Over the next few days—

Gauss and Serandur, with time on their hands, picked up several more goblin- and small-monster-related commissions nearby.

They were small-scale commissions with few monsters; their only real merit was proximity.

All around Barry, not far at all—easy to handle.

By coincidence, with the labyrinth drawing so much attention, these routine clean-ups had started to overflow. The city watch had even sent reservists out to sweep. Gauss could accept multiple ordinary commissions at once—so long as he didn’t fall behind on any of them.

Just the two of them, their strength was limited, but they still made a modest contribution to the peace around Barry.

Working together so often, they got to know each other far better—especially Serandur, who kept finding himself swallowing his astonishment at Gauss’s strength and bag of tricks.

When he thought Gauss was a mage steeped in spellcraft with some ancient bloodline, the next commission Gauss showed startling physicality and a powerful warding spell.

When Serandur mentally added “physically tough” to his captain’s profile, Gauss promptly displayed solid swordsmanship, quick learning, and a shocking appetite.

Some of it deepened his prior impressions; some revealed sides Gauss hadn’t shown.

Yes—the appetite.

Even Serandur, who ate more calories than most, had to admit: Gauss could eat. Especially on days with travel and fighting—he almost never saw the man’s mouth not chewing. “Bottomless pit” wouldn’t be unfair.

After Gauss’s recovery, Serandur had dragged him to nice restaurants or taverns almost every day to keep him from stewing in his room. As it happened, they were in the same inn thanks to Gauss; Serandur had no idea how he’d talked the hostile proprietress into it. To avoid spooking other guests, Serandur either stayed in his room or went out with Gauss—rarely lingering in common rooms.

After several meals together, he couldn’t help but wonder: how did that not-particularly-broad body hold so much food and heat? A bigger stomach? Or was “can eat” another hallmark of the strong?

He shook the thought away. Green wheat bowed around them in the wind—an endless green sea.

“Want some?” Gauss noticed Serandur’s glance at the jerky in his hand and misread it.

“Thanks, Captain. I’m not hungry,” Serandur’s rasp sounded in Gauss’s ear.

The frog jerky, frost-snake, and lantern-fruit had been stored he and Alia had prepped—but Gauss wasn’t stingy; he’d shared freely. Serandur liked the rusttoad jerky and lantern-fruit—fitted his taste. As for frost-snake… a bit of a hell taste-test.

Still, good flavors get old if you never stop eating—too easy to get stuffed.

Gliding along, Serandur glanced over again. He kept feeling like their roles had flipped—as if Gauss were the one constantly burning energy moving, and he was the one riding easy and admiring the view.

What was up with that?

Gauss had no idea what he was thinking. He popped more jerky and chewed—then dipped a small knife in toxin and lightly scraped at the Omni-Armor around him.

Might as well use travel time—no point wasting it. It was perfect for fiddling with his core skill.

He’d finally found a way to push Omni-Armor further.

The idea came from an old-looking witch’s journal he’d bought at the Association—for three Contribution Points.

For reference, the hobgoblin materials he’d sold had netted him only five points. Serandur hadn’t wanted a split, but when the purchase came up short, Gauss had sheepishly asked him for points and paid him back with other loot.

Even now, he felt he’d made out like a bandit. His instincts were good: in a sea of notes, he’d picked out this plain, unremarkable book at a glance.

“Witches” and “wizards” both sound like casters, but they’re worlds apart. Witches draw power from many sources—pacts with demons, devils, wild gods, spirits; awakened ancestral bloodlines; communion with elemental forces of air, water, fire, earth; and methods unknown.

Wizards cultivate through meditation, runes, models, practice. Witches’ arts tend toward the uncanny—fetishes, curses, black energies—so the public mind favors the wizard-scholar, court advisor, warder; while “witch” conjures hermits in forests, plague-bearers, monster-breeders, madmen who do anything for power. It’s unfair—but the disciplines do differ.

The author of his journal was a reclusive forest witch who bred and dissected low monsters to study why their hides outclassed animal pelts—and even steel. He’d spent most of his life on monster dissection, rarely seeing towns. After his death, a passerby must have found his lair; his gear, books, notes trickled onto the market.

Gauss suspected the notes had been undervalued: the handwriting was sloppy; the front and back were full of rambling, meaningless babble and rants. If not for a solid middle section—detailed dissections and experiments, plus a seemingly workable training regimen—it might not have reached an Association shelf at all, destined instead to prop a wobbly table at a flyblown diner.

Trust a witch to be the expert on poison, curses, bloodlines.

Inspired, Gauss finally worked out a path to strengthen his Omni-Armor.

The notes held a unique rune pattern. The moment he first saw it, he’d been drawn. After purchase, he found it was no simple scribble.

When he cast, if he focused and held that pattern in mind, sometimes it would appear briefly on the Omni-Armor itself. If, in those moments, he struck the ward with various toxins, it seemed to “learn,” eking out more recognition and resistance to poisons.

That dovetailed with the tough hides of monsters: some embedded such runes in their skin, and the complex toxins in their blood reacted with those runes, constantly “stimulating” the skin to harden.

At the end, the excited, mad witch, after a few animal successes, turned to his own body—trying to create a new body-magic. The notes cut off there. Given they’d ended up for sale, the “research” must have failed.

