Punching Kobolds

Richard was not the first Pompeii pioneer to arrive on this land. Though his predecessors had failed in their ventures, they had still left their marks behind.

For instance, there was the former outpost—a two-story wooden building perched atop a hill.

When the group found it, the sun was in just the right position, gilding the lush green slopes and the wooden building with golden edges, magnificent and dazzling.

A winding river curled around the foot of the hill like a silver ribbon. The abundant water had caused clusters of dense white bitterthorn flowers to grow among the grass along both banks, their faintly bitter fragrance drifting through the air.

The wilderness's coarse dryness had long since grown tiresome. The rare abundance of grass and water made Richard take a liking to the place at once.

Even from a military standpoint, it was an excellent location. Situated on the hillside's summit, it was already a rare high ground amid the vast, flat wilderness. There was also a spring beside the wooden building, feeding a stream that babbled from the top of the slope to its base before joining the river that half-encircled the hill.

If war came in the future and they were besieged, the defenders would not only possess the advantage of terrain but also have access to a stable water supply.

"From now on, this is our new home." Richard's tone was firm, and the barbarians took it just as naturally.

Such an excellent location was valuable even in the wilderness. It would have been difficult for it to remain abandoned after the pioneers left, and it had indeed become a native dwelling. What truly puzzled him was that its occupants were the notoriously small and cowardly Kobolds.

Logically speaking, such a good location should have attracted a stronger tribe. Weak Kobolds had never possessed the strength to hold territory.

Uninvited guests intruded upon the picturesque scenery. The fully armed barbarians arrived at the foot of the hill, causing a stir among the Kobolds. Yet it was only a stir—they showed no intention whatsoever of fleeing at the sight of them.

Richard stood with one hand on his hip and pointed at the wooden house with the other, holding up two fingers. "Two hundred heartbeats."

The impatient barbarians immediately surged forward in a rush. A single group charge sent the unprepared Kobolds scrambling in utter panic.

In Sir Richard's eyes, these opponents were utterly unremarkable. They barely reached the barbarians' waists in height and lacked both Martial Arts and military training.

The barbarians' spear throws and pike charge slaughtered with astonishing efficiency. The bravest Kobolds became blood-soaked heaps in the blink of an eye. Their total collapse came in an instant. Apart from a few especially nimble and alert ones who escaped with their lives, the rest were cleanly harvested in less than a hundred heartbeats.

Another Barbarian Spearman had accumulated enough experience to advance and was proudly showing off the sensation to his companions.

Richard climbed the hill. Its summit had clearly been artificially leveled into a sizeable open space. Around the edge stood a waist-high low wall built from piled stones. By Kobold standards, it truly counted as a breastwork and offered barely a trace of defensive value.

The pioneers who had originally built the place must have spared no expense. The wooden house had been made with high-quality pine. Even after enduring wind and rain, it looked only slightly aged; the fine timber itself had not truly been damaged.

The Kobolds who had once lived here seemed to possess at least a little intelligence. They had mixed mud and dry grass to crudely patch the damaged, weathered sections of the roof, preventing wind and rain from leaking through.

The situation was far better than Richard had originally imagined. With a little cleaning, they could move in immediately.

The Kobolds had even stored quite a few grass seeds and dried meat. Richard certainly would not eat things of unknown origin, so all of it went to the Hum-Ha Duo, whose diet was broad enough for anything.

The well-fed giants were tireless. Under the barbarians' supervision, they carried the supplies from the wagons up the hill trip after trip. This sort of heavy, simple labor suited them well; two or three trips were enough to empty a wagon.

At night, a bean-sized lamp flame illuminated a palm-sized piece of parchment.

As the only literate person, Richard held a quill soaked in ink and served as both chairman and scribe. Every barbarian was present, cramming the originally spacious room until it was packed solid and even the air seemed several degrees fouler.

"Alright, the first internal meeting of High Mountain Keep now begins." Richard casually settled on the place's name as well.

Gunther secretly curled his lip in the darkness—a wooden house on a small hill, neither high mountain nor keep. Why call it High Mountain Keep?

The quill drew a winding line across the parchment, representing the little river at the foot of the hill. Then it drew a circle at the bend in the line, naturally representing High Mountain Keep.

"This is our current situation."

The barbarians crowded forward to inspect it, eager to be first. Once they had finished looking, they exchanged baffled glances. No matter how they looked at it, they could not understand why a pearl resting in a clam shell represented their current situation.

"We're here now." Richard pointed at the "pearl" with his quill and wrote High Mountain Keep beside it. "But we know nothing about the surrounding area."

Everyone immediately understood. Oh, so this was a map!

"Our most urgent task now is to find out exactly how many tribes are around us. Otherwise, we're blind."

"Boss, there's a fairly large Goblin tribe upstream, only five or six li away." Gunther suddenly raised his hand to speak. "I spotted it while walking the horses this evening."

Richard knew perfectly well that the bastard had used the excuse of walking the horses to go riding around, crushing the cart horse beneath more than two hundred pounds of weight.

"Bugbears or Hobgoblins?" He casually added another mark beside that egg-shaped circle.

"Ordinary Goblins."

"Ordinary Goblins?" The hand about to write froze instantly.

Bugbears were physically strong, while Hobgoblins excelled at military formations. Both were relatively outstanding races within the Goblin family. In comparison, ordinary Goblins—the standard unit of measure—were practically good for nothing.

A philosopher had once said that nothing in the world was completely useless, but Goblins came very close to disproving that idea. Small and frail, dull-witted, and forever reeking of a nauseating stench. The only thing they excelled at was breeding in nests like rats, then dying in nests when food ran short.

In Pompeii folk sayings, the word Goblin could also broadly refer to filth, stupidity, stench, or practically any negative concept. In Koren, if someone wanted to start a fight, the most effective thing to say was, "I bet you're awfully close to Goblins."

At the thought of such creatures living upstream from the river they drew water from, Richard's face immediately turned deathly pale.

"Gunther, where did today's cooking water come from?"

"From the spring beside us, of course. What's wrong?"

"Whew... Nothing, nothing. We'll draw water from the spring from now on."

Near the new circle on the map, Richard carefully wrote the words Goblins, then viciously crossed them out.

"Tomorrow at dawn, everyone assemble. We'll flatten them!"