Instantly, Ymik panicked. "No no no no no—! I can help, I can still help—!"
Charles paused, lowering his blade just slightly as he glared down impatiently. "Speak."
"I can tell you where our tribe’s nest is!" The unscrupulous goblin merchant trembled, ready to sell out his own kin without hesitation. "Some of them know more than I do! Someone there must know where that hobgoblin warlord is camped! Just capture a few, and you’ll get your answers!"
"Everyone, please, please believe me!"
He begged desperately, his voice hoarse with fear. Charles gave a slight nod—this was exactly what he wanted.
"Take us to your nest. No tricks. You’ve seen our strength. Even three hundred goblins wouldn’t be enough to stop us."
With that, he kicked the sniveling creature, urging him to move. The two witches stepped forward as well, having finished scouring the battlefield—not that these goblins had carried anything worth looting.
Ymik didn’t dare delay. Scrambling to his feet, he abandoned the donkey cart entirely and hunched forward, scurrying ahead to lead the way.
The cave was typical goblin architecture—barely five and a half feet tall at its highest point, but wide enough for four or five goblins to walk abreast.
Weeds choked the entrance for camouflage. The ceiling sloped lower the deeper one went.
For the average three-foot-tall goblin, passage was effortless. For Charles’ party, only Ruth’s petite frame could move comfortably. He and Sephera would be forced to crouch painfully the entire way.
Fortunately, Charles was no greenhorn who’d blunder into such obvious deathtraps only to be ambushed, captured, and subjected to unspeakable... indignities.
"Sephera." His voice was quiet. "Gas them."
The Sephera nodded, stepping forward. A whispered incantation later, invisible poison vapors seeped into the cave’s depths.
Poison Spray—a basic cantrip, the same she’d used in battle earlier.
Weak. Short-ranged. Inefficient—by her standards, at least. To goblins, it remained lethal.
But its true value lay in being cost-free and airborne. Diffusion would dilute its potency, but they weren’t expecting it to wipe out the nest—just flush the vermin into the open.
Time wasn’t an issue. They could keep pumping poison inside until the goblins either choked or charged out fighting.
The sun dipped westward, the air turning crisp. Charles donned his leather armor again, resting his head on Ruth’s thighs to recover mana while Sephera maintained her toxic barrage.
Ymik stood frozen nearby, barely daring to breathe. His eyes occasionally flickered toward the women with barely-concealed lust, but any glance his way sent him stiffening in terror.
An hour passed. Shadows climbed the mountainside as the sun touched the horizon. With his spell slots replenished, Charles opened his eyes and frowned at the unmoving cave mouth.
He turned to Ymik. "You’re certain this is the place?"
Gassing cramped warrens was standard adventurer practice when entry wasn’t feasible. Small creatures favored tight spaces, but their dens were equally confined—and their toxin resistance pathetic. Normally, this worked.
Which meant Ymik had lied.
Hearing the accusation, the goblin fell to his knees, forehead pounding the dirt. "N-no! I swear! This is it, this is definitely it! Why would I lie when you’d kill me?!"
Charles scowled. The fear seemed genuine. After witnessing the slaughter, what fool would risk deception?
Then... something was wrong inside.
"Goblin." He pointed at the entrance. "You lead. Take us to the warren’s heart. Ruth, follow him."
Ymik glanced nervously at Sephera, then the poison-filled tunnel. When Charles snapped, "It’s diluted enough! Move!", the creature scrambled forward.
Ruth followed, hand on her dagger. Charles and Sephera brought up the rear, bent nearly double.
Darkness enveloped them. Charles cast Light on Ruth’s palm.
The floor was filthy. The expected stench of goblin filth was overpowered by Sephera’s acrid poison—almost tolerable, until another odor cut through.
Charles’ stomach clenched. Then Ymik shrieked and collapsed, trembling.
Ruth whirled, blades flashing. "What?!"
She nearly slit the goblin’s throat, certain this was some trap signal. But no ambush came. Only silence.
Charles frowned and cast another Light spell, stepping forward to see what had terrified Ymik so completely.
It was a goblin corpse - withered and shriveled as if something had drained all vitality from it.
