder of the day planning and beginning preparations. First, he sketched a rough map of his compound and the surrounding ruins, marking existing traps and identifying vulnerable approaches. The most immediate need was to replace the triggered traps. The three that had killed the scouts were his most sophisticated designs, utilizing principles from the woodworking book's illustrations. Rebuilding them would take time, but with the ring enhancing his abilities, he could complete the work within a day or two.

  Beyond replacement, Mike needed to expand his defensive perimeter. If the goblins attacked in force, the current ring of traps might slow them but wouldn't stop a determined assault. He sketched additional trap locations, focusing on creating overlapping fields that would funnel attackers into the most deadly zones.

  The sap bombs would be crucial. Mike had accumulated a substantial supply of the explosive material, stored in bamboo tubes of various sizes. Some were designed as grenades—thrown weapons that would explode on impact. Others functioned more like mines, buried beneath thin layers of soil with pressure triggers. The largest were stationary bombs with fuses, positioned at key structural points where their detonation could bring down walls or create barriers.

  "Need more," Mike muttered, calculating how many additional bombs he could create with his current sap supply. The answer was concerning—not enough for a sustained defense against multiple waves of attackers.

  As dusk approached, Mike decided to test one of the goblin bows. He set up a target—a bundle of reeds against an earthen berm—and took position about twenty yards away. The bow was indeed small for his frame, requiring him to adjust his stance and draw to compensate.

  His first few shots missed the target entirely, the arrows flying wild in unpredictable directions. The unfamiliar mechanics of drawing, aiming, and releasing proved more challenging than he'd anticipated. But Mike was nothing if not persistent. Arrow after arrow, he adjusted his technique, learning from each failure.

  By the time darkness made further practice impossible, Mike had progressed from completely missing the target to hitting it with some consistency. Not expert marksmanship by any measure, but enough to suggest that with practice, the bow could become a useful weapon in his arsenal.

  "Not bad for a first try," he told himself, collecting the arrows for reuse. Sarah would have laughed to see him playing archer—she'd teased him once about his "caveman approach" to problems, preferring tools and force over finesse. The memory brought a smile despite the grim circumstances.

  The next morning, Mike divided his time between defensive preparations and continued archery practice. The ring's enhancement seemed to help somewhat with the latter, though not as dramatically as with building tasks. Perhaps its affinity was specifically for woodworking rather than wooden weapons. Still, by midday, his accuracy had improved further, and he could now hit a man-sized target reliably from thirty yards—not in any specific spot, but enough to cause injury.

  The rest of the day was devoted to trap construction and sap collection. Mike replaced the triggered traps with designs of equal or greater sophistication, positioning them to cover the same approaches but with subtle differences that might catch repeat intruders by surprise. He added several new traps as well, expanding his defensive perimeter and creating layered zones of danger for any approaching force.

  The sap collection yielded better results than expected, perhaps due to the warmer weather. Mike processed it carefully, creating another dozen bombs of various sizes and designs. Some he positioned immediately at key points around his compound; others he kept in his workshop for emergency use.

  By the fourth day after the scouts' deaths, Mike had transformed his compound from a comfortable living area to a fortress. Multiple layers of defenses surrounded his core buildings. Escape routes had been established and concealed. Weapons and supplies had been positioned for quick access during combat.

  His archery skills had progressed to what he would consider "decent amateur" level—not enough to impress anyone with actual training, but sufficient to be genuinely useful in combat. More importantly, he'd developed a feel for the weapon's limitations and his own capabilities with it, knowledge that would be crucial in a real conflict.

  As evening approached on that fourth day, Mike was checking a trap on the western perimeter when he noticed it—a small mark carved into a tree trunk, not far from where one of the scouts had died. The symbol matched those on the goblins' medallions, but it hadn't been there before. Someone had placed it recently, and deliberately.

