Goblin

After parting ways, Renard continued northwest.

The farther northwest he went, the more desolate it became. Eventually, he couldn't spot another person anywhere. All he could see was a boundless wasteland, where half-height weeds swayed feebly in the cold wind, their dry leaves hung with glistening frost.

He quickly got his guard up, because this was already monster territory.

The tall, slender weeds were enough to conceal the tracks of kobolds and goblins. Those detestable cowards often sprang out of nowhere to give adventurers trouble.

As expected, he hadn't gone far before dozens of natives blocked his way.

Dark green skin, large pointed ears, bulbous noses, and short statures. They wore nothing at all, and looked like vagrants squatting on a street corner.

If Renard wasn't mistaken, the group before him was a fairly organized band of goblin bandits. So he accepted the goblin-hunting quest, ready to face his second battle since arriving in another world.

The goblins at the front wore a few pieces of halfway decent armor, though they were so filthy it was impossible to tell when they'd last been cleaned. Their spears, made of animal bones, barely counted as weapons.

The goblin leader even carried a battered wooden shield. The smug look on his face was both infuriating and ridiculous.

To be honest, goblins weren't very strong fighters. They were only as tall as eight- or nine-year-old children, and even children were stronger than they were.

But anyone who underestimated them because of their appearance was bound to pay dearly.

Goblins were actually a real nuisance. They held grudges, knew how to use tools, and came in astonishing numbers. They were good at hiding in the grass and ambushing people with stones and sharp pieces of iron.

Most importantly, they knew how to brew poison and coat their weapons with it to deal with their enemies.

Their poisons were usually made from some venomous creature. They were extremely potent; even a scratch could cost someone half their life.

Scum Renard had once been caught off guard by one of their tricks and spent three whole days and nights in bed. If Saint Brieuc Fortress hadn't had two veteran alchemists, it would have been touch and go whether he'd survive.

Yet it was precisely the goblins' skill at brewing poison that brought them this undeserved calamity.

Alchemists adored these little creatures. They were clever, obedient, and focused on their work. Most importantly, they didn't demand payment. And since goblins' bodies weren't very different from humans', they made excellent test subjects.

The Kingdom of Arthur expressly forbade inhumane practices like experimenting on humans. So the alchemists settled for goblins as substitute test subjects, and each year, at least hundreds of thousands of goblins died at their hands.

This huge demand had produced countless renowned goblin hunters. Ordinary hunters struggling to make ends meet also targeted goblins as an important source of income. The law of the jungle was on full display.

In the past, Renard would have gladly tied these goblins up and sold them to the alchemists at Saint Brieuc Fortress. But now that he had a system quest to complete, he couldn't show them any mercy.

The two sides faced off for about five minutes, but the goblins still showed no sign of attacking.

Renard sighed helplessly, dug his heels into his horse's flanks, and charged first.

The warhorse let out a bloodcurdling whinny. Renard swung his Two-handed sword with all his might, its keen edge cleaving straight toward the goblin leader nearest to him.

"Slash!" The frail head split in two, and foul-smelling brains burst out in an instant.

With their strongest fighter killed outright, the surrounding goblins immediately realized they'd picked a fight with the wrong person. Terrified, they scattered and fled like startled birds.

Renard rode back and forth, cutting down goblins left and right. He truly looked like Zhao Zilong making seven charges in and out at Changban Slope.

But it wasn't particularly effective. It took him a long while to cut down only a dozen or so goblins.

The goblins' cunning and persistence were nearly equal to their cowardice. When they realized Renard wasn't as powerful as they'd imagined, they gathered again and trailed behind him, waiting for a chance to strike.

Renard knew that unless he settled the matter once and for all, there was no way to get rid of these natives, their eyes red with hunger.

Sure enough, the goblins slowly gathered their courage again. They hurried toward him on spindly legs, closing in from three sides. They even managed to keep something like formation—a method of fighting almost as disciplined as a bunch of street thugs brawling.

Perhaps their numerical advantage emboldened them. The goblins at the front couldn't resist raising their weapons and making what sounded like taunts.

Renard tightened the reins and turned his horse around, his face set in a solemn expression unlike any he'd worn before.

At first, he'd only wanted to scare the goblins off and take the opportunity to leave. Now he intended to wipe out these troublesome creatures once and for all.

He had to stay completely focused, even though his opponents were the most cowardly, death-fearing creatures in the Barren Land.

When they saw their opponent take up a fighting stance, the goblins, who had been hot on his heels just moments before, abruptly skidded to a halt. Those behind them couldn't stop in time and crashed into one another, leaving their battle formation in complete disarray.

The chaos lasted for quite a while. Then the goblins formed up again, shouting "Ook! Ook!" as if to intimidate him, but they still didn't dare advance a single step.

They crowded together and shoved one another, as though they all wanted to push their companions out in front. The goblins' motto was: "Bring up the rear in battle, but charge to the front for the spoils. Send your companions to die, and keep the good fortune for yourself."

A faint sneer touched Renard's lips. He stopped wasting time, gripped his sword, and charged into the goblin bandits on his whinnying horse, invincible.

The goblins had still been shoving one another when they suddenly saw their opponent launch an attack without warning. Their reaction was to freeze in place as one.

Only when the horse charged right up to them and kicked the bones of several goblins at the front to pieces did the rest finally shriek and wave their weapons in defiance.

But their shoddy spears couldn't pierce the thick cloth armor covering the warhorse, let alone damage Renard's leather armor and hurt him.

He charged through them like a tiger among sheep. His sword flashed like countless cold beams of light—sweeping sideways, chopping down, and slashing upward. In less than ten minutes, he'd routed the goblin bandits again.

More than half the goblin bandits had been killed. The survivors were all terrified out of their wits, and before long, they fled in every direction.

Only after every last goblin had disappeared did Renard finally let out a tired breath. Killing goblins hadn't been as easy as it looked. At the very least, riding a horse while swinging a sword was an extremely difficult skill to master.

He rested for a few minutes. Once he was sure there were no enemies still moving nearby, he dismounted and searched through the shattered goblin corpses.

Ten minutes later, Renard returned to his horse with a smile on his face and several battered leather pouches in his hands.

As mentioned earlier, goblins were skilled at making poison. The most experienced among them could even rival alchemy apprentices. What he held were the poisons he'd scavenged from the corpses.

He wasn't sure what they did, but they'd surely come in handy.