Lincrest Town had become noticeably livelier over the past few days.

The three of them searched for a short while before renting enough rooms in a four-story treehouse inn.

After dropping their luggage and paying to use the first-floor bath, the three of them walked out refreshed.

The town had developed into a place that could overwhelm newcomers with its sights.

Beyond the abundant greenery, one of the most eye-catching features was the multi-level transport system: walkways and corridors woven together into a complex three-dimensional network.

Locals moved through it like it was flat ground, but outsiders had to tread carefully.

Step onto a walkway without paying attention and you could easily lose your way.

“It looks like there are a lot of Druids here,” Gauss said, turning to Aria.

Druids were easy to recognize—by their clothing and the unmistakable natural aura they radiated.

Many Druids had clearly already integrated into local life;

their dress was indistinguishable from that of native residents.

“Living here for a while would probably help you attune to nature, right?” Aria guessed.

Lincrest Town’s natural vibe was indeed far stronger than other towns—even Barry, that so-called Forest Capital, couldn’t compare.

Barry was simply too large;

apart from the core near the World Tree, the outskirts looked like a typical bustling city.

Lincrest, however, truly lived in concert with the forest;

it had grown out of nature itself.

Even the residents were mostly hunters, woodcutters, herbalists, fur traders, carpenters, and similar trades.

“Let’s head to the tavern and gather intel first.”

A tavern was always the best place for newcomers to collect information.

After asking some passersby, the three found a busy tavern.

Three thick tree trunks formed the building’s supporting pillars. Pushing aside a curtain woven from thick vines, they entered a wide, noisy space.

Fungus lanterns gave off a soft yellow glow overhead, bundles of dried herbs, smoked meats, and odd-shaped beast bones hung as decorations.

The walls weren’t built from stone but enclosed with natural ancient bark, and small glowing mosses grew in the gaps, providing extra light.

Rough-hewn logs and stumps were made into natural tables and chairs, their surfaces coated in a thick transparent varnish.

Foreign adventurers took most of the seats. Their clothing and gear varied wildly;

their faces were dust-streaked from long travel, full of the curiosity and freshness of newcomers.

Conversations centered on topics like “Outpost 11,” “monster tides,” and “escort missions.”

Gauss and his companions took a corner table and quietly observed the tavern.

Soon their fruit wine and food arrived.

“Enjoy your meal!”

The fruit wine was a light red drink brewed from local forest berries—sweet and sour with a unique plant fragrance and very low alcohol.

The food was a large stew served in a wooden basin, with big chunks of some unidentified beast meat, roots, mushrooms, and colorful leaves as garnish. It smelled delicious and was reasonably priced.

While quietly eating and drinking, Gauss pricked up his ears like an alert hunting hound, picking up useful fragments from the surrounding noise.

“Damn! That godforsaken place is full of bugs! My leather armor’s about to be eaten through!” a scarred burly man complained to his companions, downing a gulp of wine.

“Count yourself lucky—at least it’s not lethal. I heard a squad from Blackwater Town ran into a pack of frenzied terror-claw wolves at a wyvern nest. It cost them two men to escape,” his companion said in a low voice, looking pale.

In frontier expeditions, everyone knew their fates were intertwined;

no one took pleasure in another team’s losses because they could be next.

“Looks like we should avoid the wyvern nest area,” another table murmured. A group of sharper-looking adventurers discussed missions in low voices.

“Escort pay has gone up thirty percent, but we’re still short-handed. We need a decent spellcaster or a ranger to scout in advance, or this won’t be profitable.”

Some veteran soldiers sat at the bar. A young adventurer eagerly asked one experienced soldier about intelligence on the outpost.

“What’s the situation over at Outpost 11?”

The veteran took the offered drink and tobacco, skewered some meat with his dagger, and popped it in his mouth. “The walls are mostly up, but it’s far from secure.”

“You can hear things calling in the woods at night—calls that aren’t ordinary wolf or bear noises. Hard to describe.”

“Patrols have to be extra careful every time.”

“And it’s not just beasts and monsters. People say they’ve seen things that shouldn’t be there—like wild men tangled in thorns wandering the forest.”

