You row quietly through the narrow cavern canal, the wooden boat groaning beneath you as it brushes against jagged rocks and stagnant water. The ceiling above drips with cold moisture, the air is thick with mildew and salt, and an oppressive silence chokes every breath — until you hear it, A patethic wet sob.

Not a voice. Not even a proper cry. Just a miserable, gurgling whimper, echoing through the damp stone. It comes again, louder this time — a wretched "hrrroooooonnnkkk" that sounds like a dying trumpet being strangled in a puddle of tears. And then you see it.

Perched on a mound of slick stones like some forgotten relic of sadness, the Blubbering Toad awaits. A massive, toad-shaped abomination, its skin the color of worn rock and coated in oozing blue warts. Its mouth hangs slightly open, revealing thick, gooey strands of some repulsive azure sludge. Two huge blue eyeballs bulge from its skull, each one lazily rolling in different directions as if unsure whether it should acknowledge your presence or just curl up and weep harder, And oh, how it weeps.

Toad: "Hhrrooo... hroooooghk..." It doesn’t speak. It can’t. But that pathetic, sputtering sob carries a message more pitiful than words ever could: <<"Why am I still alive...?">>

It doesn’t attack. It doesn’t even stand. It just lies there in the shallow water, sobbing as if the universe has conspired to make it suffer endlessly — and maybe it has. The very sound of it seems to claw at your sanity, like it’s trying to share its depression through sheer auditory misery. Its left eye pulses faintly with energy, a flicker of pain in the air, while the right eye seems to radiate an unease that makes your thoughts crawl like maggots.

You step forward — cautiously. The toad finally shifts. It doesn’t leap or roar. Instead, it stretches one bloated limb, like a man too tired to care, and then retracts its eyes into its head with a squelch that somehow makes your stomach twist. Then, they shoot forward like grotesque tentacles, guided more by instinct than will.

That’s its idea of a fight. It’s not trying to win — it’s trying to die with someone else.

The longer you stare, the more you wonder if this is even a creature at all. Maybe it’s just the cave itself, crying out through some cursed vessel. Or maybe it was a warrior once, a guardian, who lost so many battles it became a living wound. A breathing regret.

But enough of that. The boat’s still behind you. You could row back. Or you could silence the sobbing, Just one good strike. Maybe two. Maybe ten, just to be sure that this pathetic thing is dead, Because if this thing cries one more time… you will lose your mind.