"Grok, it is time for you to go out and draw blood." That day, the old priest had called him over, tapping his chest with an emaciated finger.
"The edge of the Whispering Forest is our tribe's hunting ground."
"Take a few youngsters like yourself out on patrol. Drive out or kill any magical beasts that dare set foot in our hunting ground. And watch out for humans."
"Lastly, remember one rule."
The old priest's voice suddenly dropped low.
"To the east of the tribe, that bushland surrounding the extinct volcano—never step foot into it!"
As he spoke to this point, the old priest's expression suddenly turned severe.
"Even if you see prey run inside, you are not allowed to chase it!"
"Why?" Grok had asked blankly at the time.
A flicker of something indescribable flashed through the old priest's turbid eyes. After a long silence, he said slowly:
"A year ago, an esteemed lord arrived there—a grand figure whom we all must look up to."
"Even a single spark of her anger would be enough to burn our tribe to ashes."
When the word "lord" left the old priest's mouth, his face carried a fanatical piety and awe.
Grok remembered that even when facing the tribal chief, the old priest had never shown such a respectful expression.
Grok had taken those words to heart.
Yet he was young and full of vigor, with a fire constantly burning within him.
He yearned to prove himself, longing to earn the recognition of the priest and his tribesmen with a splendid victory.
During these months of patrolling, he had led his fellow tribesmen to drive off three packs of wild dogs and killed four oblivious Second-Tier magical beasts. He had already accumulated plenty of merit, yet he still felt it wasn't enough.
Today, he had discovered intruders again.
In the early morning, the patrol squad led by Grok discovered a trail of human footprints in a stream valley at the edge of the Whispering Forest.
The footprints were fresh and messy, bearing marks of frantic running, along with scattered drops of blood.
His experience from these past days told Grok that these were traces left by prey fleeing for their lives.
His fangs bared in a grin.
Humans. Adventurers on the edge of the Whispering Forest had always been the greatest threat to the tribe's hunting ground.
Adventurers hunted goblins, cutting off their ears to exchange for bounties in the city and prying out their teeth to string into necklaces for showing off.
Grok had seen it with his own eyes three years ago, when human adventurers slaughtered a branch of their tribe.
Over twenty goblins—not a single one was spared.
By the time their reinforcements arrived, all that remained were goblin corpses.
He would never forget that sight.
"Pursue!" Grok said in a low voice, his grayish-green fingers tightening around the bone spear in his hand.
He led nine of his tribesmen, tracking the footprints all the way down.
Grok was a Third-Tier goblin warrior, accompanied by four Second-Tier tribesmen, while the rest were First-Tier goblins.
By judging the depth of the footprints, he estimated their numbers and load; by observing the direction of the flattened grass, he determined the direction the prey had fled; by checking how fresh the bloodstains were, he gauged the distance.
All of these were skills taught to him by the old goblins in the tribe.
It appeared these five humans were not fleeing very fast. They were injured, and one of them was a front-line class clad in heavy armor.
The Greenwood Party.
The party had four members in total: leading them was a tall, burly warrior clad in dark iron armor, holding a shield, and keeping watch over their surroundings as he walked.
Behind him followed three slender figures: one carried a crossbow on his back, one wore a shortsword at his waist, and another was wrapped in a gray robe, their face unseen.
In the middle of the party was a young man dressed in refined silk clothes. He tightly clutched something that looked like a scroll in his hand, walking breathlessly with a pale face.
"Five of them. The warrior in front is Third-Tier; the assassin, archer, and mage behind are all Second-Tier; and in the middle is a First-Tier fellow whose class is unknown."
Grok narrowed his eyes.
Looking at the noble young master in the middle of the group, he recognized the fabric of those silk clothes. The priest had said that was goods from human nobles in the city, which could be traded for a lot of food.
Among them, the warrior and the assassin were also injured.
One had a bandage wrapped around his calf, the other around his arm, and before long, wet blood would drip out.
"Boss, what do we do next?" a tribesman beside him asked softly.
Seeing the five people about to step into the bushland that the old priest had designated as a forbidden zone,
Grok did not hesitate.
"Attack!" With that, he no longer hid, leading his tribesmen directly to surround and attack the forest party.
Hearing the chaotic footsteps behind them, the party's assassin called out an alert in a loud voice, "Monsters have caught up!"
The Third-Tier warrior spun around violently and charged to the rear of the party, his heavy armor clanking loudly as he roared in a deep voice:
"Everyone, retreat toward the bushland! York, protect the young master! The rest of you, hold them off!"
The Second-Tier assassin in the party shielded the noble young master, while the archer and mage assumed their formation, ready for battle.
The party slowly fell back toward the bushland while keeping a wary watch on the goblins charging at them.
Seeing this, Grok growled softly. The spear-wielding goblins pounced together, while the goblins carrying cloth sacks on their backs began hurling stones at the party.
Grok carried his short spear, prowling near the rear of the battle line, searching for an opportunity.
On the opposing side, the mage and archer began unleashing fireballs, water blades, and a continuous stream of arrows at the charging goblins.
Here it came. Taking advantage of the moment when the warrior had just parried a Second-Tier goblin's spear and his strength was spent before fresh energy could rise, Grok's bone spear thrust forward with brute force.
Clang!
The sound of hard objects clashing rang out.
The warrior's shield blocked Grok's thrust, and battle aura slowly surfaced over the shield and iron sword.
"Shield Counter"—a combat skill nearly all warrior practitioners mastered. First a shield block, followed immediately by an iron sword counterattack.
Grok retracted his spear and dodged to the side, barely avoiding the iron sword swung by the warrior.
Then he leaped back, hiding behind the front-line goblins.
He and his tribesmen were engaging a human adventurer team for the first time, and they did not yet understand the principle that in team fights, one must target the backline first.
The warrior's battle aura began to gather on his iron sword. Suddenly, the muscles in his right arm bulged, and he swung the iron sword in a wide arc from left to right, slashing fiercely in front of him.
"Horizontal Cleave"—a low-tier combat skill for warrior practitioners. The slash produced an overflowing sword aura forward, primarily used to force enemies back, though it could also deal area-of-effect damage.
Two First-Tier goblins failed to react in time and were severed head from body. Grok and the remaining Second-Tier goblins scrambled backward in dodge.
Immediately after, a freezing spell formed several icicles between the warrior and the goblins, after which the archer's arrows struck those icicles with precision.
The arrows were coated with a special magical potion, and upon shattering the icicles, a thick white mist instantly diffused outward.
"Retreat!" the warrior shouted directly to everyone, as if he had planned it beforehand.
Under cover of the thick mist, the party shielded the noble young master and charged toward the bushland with all their might, plunging into the low bushes in an instant and disappearing from sight.
"Cough! Cough! Cough!" The mist carried a certain irritant, and the goblins emerged in pursuit while clutching their noses.
Watching the fleeing traces of the party, Grok stared intently at the bushland before him and the extinct volcano in the distance.
"Retreat!" he finally squeezed the word out from between his teeth.
"Boss?!" The goblins behind him looked astonished.
"The priest said we cannot enter the area ahead." Grok looked into the depths of the bushland and shook his head at the goblins, a gravity inconsistent with his age appearing on his grayish-green face for the first time.
"'A year ago, an esteemed lord arrived here.' The priest has never used such words for anyone. We absolutely must not offend the lord inside."
"Hurry back and report this to the priest."
Rate on N.U.