Gauss’s team wasn’t among the first wave of adventurers to arrive in Lincrest, so some had already been to Outpost 11 for commissions and returned for a short rest.

These reports weren’t secret—any adventurer who went could learn them—so no one in the tavern was hiding anything.

Thus, Gauss easily gathered a fair amount of information.

“Seems more complicated than we thought,” Aria murmured.

“Monster tides, terror-claw wolves, insect swarms, and strange wild men.”

In truth, Gauss’s team didn’t know much about the Emerald Forest yet.

They had never been to a special field where natural mana naturally concentrated.

“Trouble is guaranteed—otherwise adventurers from multiple towns wouldn’t be assembled, and even the provincial cavalry led by Captain Bard has been sent to assist,” Gauss said, sipping his slightly tart fruit wine with little surprise.

If things seemed calm, that would be more concerning: calm often hides greater danger.

Open dangers were far easier to deal with than hidden ones.

Serlandul nodded slightly, eyes still scanning the room.

Suddenly he noticed several people at another table wearing matching emblemed scale leather armor;

his pupils narrowed.

“What’s wrong, Serlandul?” Gauss’s peripheral vision had kept track of his partner;

he noticed the change in Serlandul’s expression and grew curious.

The half-snake teammate wasn’t the skittish type—he rarely showed much expression.

“Those people wear the Blue Scale Adventuring Company’s emblem,” Serlandul transmitted to Gauss and Aria using Message.

He knew saying the name alone would sound cryptic, so he continued.

“Blue Scale is a large adventuring company active on the west coast. It’s long-established and powerful, with many branches.”

He paused as if weighing his words, then spoke plainly.

“They originally made their name through large-scale hunting, capturing, and trafficking of our kind’s organs around the Scaled Isles and nearby regions. Although public pressure has forced them to stop in the last two to three centuries, they’ve always had open and covert conflicts with our people.”

Serlandul’s vertical pupils darkened as he stared at the company’s bright blue scale-and-tail emblem.

“In the wild or in ungoverned areas, clashes happen when members of both sides cross paths... If they pick a fight with me out there, captain, you don’t need to get involved—leave it to me.”

Gauss and Aria immediately understood Serlandul’s reaction: this was an ancestral feud.

But Gauss didn’t read pure hatred on Serlandul’s face;

instead, he saw a complicated, tangled emotion.

“We’re teammates in one party. If they mess with you, I won’t stand by,” Gauss said, shaking his head.

“Same here,” Aria quickly nodded in agreement.

Serlandul fell silent for a moment.

“But most of the time, things remain peaceful,” he added.

Part of his earlier shock wasn’t just recognizing them—it was puzzlement over how they ended up here at all.

At that moment, one of the Blue Scale members—a tall, gaunt man wearing an eyepatch over his left eye—glanced toward their corner, sweeping his gaze over Gauss and Aria and lingering for a fraction of a second on Serlandul before turning away to drink with a slight, almost imperceptible frown.

“He saw me,” Serlandul said, taking a sip of his drink.

There was no way to disguise his features;

being recognized was normal, especially by Blue Scale members.

“Looks like they don’t intend to cause trouble—probably here on business,” Gauss guessed.

They neither sought trouble nor feared it.

Since the other side had taken a casual stance, the trio stopped paying them attention.

Both groups continued quietly eavesdropping in the tavern, intentionally avoiding eye contact with one another.

As Gauss chewed a piece of meat, his grip on the fork froze. A look of puzzlement crossed his face, quickly turning into interest.

“...energy residue...”

“...the Great One has been disturbed.”

“...don’t let the humans find it...”

“Expel the intruders! Drive all humans out!”

Huh?

What the hell was that noise?

At first he’d thought it was some adventurer at another table speaking, but the voice was choppy and strange—like a toddler awkwardly mimicking an adult. He realized something was off.

He looked toward the sound’s direction.

There was no visible person, and the voice faded quickly.

Gauss scanned the empty area thoughtfully.

“Did the Hive Mind Form activate?”

Could that voice have been from insects?

Previously, the little insects could only express the simplest instinctive impulses, which Gauss normally filtered out. Yet the broken fragments he’d just heard carried such clear meaning.

Could ordinary bugs produce that?

If not those creatures, then what?

He couldn’t see any abnormalities with his eyes.

