Kicking Green Goblins

Early the next morning, before the sun had risen, the sky was still gray and dim. Even in summer, the wasteland mornings carried a biting chill. When fingers brushed over the blades of grass, the dew was cold enough to sting.

The aroma of cured meat stewed with potatoes and onions drifted through High Mountain Keep, teasing everyone's appetite in wisps. Though the Highland Barbarians' cooking was somewhat rough, there was little room for this classic combination to go wrong.

Richard liked dipping rye bread into the broth. The rich meat gravy masked the slightly unpleasant sourness of the dark bread. Once the soft bread and hot cured-meat stew went down together, his body, dormant after a night's sleep, immediately awakened. Warmth spread through him, leaving him so comfortable that he could not help letting out a long breath.

After breakfast, the barbarians of High Mountain Keep set out, measuring the wilderness step by step with their own legs. The morning wind was strong, sending waist-high rye grass rolling like waves. The barbarians moving through it looked like warriors from an ancient age.

Before long, Richard caught a strange smell, utterly different from the fresh scent of grass and trees. Following its source, he soon found the Goblin tribe Gunther had described and hid in the grass to observe them.

Goblins were widely acknowledged to be a race of low intelligence and lazy nature. Born without either creativity or initiative, they found it difficult to build anything. Yet as humanoid intelligent creatures, Goblins did possess the basic instinct to seek benefit and avoid harm.

Their settlement lay on a sheltered slope. Countless pits of varying sizes had been dug into the once-level ground, scattered chaotically like pockmarks on a human face.

Those pits were their homes, lined with dry grass and dead branches. One to three Goblins curled up inside each one, all of them big-headed and small-bodied. Some appeared to have already died, their bodies an unnatural bluish-gray. The living were not much better off, shivering in their pits as they endured the morning cold.

Richard silently held his breath, forcing himself to endure the stench that seemed to split his nose, bore into his skull, and seep into his soul. Goblins smelled like swill left to ferment for half a month, a horrifying stink mixed with an indescribable fishy greasiness that caused physical discomfort to almost any living creature.

The sounds of such a large group moving across the grassland were hard to conceal, and some Green-skinned Runts had already noticed High Mountain Keep's party. Perhaps based on past experience, they did not think anyone would be bored enough to attack them. They lowered their heads and continued sleeping in their pits, numb to the extreme.

Richard suddenly hesitated. Perhaps one day he would become a renowned hero, and then people would say, "Don't be fooled by how impressive that guy looks now. Back then, he gathered a whole crowd to bully Goblins."

"Boss, let's do it." Gunther had never considered such uncertain things. Even if he had, he would not have cared in the slightest. He was still thinking longingly about the cured meat and potatoes he had not eaten enough of that morning.

"Make it quick."

The moment he spoke, strong, agile figures swept past Richard from both sides. As they advanced, they quickly formed into two ranks of spearmen, like two walls pushing forward in their chosen directions.

The system's enhancement of the barbarians was comprehensive in the truest sense.

They had once been hunters roaming the Far North Ice Plains, struggling against the barren land and fighting savage tigers and bears. The cruel cold of the snowy wilderness had tempered and shaped them—strong, swift, and fierce. Every adult Highland Barbarian hunter could easily knock down three Pompeii warriors!

But so what? War had never been a street duel. What if it were a hundred against a hundred? A draw would already be the best possible outcome. If the scale grew to a thousand against a thousand, the Highland Barbarians would inevitably be the ones swallowing defeat. And once it developed into battles between armies of ten thousand, the result could only be a one-sided rout!

Compared to true professional soldiers, the greatest gap for a ragtag mob had never been muscle or Martial Arts. It was the discipline and formation ability required for coordinated combat. That determined whether they were a scattered heap of sand or a clenched fist.

Richard was greatly pleased. Forming ranks on their own during a charge without needing orders was the privilege of elite troops, yet the barbarians could now do it as well. Their strength and Martial Arts had never been in doubt. Once this weakness was remedied, their future would surely be limitless.

The Goblins, still immersed in dreams and unwilling to wake, immediately suffered a merciless slaughter.

The barbarians habitually opened the way with throwing spears. Their immense strength could even send the scrawny Goblins flying backward. Goblins struck by them did not need to worry about trivial matters like blood loss, because having half their chests torn open was already the lightest injury.

The Goblins fortunate enough to survive the first wave had not even fully awakened before the barbarians closed in and thrust at them in unison. Compared with their kin howling and struggling on the brink of death, they were incomparably fortunate. Before they could feel pain, they had already fallen into their deepest sleep.

Goblins were an extremely cowardly species. Their courage extended only to robbing the occasional lone farmer, and the blood of their own kind was enough to send them rapidly into collapse. A tiny number, still half-asleep, waved stones and wooden clubs in resistance, but most Goblins began shrieking and fleeing in every direction.

Thick snot mixed with tears streamed down their wildly disproportionate faces, trailing long strands that made Richard nauseous. The waist-high grass could swallow these green little dwarves whole, providing perfect cover. The moment they turned around, they vanished without a trace.

"Ouk!" A loud shout suddenly rang out from the riverbank, shaking the surrounding area. It was huge and deep, completely unlike anything that could come from a Goblin's scrawny body.

Everyone knew that a Goblin collapse was usually irreversible. Once it began, there was almost no way to stop it. In a sense, that roar was nothing short of a miracle—it had actually revived their morale from its lowest point.

"Ouk! Ouk! Ouk!" The bewildered green dwarves seemed to have suddenly found their backbone and began waving their crude weapons in resistance again.

Unfortunately, eggs could never break stones. This was not something bravery could change. Their strength was insignificant, and their attacks could not even pierce leather armor.

Before the barbarians, who gleefully swung their spears, the Goblins were like pitiful mantises forcibly pinned beneath a wagon wheel, each taking its turn to receive the carriage's judgment.

From a cave in the muddy shallows by the river, an especially massive figure suddenly leaped out.

This was a Goblin even larger than the barbarians by a full size. Its body was knotted with powerful muscles. Gray cloth strips were tightly wrapped around its hands and feet like those worn by boxing apprentices in the south, and it held a heavy double-bladed battle axe in each hand.

Even more strikingly, this fellow had two thumb-thick curved horns on either side of its forehead, following the curve of its skull as they thrust toward the sky.

"Whoa, a Dragon-blooded Goblin."