"But where are we supposed to get a ballista?" Aria asked, voicing the doubt on everyone's mind.

Out here in the wilderness, there weren't even proper workshops, let alone one capable of building a siege ballista.

Even if such a place existed, making a ballista would take time and manpower—not something you could finish in a short span.

But since Gauss had proposed the plan, it clearly wasn't a spur-of-the-moment idea.

He calmly took the commission scroll from his pack, unrolled it, and pointed to a line in the additional clauses.

"The commission notes say there’s an outpost at the foot of the Heren Mountains. If necessary, the Adventurers Guild has authorized us to use equipment stored in their armory free of charge."

"There are probably ballistae there."

"They might be a bit old, but with simple maintenance they should still work."

Gauss rolled the scroll back up.

"We need to get to that camp and obtain a ballista or other long-range weapons. That way, when we encounter them next time, we can shoot them out of the sky—or at least keep them from getting close."

The others nodded in agreement.

Against fast enemies in the air, they needed direct and effective long-range heavy firepower.

It wasn’t just that their team lacked completeness;

in truth, most elite teams would be helpless facing that kind of threat.

Unless they had a flexible flying mount strong enough to deal with Goblin Bat Knights.

Such teams existed, but they were rare.

Without wasting time, the group moved at once.

Following the map's directions, they rode back to the village where their storage Ostrich was kept, then mounted and headed toward the outpost at the foot of the Heren Mountains.

Tucked into Gauss’s collar, a few pixies chattered excitedly.

When Gauss asked, he learned this was their first time traveling so far from home.

They had never left the forest before.

Human villages, open roads, and merchant caravans filled these inexperienced little creatures with wonder.

"Oh, so that’s what a human village looks like..."

"Is that all? Is that it?"

"Our village is prettier, and there are more houses than this," sniffed Moss the pixie.

"Shh, Moss, you provincetown regular, don’t say embarrassing things like that. This is the smallest kind of human village. I heard there are ones so big that a single village can hold hundreds of thousands of people!" Dandelion hurriedly patted Moss.

Dandelion was the most 'well-read' of the four little ones.

"Hundreds of thousands?" Moss, who had been critiquing everything a moment ago, immediately fell silent.

"Really? That big?" Moss tilted its head and looked at Gauss.

"It’s true," Gauss nodded.

If what Dandelion called a very large village could be considered a city, then yes.

Hearing Gauss confirm it, Moss’s mind went blank as it tried to imagine how many times larger that would be compared to their village.

It counted on its tiny fingers for a long time and still couldn't reach a conclusion.

All it knew was the number was unimaginably huge.

Gauss smiled as he listened to the pixies’ conversation from his collar, saying nothing.

He found the little creatures likable.

Perhaps it was their species or their upbringing, but pixies were naturally simple and straightforward—what they felt, they said.

He rather liked that.

They were far easier to be around than many scheming people—provided, of course, he earned their trust.

Otherwise, they would have used toxin to drug someone and leave them in the forest at the first sign of trouble.

The monotony of the road was softened by their constant chatter.

Before sunset, Gauss and the team arrived along the dirt path at the outpost.

Looking at the fenced area up ahead, Gauss checked the map.

"This should be it."

"Lawrence’s Camp."

It took that name because an adventurer named Lawrence had originally come here with his family to settle;

over time, more adventurers and pioneers had been drawn here, forming a small gathering that kept his name.

Lawrence’s Camp looked more orderly and larger than a typical village. The outer wooden palisade was thick and sturdy, even fitted with spike-tips to deter climbing.

A watchtower stood by the gate;

two militiamen peered at Gauss’s group with vigilant eyes.

Only after Gauss stepped forward, identified himself as an adventurer, and showed the commission scroll did the sentries’ expressions shift to one of serious attention.

One of them hurried inside to report.

Not long after, a burly middle-aged man wearing finely made armor and carrying a long sword at his waist—looking every bit like a team captain—stepped out.

He examined the papers closely, especially the clause authorizing the borrowing of armory equipment and the guild’s seal. Once he confirmed it was in order, a rugged smile spread across his face.

"I’m Captain Miller. Welcome to Lawrence’s Camp, adventurers," he boomed, his voice hoarse from years of shouting.

"I heard you’re dealing with the goblins in the mountains? Great! Those green-skins have been getting bolder. A few days ago they attacked one of our gathering teams—lots of casualties."

"Do you have ballistae here?"

"Let me see... I think there’s one rusting away in the warehouse. Follow me."

He led Gauss and the others into the camp with hearty enthusiasm.

Though he found it odd that a three-star adventurer was leading the group while four- and five-star adventurers followed contentedly behind, his smile didn’t fade;

if anything, it got brighter.

Years of guard duty had taught him that unusual situations required extra care—a wisdom earned by middle age.

Many adventurer teams were camped inside. Groups sat on wooden stumps outside their tents, keeping gear in order, talking quietly, or smoking.

Compared to many town adventurers, the folks here wore clearly worn gear, but their eyes were sharp, sizing up the newcomers warily.

When they saw the half-snake person Serlandul and the rough-looking Shadow, there was a flash of distrust, quickly averted.

Besides adventurers, there were many herbalists and miners in the camp.

"This place is pretty lively," Gauss remarked.

"We live off the mountain. You need a place to rest," Miller replied casually as he led them along a tidy, if narrow, camp road.

"Things haven’t been peaceful in the mountains. Monster attacks have increased, and traffic is much lower than before. The laborers staying in camp haven’t gone out for days."

There was a faint worry threaded through his words.

The camp’s prosperity depended heavily on passing adventurers and caravans. If the threat wasn’t handled, it would deal a heavy blow to the settlement.

Gauss said nothing, silently observing the miners and herbalists.