And the voices vanished entirely after he noticed them, as if what he heard had been a hallucination.

Energy disruption, the Great One alarmed, don’t let humans find it, expel intruders?

Find what?

If it wasn’t a hallucination, that information might be valuable.

“You okay?” Aria asked. She saw Gauss staring blankly at the bark wall, fork frozen in midair, and waved her hand in front of his face.

“You didn’t get tipsy, right? This fruit wine is basically a soft drink,” she teased.

“Fine, just thinking,” Gauss replied sparsely.

He wasn’t sure whether the voice had been real, and this wasn’t the place for a magic-based conversation.

“Finish your meal first.”

Gauss swallowed the last piece of stew and chewed slowly.

They had gathered enough information for now.

Although much of it was hearsay and fragmented, the pieces were sufficient to form a preliminary impression of Outpost 11’s surroundings.

After putting down his utensils, he stood.

Stretching, he walked toward the spot where he’d heard the sound, inspected the area carefully, found nothing more, and returned.

“Finish up your shopping this afternoon and get some supplies, then rest—tomorrow morning we head out,” he said.

The next day.

When Gauss and his companions arrived at the meeting point with Bard, the captain and his convoy had just arrived and were sorting gear at the roadside.

“Yo, Captain Gauss, good morning. How’d you rest?” Bard greeted.

“Very well,” Gauss nodded. “Captain Bard, have all your people assembled?”

He glanced around;

the ones who had come earlier were all present.

“Not yet. We’re still waiting on some. A few more adventurers will join us to head to Outpost 11.”

“Oh.” Gauss understood why Bard had shown no sign of departing when he first arrived. Since not everyone had assembled, they had to wait.

Soon several more adventurers trickled in.

One arrived apologizing for being late.

Gauss waved magnanimously;

the apology sufficed.

He looked back at Bard and saw the captain still not mounting.

Ah.

No need to ask—he understood: more people were still missing.

Gauss found a small roadside step to sit on and pulled out his book to read, feeling a little impatient.

He wasn’t in a hurry in principle, but he disliked waiting.

Although he’d been an adventurer for just over a year, he had taken many commissions and was never late—usually he arrived early. Most adventurers behaved the same way.

After a while he was nearly absorbed in his book when a noisy commotion and the tinkling of horse hooves approached.

“Uncle Mo, see? I told you we’d make it. They must still be waiting for us.”

The noble youth Gauss had glimpsed at the city gate the day before rode up, seated on a superb white horse of exotic bloodline with gleaming coat. He’d changed into a greener, more practical hunting outfit tailored for jungle movement, though the cut remained fine and the materials still luxurious—likely crafted from expensive monster hide rather than ordinary leather.

The young man wore a lazy, entitled expression, as if making the entire convoy wait was perfectly normal.

Behind him strode the white-robed middle-aged man known as Uncle Mo, the same man who had given Gauss a strong sense of pressure, accompanied by several silent but well-equipped adventurers.

Gauss closed his book and covertly observed them—not the young noble, but the imposing middle-aged man.

“Sorry to keep you waiting—ran into some trouble on the way. My apologies,” the man said, forced a smile, and stepped forward to offer an apology to the convoy.

Gauss raised an eyebrow.

Given the man’s attitude the day before, Gauss hadn’t expected him to make any conciliatory moves.

Yet the man had humbly apologized and even offered compensation: to help carry more of the journey’s burden.

Whether or not the compensation would be honored, it at least signaled his stance.

“Alright, get packed—let’s depart,” Bard said, stiffening and offering the white-robed man an accommodating smile to give him face.

Bard could sense that the man bore a power beyond typical elites. No matter what, he wouldn’t dare snub such a “strong” individual.

“Appreciate the understanding,” Uncle Mo said, nodding to Bard before turning his gaze to Gauss. “Little brother, shall we get moving?”

“Let’s go,” Gauss replied and swung onto his ostrich mount.

The noble youth seemed about to say something else, but a soft cough from Uncle Mo silenced him. The youth shot Uncle Mo a warning look and grudgingly held back, tugging the reins and drawling, “Let’s hurry up and leave—this backward wasteland is one place I don’t want to linger.”

