Leaving Barry by the west gate, the massive walls dwindled behind them.

Gauss rode his chocobo, rising and falling with its stride, eyes full of the open, magnificent view.

Now he truly felt the joy of traveling on his own mount.

Compared to hitching a ride with a caravan, this was pure freedom.

Go where you want, leave when you want.

Should’ve bought one sooner…

He couldn’t help thinking that, wind in his face.

But a glance at Serandur, gliding alongside without the slightest effort, left him a bit speechless.

While he was marveling at the convenience of a mount, the serpentfolk never needed to think about it at all.

That kind of travel speed was enviable…

“Captain, why pick a goblin purge specifically?” Serandur asked via Message, curious.

It wasn’t the commission itself—his mind drifted back to the South-2 branch that morning, when Gauss had stood there sifting through a pile of goblin jobs. He’d wondered then, but hadn’t asked. On the road now, he couldn’t hold it in.

“Because there are enough of them.”

Serandur was even more puzzled.

Adventurers he knew either chased money—repeating what they knew—or sought challenge, fighting different monsters to broaden their experience. But “because there are many”? What kind of answer was that?

Did he mean goblins, being numerous, threatened ordinary folk most—so his captain prioritized them for the villagers’ sake?

At that thought, respect rose in Serandur’s heart.

He himself hadn’t chosen commissions for pay, usually picking at random; adapting his jobs for commoners’ sake was more than he’d ever done.

Gauss had no idea what the serpentfolk was imagining. He was thinking about the intel for this job.

Seeing over a hundred goblins together wasn’t common. Goblins are dull-witted—put a hundred in one place and they fight each other, unless there’s a “strong one” who can cow the rest and lead the tribe. That “strong one” might be an elite goblin—or another elite monster. Goblins worship strength in their bones and often end up as fodder for elite monsters.

So while Gauss hoped the chief of those hundred goblins was an elite goblin, he couldn’t conclude anything without seeing it.

They didn’t waste time. Aside from stopping now and then to feed Golden Sheaf—and to rest themselves—they pressed on.

The landscape grew increasingly barren.

The farther from Barry, the faster human traces vanished.

Frostleaf Village

A livestock hamlet not exactly close to Barry—almost beyond the city’s reach.

Right now the village bustled in alarm.

An elderly man with white hair, weather carved into his skin, forced his stooped back straight, clouded eyes on the smashed livestock pen, heavy with worry.

“Still no adventurers from Barry?”

“None yet,” the sturdy youth beside him said helplessly; on his way he’d stopped to watch the Barry road. “Father, I hear there’s a labyrinth outside Barry. Most adventurers dove in. A remote village like ours—hard to draw anyone.”

The old village head might not grasp the details. The young men who took wagons to Barry for supplies knew the big news: a labyrinth. Early-stage labyrinths are a huge draw for adventurers, especially low-tier ones.

Around Barry, that meant a lull—delvers in the labyrinth; when they surfaced to resupply, they rested, not took contracts. Even those strapped for cash stayed close. Out here, there’d be few takers for a while.

A party had passed two days ago—but with no professionals in it. Hearing the goblin numbers, they turned right around.

The villagers were frustrated but understood. Without professionals, “ordinary adventurers” going against those monsters was suicide. In their shoes, they’d do the same. Money has many chances; life only one.

“What do we do then? Doesn’t the Guild have a plan?” The old man’s gnarled hands clenched a rough cane, knuckles white. He stared toward the forest, as if he could see the monsters “building” their camp.

“We can’t just watch them put up a village at our doorstep and raid us.”

“We should hear soon,” the young man said, trying to soothe him. “I heard the first groups are finishing their initial dives. They should be coming out.”

“If not, I’ll ride to Barry again today—see if a little extra coin…”

Just then hoofbeats rang outside the village.

A man in his early twenties swung down from a horse.

“Bad news—the goblins have started erecting a watchtower at the treeline,” he blurted.

At that, everyone stiffened.

A watchtower was no good sign—it meant the temporary camp was nearly done, and they now had strength to expand outward. Building it facing the village made the intent plain: they’d been marked—and were likely next.

“Bob, tell the women and children to pack—see if we can move them to another village.”

They couldn’t empty out a decades-old village in a hurry, but with no adventurers coming and the threat growing, they couldn’t just wait to die. Best to get the weakest out to safety; many villages did the same. Move the vulnerable and valuables; return when the dust settled. There would be losses—but lives would be saved.

“Damn green rats!” a youth spat; his family had lost a sheep. One sheep isn’t trivial.

“Village head—why don’t we gather some men and strike first?”

About ten hot-blooded lads trotted up, muddy and in rough cloth, pant legs jammed into old boots or straw sandals—they’d left in a hurry. Their “weapons” were pitchforks, hoes, axes; only two or three had proper iron. The old head’s chest heaved at the sight.

“Have you all taken leave of your senses? Go home and rest!” Far from pride in their spirit, he felt only sorrow. They had no idea what a hundred goblins meant. One goblin might lose to a strong youth—but a hundred? And behind them there was almost surely something worse.

