Hidden Bugs

The next day, the group set out once more.

Today, they planned to venture two kilometers deeper into the wasteland and clear out Goblin Camp No. 12, a massive gathering place with more than two thousand members.

According to Tommy, goblins were even weaker fighters than kobolds, so this mission shouldn't be too difficult.

But the wasteland was always full of surprises. As they neared their destination, Ben, who was scouting ahead, suddenly stopped and signaled for everyone to crouch. He listened carefully, then said, "There seems to be a fight up ahead."

Renard pricked up his ears too, but couldn't hear a thing. Still, he trusted that Ben wouldn't lie to him. "Who's fighting whom? Is it a big battle?"

Ben frowned and listened for a while. Then he said uncertainly, "I can hear people, and goblins. It sounds like a large-scale fight. If I had to guess, some caravan's run into trouble."

Renard's eyes lit up. "Shall we go take a look?"

Nobody objected, so they crouched low and climbed the nearby mound, using the mugwort for cover.

The mound wasn't very high, but it offered a good view. They could clearly see the battlefield.

There was indeed a sizable caravan, with more than twenty wagons and over forty guards and drivers. But things looked grim for them.

The wagons had formed a circle, serving as cover against the attackers. And the attackers were, naturally, goblins—creatures famous for their cowardice and weakness.

Once he got a good look, Renard felt a chill run down his spine. Goblins swarmed all around the wagons, more than a thousand of them.

"That caravan's done for." Ryan sighed, without a trace of sympathy. If anything, his tone was mocking. "Those stingy merchants want to cross a dangerous wasteland and make a fortune, but they won't hire enough guards. They deserve what's coming to them."

Renard knew why Ryan was gloating. Ryan's father was a mercenary—or, more precisely, a mercenary who'd never made much of himself.

"Master, should we do something?" Austin asked suddenly, despite his usual silence.

Before Renard could answer, Ryan spoke up first. "Austin, is your knightly spirit acting up again?"

Austin Gray was perhaps the person Renard trusted most among his subordinates, and certainly the most upright of the nine.

His great-grandfather had also been a follower of His Majesty Rochelle and a core member of the Knights of the Lionheart. As a result, Austin had received a traditional knightly education from childhood: humility, honor, sacrifice, bravery, compassion, honesty, justice, and spirituality.

Of course, ever since he'd become Renard's lackey, he'd shed most of those virtues.

Truthfully, Renard didn't want to get involved. A few thousand goblins were more than a little intimidating.

But he didn't want to pass up such a great opportunity. That's right—an opportunity to make money.

After a long struggle, he suddenly stood up, raised his sword, and shouted, "Slay the goblins and bring peace to Saint Brieuc Fortress!"

Then he set off toward the battlefield in a slow, mincing trot.

At this rate, by the time he got there, the caravaners' bodies would already be cold.

The lackeys' eyes twitched. His chuunibyou act had clearly struck them hard.

But they moved quickly, overtaking Renard in just a few strides. They drew their bows and loosed a flurry of arrows, each shrill whistle followed by a burst of blood.

The goblins surrounding the wagons immediately fell into disarray. It took them a good while to react, but then they came howling toward the mound.

The lackeys fired down at them from the high ground. A single arrow often took the lives of two or three goblins.

That's right—two or three. The sharp arrows often pierced the goblins' thin bodies, wounding the opportunists hiding behind them as well.

"Ding! Kill quest completed: Kill one hundred goblins. Reward: 1 Potential. Completion: 156%."

"Ding! Quest overcompleted. Reward: 1 random attribute point."

In just three minutes, they had completed the goblin-slaying quest. Their enemies had also made it to the mound, where they engaged the lackeys in close combat.

"Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen..." "Twenty-four copper coins, twenty-six copper coins, twenty-eight copper coins..."

Heads rolled and limbs flew. Faced with a scene like hell on earth, even the most fervent fighting spirit was soon drowned in blood.

The goblins might have been stupid, but they knew when they'd met an invincible opponent. Their charge quickly turned into a rout.

Yet the lackeys' slaughter didn't stop. They didn't give a damn about bringing peace to Saint Brieuc Fortress. They cared about one thing and one thing only: profit.

"Ding! Kill quest completed: Kill two hundred goblins. Reward: 1 Potential. Completion: 154%."

"Ding! Quest overcompleted. Reward: 1 random attribute point."

"Ding! Kill quest completed: Kill three hundred goblins. Reward: 1 Potential. Completion: 149%."

No bonus reward? Did the completion rate have to reach 150% to get an extra reward?

Renard rubbed his chin, grinning broadly—almost recklessly. It looked like he'd found another bug.

Then another question occurred to him. Would the rewards change if he reached 200% completion? What about 300%?

He'd have to test each possibility one at a time. For now, there was no point dwelling on it.

Goblins were less intelligent than kobolds, so they had no concept of tactics or strategy in a fight. When they raided, they charged as one; when they retreated, they fled as one.

In less than ten minutes, the ugly creatures who'd been packed together in such a dense swarm had all run off.

But when Renard and his men reached the edge of the caravan, they were met not with tearful gratitude, but with gleaming swords and daggers.

"Stop! Who are you?" The caravan's guards had their bows drawn, their eyes just as wary as before.

Seeing this, the lackeys moved in front of Renard. Arrows could still inflict irreparable harm on them, but their loyalty compelled them to shield him.

Tommy and Austin also trained their arrows on the guard. Tommy spoke in a chilling voice. "Lower your weapon slowly. Don't give me any reason to think you're up to something, or I'll put an arrow through your chest."

Then he added, "Trust me. I can do it."

The caravan's guards were all burly men, but anyone with a discerning eye could see they were all show.

As the saying went, "The poor study, the rich practice martial arts." The impoverished lower classes simply didn't have the ability or the money to learn Martial Arts, so they could only intimidate their enemies by showing off their muscles. In a real fight, their hulking frames would only weaken their combat ability.

Cold sweat slowly beaded on the guard's forehead. He was clearly afraid of dying.

After a long standoff, a merchant nervously pushed through the crowd and asked, "You're not our enemies, are you?"

Renard stepped forward too, his face full of righteousness. "Of course not."