He rode to the front of the convoy. Uncle Mo and his men mounted quickly and took the front positions, escorting and shielding the noble.

A small episode ended for the moment.

Gauss noticed everything and exchanged a look with Aria and Serlandul—each seeing a trace of resignation in the others’ eyes.

Thankfully they only had to travel with these people for a short stretch.

“All right, let’s go.”

The convoy finally began to move, leaving Lincrest Town’s verdant gates behind and heading into the deeper, darker unknown of the Emerald Forest.

...

“Stop—let’s eat lunch first.”

After half a day, they were well inside the Emerald Forest, having traveled some distance.

Uncle Mo had kept his promise: though they encountered several waves of monsters, his squad cleared them quickly, even handling path clearing and brush work, which improved Gauss’s impression of them.

At noon, the two groups still ate apart—one in the middle of the convoy, the other at the front.

“Young master, you should curb your temper when traveling,” the white-robed middle-aged man sighed, offering earnest advice. “Even if you have opinions, no need to offend people openly, right?”

“What’s the harm in offending them?” the young man Rock (Locke) shrugged unconcerned. “Aren’t you here for me?”

“Besides, even if I offend them, I doubt I’ll ever see them again in this miserable place. When I climb to higher ranks, they’ll still be scraping by here.”

A smirk tugged at Lock’s mouth.

He wasn’t ignorant—he simply didn’t care.

His background meant his future would outstrip many others, so he didn’t need to expend energy worrying over passersby’s opinions.

“You’re mistaken, Young Master,” Mo Jar said gravely, shaking his head.

“You mean the man in the black robe?” Lock looked toward the direction where Mo Jar’s gaze had hovered and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Just a level-3 professional. Nothing special,” Lock waved off, but his tone carried a hint of competition—perhaps because he’d noticed Gauss and had a sense of comparison. “I should be younger than him.”

His household guards included many level-3 professionals. While that rank seemed lofty to ordinary people, to him it was unremarkable. Without a certain family restriction on some medicines, he might already be level 4 or 5.

“He’s not a regular level-3... he’s very strong,” Mo Jar said, eyes lingering on Lock’s glowing expression.

This praise of strength was relative to a level-3 adventurer.

Mo Jar knew that although ranks usually reflected strength, exceptions existed where some individuals could defeat equal or higher-ranked opponents with ease.

He hadn’t seen Gauss fight, but his perception warned that Gauss might be one of those freakishly capable people.

Hearing Mo Jar’s solemn appraisal, Lock wanted to argue but found his courage faltering. He muttered under his breath,

“That... fine. In a few years I’ll be a Heavenly Master. He’ll likely still be stuck at elite level.”

“One moment of being stronger doesn’t mean much. My talent is not something ordinary people can catch up to.”

Mo Jar fell silent, unsure how to respond. Did the young master truly believe his abilities weren’t propped by family resources?

But thinking further, there was truth in the youth’s words: rank gaps between stages were immense. For ordinary people, moving from Elite to Master was like scaling the heavens.

And the young master’s “talent” might indeed guarantee his ascent to the Heavenly Master tier—at which point that young man probably wouldn’t stand a chance.

After lunch the convoy resumed travel.

After traversing the forest road a while, the view ahead opened up and human sounds grew louder—not birdcalls or beast cries but the noise of human activity: metal striking metal, wood being sawed, rough hoarse shouts, and the thud of unloaded cargo.

They rounded the last dense thicket and the scene burst into view.

A vast clearing had been carved out in the forest.

The Outpost 11 walls stood in the clearing, imposing and grand. But beyond the walls it was clear this was, for now, a large, busy, somewhat chaotic construction site.

Inside and outside the walls, people bustled.

Engineers and laborers shouted and swung tools, heaving logs with brute strength.

Blacksmiths in makeshift shelters hammered and lit blazing forges.

Adventurers from various towns clustered—some just returned from missions and were reporting or exchanging intel;

others examined gear, preparing to depart.

Provincial cavalry soldiers wore standard leather or chain armor—some patrolling with discipline, others standing guard.

Supplies piled into small mountains: timber, stone, bundles of arrows, sacks of grain.

Constructive mages used those materials to rapidly level roads and build houses and defenses.