Most looked weathered, with rough hands and tattered clothes. They ate simple food in silence, their eyes full of fatigue and concern.

Clearly, the goblins' rampage had affected their livelihoods.

Those cunning goblins were likely using hit-and-run attacks like last night to pressure other intelligent beings around the forest.

What Gauss and the team needed to do was find their lair and eliminate them all.

The armory was located toward the interior of the camp. It was a solid stone cellar with a guard posted at the door.

Miller produced a key and opened the heavy lock.

When he pushed the door, a blast of cool air carrying the smell of anti-rust oil, wood, and dust hit them.

Miller lifted a lamp and stepped inside.

The storage wasn’t full, but items were neatly organized. Solid leather shields hung on the walls;

spears, axes, and longswords rested on racks in the corner.

Most attention, though, went to the ballista secured on a rack at the far end.

It looked more imposing than Gauss had imagined—the thick limbs carved from a dark hard wood, the bowstring as thick as a finger.

Though Miller had said it was just gathering dust, the thick oil on the black metal mechanism showed it had been well maintained.

"This is the one."

Gauss inspected it and then asked Miller how to operate it.

After learning the steps to disassemble and assemble it correctly, he took it apart into major components—the stock, the limbs, the base, and the heavy winding winch—and stored them in his Storage Bag.

It wouldn’t fit otherwise.

Gauss now had a ballista in his possession.

As he prepared to turn and leave, Miller suddenly retrieved several wrapped packages from a corner and handed them to Gauss.

"You might find these useful."

Gauss looked at the parcel in Miller’s hands. It was a long, weighty bundle wrapped in thick oilcloth. He could feel several hard cylindrical objects inside.

Carefully untying one corner, he revealed three dark metal devices.

They were roughly cylindrical, embossed with simple reinforcing runes and a trigger groove, with a handle on top for throwing. They smelled faintly of sulfur mixed with mana.

Alchemical bombs?

"These are too valuable," Gauss began.

Miller waved him off.

"Take them. Things are replaceable;

people aren’t. I hope you can wipe out those nests so we can have peace for a while."

Gauss accepted without further protest and carefully stowed the parcel.

They left the cellar. Night had already fallen.

They accepted Miller’s offer to stay the night in camp.

At dawn they left their mounts at the camp and resumed their journey.

Under the watchful, complicated gazes of the camp, they departed Lawrence’s Camp and headed deeper into the perilous mountain wilds.

.....

Somewhere in the Heren Mountains

A concealed fissure had been turned into a defensible stronghold.

Shadows of the green-skinned creatures were everywhere—tall, short, fat, thin—packed among rough animal-skin tents.

Dried meat strips and crude bone trinkets hung outside the tents.

Makeshift hearths made of piled stones and dirt dotted the camp, the flames revealing many ugly faces.

Most goblins squatted about idly, gnashing and snatching at scraps, or sharpening crude weapons on stone with teeth-aching scrapes.

Occasionally, bulkier goblins with more trophies and decorations strode by, yelling and lashing quarrelsome goblins with whips to maintain a chaotic but functional order.

Deep within the mountain camp, in the largest tent built from giant bones and thick hides, muffled grumbles and suppressed roars came from within.

Around the central hearth, the crackling fire cast distorted silhouettes on the rough tent walls.

If Gauss had been there that night, he would have found the Goblin Bat Knight who had ridden the bat mount cowering inside.

On the main seat sat a leader goblin.

He was more muscular than a Hobgoblin, his skin covered in scar tissue.

Now he’d been tapping a large unknown bone with his fingers, producing a dull knocking sound.

Seated beneath him was an old shaman, hunched and holding a feather-wrapped bone bell staff, his cloudy eyes half-closed.

The Goblin Bat Knight endured their scrutiny.

"So," the leader goblin suddenly spoke in a low, hoarse voice in the common tongue, his anger not even trying to hide itself. "You took your best squad, those big brutes, to attack a four-person team, and you—one idiot—came crawling back like a monkey with a burned butt? The others—fed to the king?"

The Bat Knight was silent for a moment, then finally emitted a sharp voice.

"Chief! They were not an ordinary human team. There—there was a monster! He was more resistant to us than the intel said..."

"Chief, we must be careful of that human."

It tried desperately to describe the overwhelmingly ominous aura it had felt radiating from Gauss that night—an aura like the goblins’ natural predator.

But to the leader goblin, its fear read like a laughable, cowardly excuse and a shirking of responsibility.

The old shaman beside them shook his head in disappointment.

If the goblin before them hadn’t been the best fighter in the expedition, they would have wanted to tear this cowardly kin apart for the losses they’d suffered.

Yet even dull goblins acquire cunning at a certain level.

They understood clearly that the decimated expedition could not afford to lose its strongest fighters.

"I’ll eat him alive when he comes!"

"Get out of my sight!"

Just as the tent’s atmosphere reached a boiling point—

"RUMBLE!!!!"

A thunderous sound ripped through the air.

The entire mountain camp seemed to shudder. The crude tents violently shook.

Dust and small stones rained down from above.

The leader goblin sprang up, a look of startled uncertainty for the first time on his face.

The old shaman’s cloudy eyes snapped open, his bone bell jangling frantically in his hand.

"What’s happening?!"

"Is that an earthquake?!"

"The ground is shaking!"

Outside the goblin camp, pandemonium broke out instantly.

Roars, wails, terrified screams, and the thud of panicked running all mixed together.

"No... it’s not thunder..." The Bat Knight, who had not yet left the tent, froze and swallowed. "It must be... he... he’s here!"

The terrifying figure from that night flashed through its mind.

Since fleeing, that image had grown clearer in memory.

Like a ghost—the goblins’ exterminating ghost—wandering through its dreams.