  Mike scanned the surroundings, suddenly acutely aware of being watched. The forest edge, some hundred yards distant, revealed nothing obvious, but instinct told him eyes were upon him. Not just one pair, but many.

  Moving casually, as if he hadn't noticed anything unusual, Mike completed his inspection of the trap and began walking back toward his compound. Each step measured, each movement deliberate. Only when he reached the first ring of defenses did he allow himself to look back.

  At the forest edge, figures had appeared—dozens of them, small and hunched, their leathery skin visible even at this distance. Goblins, more than he'd seen at the encampment downstream. They made no move to approach, simply standing in a long line at the tree line, watching.

  A message, then. Not an immediate attack, but a declaration of intent. *We see you. We know you killed our scouts. We are many, and we are coming.*

  Mike stood his ground, meeting their distant gaze. After a moment, he deliberately turned his back on them and walked the rest of the way to his compound. Only when inside did he allow his calm fa?ade to crack, hands trembling slightly as he reached for a water skin.

  "They're here," he muttered, taking a long drink. "Just not attacking yet."

  The question was why. What were they waiting for? More numbers? Better weapons? Some signal from a leader? The delay gave Mike more time to prepare, but it also stretched his nerves to the breaking point, the constant vigilance taking its toll.

  As darkness fell, Mike positioned himself on his rooftop observation post, bow at his side and spear within easy reach. The woodworking ring remained on his finger, its subtle enhancement a constant presence. From this vantage, he had clear views of most approaches to his compound, though the deepening gloom limited visibility to only the closest perimeter traps.

  For hours, nothing moved. The forest edge remained still and silent, no sign of the goblin force that had so boldly revealed itself earlier. Perhaps it had been a bluff, a feint designed to rattle him without committing to actual attack.

  Then, just as the true darkness of midnight approached, pinpoints of light appeared at the forest edge—first one, then three, then a dozen, then more than he could quickly count. Small fires, deliberately lit and clearly visible.

  Not an attempt at concealment, but another message: *We are still here. We are many. We see you, alone in your fortress. We can wait.*

  The fires continued to burn through the night, occasionally stoked or reinforced by unseen hands. Mike maintained his vigil, grabbing brief moments of rest but never fully sleeping, always alert for any change in the pattern, any sign of advance.

  None came. The psychological warfare continued—the goblins visible but non-aggressive, making their presence and numbers known without committing to battle. By dawn, the fires were extinguished, and the forest edge appeared empty once more. But Mike harbored no illusions. They remained, watching, waiting for whatever signal or moment they had chosen for their attack.

  In the growing light, Mike assessed his situation with grim realism. The goblin force outnumbered him significantly—he'd counted at least fifty individual fires. His traps and defenses were impressive, but against those numbers, some would inevitably break through. The sap bombs might even the odds somewhat, but he had a limited supply and no easy way to create more quickly.

  This wasn't a fight he could win through direct confrontation. He needed to be smarter, more strategic. The goblins might have numbers, but he had the home advantage—intimate knowledge of the ruins, the underground chambers, the traps and defenses he'd created.

  Returning to his workshop, Mike began planning for a prolonged campaign rather than a single battle. He sketched fallback positions, escape routes, ambush points. He calculated how long his food and water would last under siege conditions. He assessed which parts of his compound could be abandoned if necessary, and which must be held at all costs.

  As he worked, one fact became increasingly clear—this would not be a quick resolution. The goblins seemed prepared to wait, to wear him down through the constant pressure of their presence. Time might be on their side, but Mike was determined to use it to his advantage as well.

  That night, the fires appeared again—more than before, spread in a wider arc along the forest edge. The message had escalated: *Our numbers grow. Your situation worsens.*

  From his rooftop vigil, bow across his lap and ancient hammer at his side, Mike watched the distant fires with narrowed eyes. The game of patience had begun, a test of wills between a solitary builder and a goblin horde. Someone would eventually break, would make the first move that shifted this standoff into open conflict.

  Mike was determined it wouldn't be him.