A tense, pressured energy permeated the outpost. Despite the numbers, idle chatter was rare—everyone wore a measure of wariness.

Although the ground had been cleared, this was still the Emerald Forest’s interior;

an ambush could occur at any time.

If you looked closely at the walls, you could see bloodstains and damage—the outpost had been attacked repeatedly.

“Captain Bard, we’ll take our leave here,” Gauss said, parting with him.

They weren’t subordinate to each other, operating within different structures.

After arriving at the garrison, Gauss needed to report to the outpost’s Adventurers Guild superior.

“All right—let’s drink together if we have the chance,” Bard said, giving a supportive wave.

He thought highly of Gauss.

“Well then, little brother Gauss, we’ll be off,” Mo Jar said.

“Goodbye,” Gauss waved.

To his surprise, the proud young noble even gave him a nod before riding off.

Noticing this, Gauss glanced sideways to see if someone was signaling him, but no stranger stood nearby.

Perhaps he’d truly softened.

Watching them go, Gauss scratched his head.

After parting, Gauss, Aria, and Serlandul dove into the noise of Outpost 11, their first priority finding the temporary Adventurers Guild office to register.

Early registration earned an extra day’s subsidy—even the half-day this afternoon provided pay.

One gold coin per day wasn’t trivial.

They also needed to learn about specific mission assignments, duties, and intel.

Inside the outpost felt even more crowded than outside.

Temporary tents and under-construction stone-and-wood houses mixed together;

roads were muddy and congested.

“So many people,” Aria said carefully as she avoided laborers carrying a log.

“This is the front line,” Serlandul observed.

Following charcoal-drawn signposts, they found a larger two-story stone-and-wood building near the center—obviously prioritized by construction mages and laborers.

Most people coming and going were adventurers.

Inside was roomier than Gauss expected.

Several Guild clerks sat behind a makeshift long table, busily processing documents and talking with applicants.

Huge parchment sheets nailed to the wall listed missions: reconnaissance, extermination, garrison, gathering, escort... rewards ranged from coin to Guild Merits.

Following staff direction, the trio entered a room to register.

Inside sat a man wearing a monocle.

He was large and muscular like a rock, yet dressed neatly in formal attire—a striking contrast.

Gauss handed over the documents.

“So you’re Gauss, Aria, and Serlandul from Grayrock Town?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Gauss nodded.

Serlandul was counted as Grayrock’s supporting force for record-keeping purposes—adventurer mobility made strict affiliations impractical.

“We’ll mark today as your first day of registration,” the man coughed. “I’m Ritchie Phoenix, head of the Lincrest Town Adventurers Association branch—call me President Ritchie.”

“I’m in charge of commanding and coordinating adventurers here. If you run into trouble, come find me.”

Ritchie Phoenix spoke kindly.

Unlike regular walk-in adventurers, Gauss’s team had been specially invited as an “elite squad,” which entitled them to additional subsidies and greater privileges—direct contact with him.

Although their ranks were a bit low—most elite squads were level 4 to 5—Ritchie sensed that this team had solid strength, particularly the young man in front of him, whose aura was strong despite being only level 3.

“Thanks, President Ritchie,” Gauss replied.

Ritchie spread a map on the table.

It was plainly colored but detailed, with faint rippling magical traces on its surface. Centered on Outpost 11, it named the surrounding locations.

“Outpost 11 sits atop a special natural mana node, so the surrounding environment is more complex. The mana field creates several distinct dangerous areas,” Ritchie said, tracing his finger to specially marked zones.

“First, to the southeast is the Fungus Beast Swamp—filled with stubborn corrupting miasma, giant dangerous luminous fungi, and monsters adapted to the poison environment, such as venom crocodiles and spiked water pythons. Adventurers have died there—watch your route.”

“To the southwest is the Black Forest, home to ancient tree spirits and their insect kin—extremely hostile to intruders.”

“This is the Mist Path—a canyon where dense magical fog not only blocks sight but influences the mind, causing hallucinations and sleep. The canyon houses large numbers of banshees and undead. Recently a dozen cavalrymen got lost there;

the cavalry regiment has cordoned it and taken sole responsibility.”

Finally his finger pointed to an expansive hilly area directly south.