That was why they hadn’t sent riders deeper to scout: fear of the elite behind them.

Those ten marching out to “raid a tower” would only be marching to their deaths.

“We can use fire—shoot from afar—just…” the leader, Theo, said, showing his longbow and cloth-wrapped arrows. Pick a few quick hands; fire-arrows would hurt goblins.

As part of the scant village guard, he’d killed goblins before—and thought they weren’t strong.

“Back!” the old head snapped, cutting him off. “If you still call me village head, disperse—don’t make trouble.”

Theo lowered the bow, looked at the cold stare, and felt disappointment. The kindly elder of his youth now looked weak—no will even to resist those invading their home. And this was their leader.

But the old man’s long-standing authority kept him from openly rebelling. He grunted and turned away, face sour, taking his mates with him.

“Theo doesn’t look happy,” Bob—the old head’s son and current chief—murmured.

“Ignore him—he’s young and doesn’t know how terrible these monsters are. Let him run wild and he’ll drag others into the abyss,” the old man sighed. Everyone is hot-blooded when young, but reality is cruel; without power, humans are fragile before monsters. Running and retreating sound shameful but are best for most.

“Tell the others to pack—move out. Stash what we can’t carry—or leave it.”

“Understood.”

Theo, stung by the rebuke, only grew more sullen. He’d meant well; not only ignored, but scolded—unfair.

“The old man’s gone soft,” someone muttered.

“We’re not charging their main camp—just the watchtower,” another insisted.

“Goblins aren’t strong—I’ve killed ten,” said a big oaf bluntly. “Who needs adventurers? We can squash those little green skins like rats.”

“Then… we go ahead?”

“I think so,” Theo nodded. “When we come back in triumph, the head will see how foolish his cowardice was.”

They’d already prepped their “weapons” and “armor”; with a bit of gathering, they marched out toward the goblin camp. Most villagers were busy packing and didn’t notice until later.

“Theo’s group is gone!”

“When?”

“After they spoke with the head—we haven’t seen them since.”

“Damn it—they’ve gone to the watchtower,” Bob said, helpless. “What now?”

Parents of the missing, elders abandoned their bundles and looked to him. He was torn. Doing nothing was impossible; sending help would put more at risk—most likely to die.

“Chief, decide—Theo’s group left a while ago.”

Bob drew a breath to speak when fresh hoofbeats rang—and a plume of dust rose.

Gauss and Serandur slowed at the village fields and made their way in—

—and screams erupted at the sight of a serpentfolk.

“A snake!”

“Monsters!”

“Ah!”

Already taut nerves snapped. Some ran; others grabbed pitchforks with shaking hands. A towering snake-man was far scarier than a goblin.

Gauss swung down and stepped forward, standing in front of Serandur.

“Please don’t panic. Lower your weapons. We’re adventurers from Barry—we took the commission.”

He spoke as a parchment appeared in his hand, unrolled and plainly displaying its contents.

Serandur watched Gauss step in front of him; a warmth flickered in his narrow pupils. The farmers couldn’t hurt him; he was used to ignorant country folk calling him a monster. But the reflexive protection still moved him.

Even so, many knuckles stayed white on farm tools. Words were weaker than what the eyes saw: to many who had never left the village, a snake-man was a man-eater. A tail, slit eyes, scales don’t turn into human hands and feet just because you say so.

“Put those down!” Bob hurried out and barked at the crowd, then half-jogged to Gauss and Serandur. “Sirs, forgive the bumpkins—they’ve never seen the world.”

Fear was plain on his face, heart hammering. He stopped before Serandur, legs trembling, but bowed deeply.

He’d seen the badges clearly: the handsome youth wore a bronze two-star; the snake-man wore three. People like that, if angered, could wipe out a village—far more dangerous than goblins.

“It’s fine, Chief,” Gauss said, stepping in to lift him and patting his shoulder with an easy smile. Somehow that smile carried calm; the villagers slowly quieted.

“I’m Gauss, the one who took the job. This is my partner, Serandur. Please tell us what’s going on.”

Once Bob saw no anger in them and rechecked those badges, joy broke over his face.

The village was saved—no need to move!

He hurried to explain the goblins outside—and the group of young men who’d left.

…

South of Frostleaf, at the edge of a sparse wood.

The air stank of earth, goblin musk, and the scorched tang of burning brush.

Theo leaned against a dead tree, gasping.

His pupils shrank again and again.

Blood welled from a gash under his ribs.

His longbow lay snapped at his side, smeared with thick dark-red—his or a goblin’s, who could tell.

His brave companions had scattered.

“How can goblins be this strong?”

Panic climbed in his chest.

Thoom.

Thoom.

Heavy footfalls approached from behind the tree.

That big one—it had followed!

His heart leapt into his throat; his mind emptied.

A towering shadow fell over him.

CRASH!!!

The not-so-thick trunk he leaned on was shoved aside in one palm-blow, exposing him.

This time he was truly finished.