Gauss had zero interest in carving such runes into himself. On the Omni-Armor, though, it seemed safe. He doubted most folks could imprint such a monster rune onto a defensive spell at all—or someone else would’ve noticed first.

So now he worried at the ward with a blade stained in hobgoblin blood, feeling the rune flicker, the Omni-Armor subtly shift.

All signs pointed up.

If the Omni-Armor had held against toxins when he fled the Spider Ghoul nest, he might not have blacked out and landed himself in such danger. He’d have to collect more monster blood and poisons—natural whetstones for the ward.

They chatted idly while he multitasked—training the Omni-Armor, snacking, mapping features in his head, marking the path, bantering with Serandur.

“Wonder how Alia’s doing—hope it’s going well.”

His thoughts drifted. Once she rejoined, they’d finally be a trio—and back to the labyrinth. With Serandur and a Level 2 Alia, they might delve deeper—maybe even catch the front-runners.

Time slipped by on the “busy” road.

The chocobo’s steady feet stopped on the packed dirt, kicking up dry dust.

Ahead lay their destination—a modest village beyond Barry’s outskirts, nestled against rolling wheat.

Small enough to see end to end—a few dozen low houses of timber and sun-dried clay, thick thatch roofs. A simple stockade of sharpened logs and thick vines ringed the edge—enough to check goblins and kobolds, not big beasts.

At the gate, two young men with crude spears stood watch.

They spotted Gauss on his chocobo and the sliding serpentfolk—and broke into matching grins. By the time Gauss reined in by the gate, they hadn’t schooled their faces—he caught it, amused.

“Hello—we’re the adventurers who took your commission. Please open up; here are our papers, and—”

“Sir Goblin Slayer—we’ve heard of you!”

“…Huh?” Gauss stared at the excited youth, a black line popping in his mind.

That weird title again!

Bafflement aside—curiosity, too. In Grayrock, a small place, few adventurers—fine, a nickname happens. But out here near Barry—in a remote village—they recognized him?

Shouldn’t be.

Was there an older “Goblin Slayer” in Barry, and they’d mistaken him?

Yes—could be.

“Are you sure you’ve got the right person?”

They opened the gate; he voiced his doubt. “I only arrived near Barry recently.”

“No mistake: black-robed handsome mage, chocobo, serpentfolk companion. No need to be modest—we’ve heard your title. And—you’re Gauss, right?”

They rattled off details that fit. Two crews with the same kit was unlikely—but when they spoke his name—he gave up. It was him.

When had he gotten famous? He had no idea.

“Yes, I’m Gauss,” he admitted with a sigh. “If you don’t mind—how’d you hear about me?”

“At the tavern,” they said without hesitation. “A caravan passed two days ago and told your story.”

“A caravan? And they heard it where?”

“No idea. Those little caravans trade village to village. Maybe another tavern. They said wherever you go, evil green imps have nowhere to hide—you kill them all.”

Unlike Grayrock’s sneers from fellow professionals, villagers saw goblins as the main threat; dragons, devils, giants were stories—far from life. Goblins were immediate.

A professional who ignored the treasure-stuffed labyrinth to tirelessly cull goblins and kobolds, big commission or small—that moved people.

The serpentfolk teammate made the pair even more memorable. The story had spread through the countryside around Barry.

Listening to the enthusiastic account, Gauss caught a whiff of hype. He had taken many ordinary commissions—but it wasn’t so grand.

He hadn’t delved only because he was waiting for Alia. Soon it would be labyrinth–rest–commission–rest—both, not just being a “small-monster specialist.”

The labyrinth held more treasure—and more kinds of monsters—for his Monster Index. Someone’s putting a halo on me? Building me up? Who—and why?

He couldn’t make sense of it. And why “Goblin Slayer”?

No proof—just a hunch—so after a moment’s fretting, he shelved it.

“Uncle, Sir Goblin Slayer’s here! Those monsters are done for!”

“Oh-ho—that’s him? He’s handsome!”

Walking the dusty lane, hearing the whispers, he felt a little embarrassed—yet the hope on their faces made it hard to ignore. Maybe the pests he didn’t mind hunting were a genuine scourge here. For villagers, the world might not need a “Dragon Slayer,” but it did need a Goblin Bane.

After a moment, he raised a hand to the crowd—an answer to their welcome.

“Popular, Captain,” Serandur teased, rare humor in his voice.

“…”

Gauss fell silent.

He didn’t know what to say. Compared to other Level 2s, he did seem to have some “fame”—good or bad—though only in the local villages. In Barry, he was still nobody.

Was that “popular”? He couldn’t tell.

He had the odd sense that some invisible force wanted to pin this title on him. He didn’t hate it—but the feeling was complicated. Not because of now—at low levels, a “name” is an achievement and a recognition.

But for someone with long ambitions and a clear sense of his “talent,” he didn’t expect to stay low-level forever. He was worried…

That “Goblin Slayer” would cling to him like a ghost—following from Grayrock to Barry and beyond.

“—ssst.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. Imagine other high adventurers with grand titles—and him stepping out to a million eyes… as the Goblin Slayer.