“That’s the Wyvern Nest. Cliff faces host several wyverns and even more pterosaur-like creatures and subordinate monsters—part of the Green Dragon Queen’s garrison. Wyverns are ferocious and highly territorial;

they frequently attack ground creatures. I don’t recommend you go there.”

After giving the overview, Ritchie pulled a scroll from under his desk and handed it to Gauss.

“There’s a fresh commission I’d like to offer—see if you’re willing to take it.”

“It’s a Beginner Four-Star mission. You’re to go into the Black Forest to survey the recent thorn-wildman distribution—record their locations and numbers. Note: these wildmen act strangely;

they seem able to sense attempted captures and possess a special mind-beguilement power. Several people have already been bewitched and turned to their side.”

“Mission reward: 40 gold and five Adventurers Association Merits.”

A scouting mission, Gauss thought.

When Ritchie had mentioned the four zones earlier, the Black Forest had piqued his interest.

The Wyvern Nest was clearly too dangerous to attempt now.

Of the other three zones, the Black Forest’s ancient tree spirits and insect kin reminded him of the strange whispered fragments he’d overheard in the tavern.

Perhaps his Hive Mind Form talent could yield extra gains there—or uncover clues.

Being newcomers with little knowledge, choosing a suitable-looking area made sense.

He felt a spark of excitement but looked to his teammates for confirmation.

“Do as you decide,” Serlandul said.

“Captain, I’ll follow you,” Aria said.

After their responses, Gauss turned to President Ritchie and didn’t hesitate: “We accept.”

“All right. The mission term is seven days. Whether you succeed or fail, return to report before sunset on the seventh day. If an emergency occurs, return immediately to report,” Ritchie said, giving Gauss the scroll. “Be careful. Good luck.”

After taking the commission, the three left the Guild’s temporary office and prepared to camp on a deserted patch of ground.

Gauss mentioned the fragmented voices he’d heard in the tavern the day before to his teammates.

“So that’s why you want to check out where the insects gather?” Aria touched her chin.

“Maybe there’s some enormous treasure!” she said, eyes brightening.

It sounded like an adventure straight out of a storybook. She quickly covered her mouth and glanced around—there were no strangers nearby, so she relaxed.

“You used Message earlier, Aria—no need to be so secretive,” Gauss reminded her.

“Oh, right.” Aria giggled, excitement for possible treasure clouding her sense.

They set camp, lit a fire, cooked, and slept.

The next morning—after packing water, washing, and organizing gear—their team mounted their ostriches and left the outpost amid the bustle.

The camp was noisy but well-organized;

everyone carried out their tasks efficiently.

Following the map toward the Black Forest, the trio gradually disappeared down the road.

At Outpost 11’s central area.

In a core pavilion guarded by elite cavalry soldiers, Lock lounged in a luxurious soft chair while Mo Jar stood at his side.

“This camp is a dump—why would Father send me here?” After a day, Lock had reverted to his true nature;

the messy camp irritated him.

He’d heard seventeen outposts would be established;

he saw nothing special about the eleventh.

“They insisted we conceal our identities and pretend to be ordinary adventurers, with only you and Uncle Mo allowed to accompany me,” he complained.

“This is Zalan the Archmage’s prophecy: sleep, slumber, and the miracle soon to awaken—here the future legend will be born, and those who stand beside him will share the glory,” Mo Jar said solemnly. “But we mustn’t disturb it. This is the chance you must seize.”

“Sigh... fine,” Lock muttered, clearly exasperated.

If he’d harbored any romantic notion of becoming a legend, the chaotic camp had doused that flame.

The stench of sweat, the clamoring voices, the mud, and the thronging crowds all put him off. How could a legend arise in such a filthy, disorderly place?

And some “archmage”—probably a charlatan doing unverifiable astrology rather than real spells.

“Today we must hurry to the Mist Path for reconnaissance. Its mana-laden fog disrupts minds and creates illusions, causing sleep—this fits Zalan’s prophecy,” Mo Jar continued, unaware of Lock’s inner thoughts. “I’ve already sent people to seal the outer perimeter;

in theory no one should disturb us. But we can’t keep the perimeter sealed too long—we might risk the prophecy manifesting unexpectedly.”