Up close, the creature’s face was frozen in a grotesque rictus of terror - eyes bulging, mouth gaping wide with teeth scattered around its skull-like visage like broken porcelain.
Goblins were ugly by nature, but this twisted expression made the sight truly horrifying. The sudden appearance of that ghastly face in the darkness made Charles recoil, his heart pounding. "Gods! That scared the hell out of me!"
He placed a hand over his heart, taking deep breaths to calm himself. Then the stench of decay hit him full force, making his stomach churn.
Ruth hurried forward to look. When she saw the corpse, her expression darkened: "This... this is the work of necromantic magic. Either a wraith or a powerful necromancer!"
As she spoke, she lifted her gaze toward the deeper darkness ahead. "If that’s the case, this entire cave may already be doomed..."
Charles forced himself to take another breath of the foul air. "Battle readiness. The enemy might still be here."
Then he shot a glare at Ymik. "And your scream earlier probably alerted them!"
Ymik, already pale with fear, rolled his eyes at those words, convulsed, and collapsed—unconscious.
Whether he was scared to death or clinging to his last breath remained unclear.
Charles shook his head slightly, ignored the guy, and motioned for Ruth to take the lead as they pressed deeper into the cavern.
Soon, they reached the far end without encountering any foes—only a scene straight from hell.
Dozens of goblins, young and old alike, lay scattered across the ground, their bodies withered, long dead. Every face was twisted in agony, eyes wide—as if they’d been terrified to death or witnessed something unimaginable in their final moments.
The horror of it made Charles’s face darken. Ruth stepped forward, her sharp nails piercing the corpses to assess their rigidity. Then she frowned. "They died around the same time—about a day ago. Last night."
"Likely an evil necromancer," Sephera said calmly, "feeding their undead... or creating new ones. Or perhaps a wild wraith in these mountains, hunting."
A cold sweat broke on Charles’s brow. He shook his head. "Doesn’t matter. Not our concern."
"Loot their nest. Even if goblin treasures are meager, better than nothing." He forced himself to stay in the grisly scene, adapting. "After this, we head to the Adventurer Camp. Maybe find clues there."
The two witches nodded and began scavenging. As expected, the nest was poor—just scattered gems, a few dozen gold coins, some silver, and cheap, damaged trinkets. Maybe 200-300 gold total.
Unsurprising. Goblins were weaker than slum gangsters, barely 4 feet tall on average. Even a sturdy teen could overpower them. Their cruelty and cunning couldn’t offset physical frailty, so they only preyed on novice adventurers. Their wealth was naturally scant.
"Oh! This ring looks decent!"
Sephera’s eyes lit up as she pulled a diamond-studded silver ring from a better-equipped goblin’s finger—one with a sharp scimitar. She inspected it: no flaws. The diamond was cut well, its facets gleaming in the light.
"An unexpected prize." Charles turned, surprised. The ring’s luster and clarity marked it as high-grade. "That’d sell for a fortune..."
Sephera knelt suddenly, took Charles’s left hand, and slid the ring onto his finger. "Oh Master, marry me! Be my one and only!"
Ruth, still searching, whirled around, lips parting in shock. "Sephera, you—!"
Reserved by nature, she’d never dare say something so brazen.
Charles smirked, flicking Sephera’s forehead. "Funny!."
Yet he left the ring on, pulling her up. "Let’s go. The sun’s set. If we don’t reach camp soon, no rooms left!"
Sephera nodded. The three departed, leaving Ymik’s fate unanswered as they hurried toward camp.
A forest breeze made Charles shiver—the mountain evening was colder than expected. He tightened his leather armor and quickened his pace. None noticed the eerie crimson glint reflecting off his diamond ring in the dying light.
This place had once been a dwarven camp, founded by a mountain dwarf merchant of the Rockseeker clan. He’d discovered a mine in these mountains, established the camp to exploit its resources, and transported the ore to Liberl Port for trade.
Years later, the mine had dried up, and the outpost was abandoned. Yet when the Mountain Folk launched their assault on Liberl Port, this settlement—thanks to its dwarven ties—was spared.
Now, with every other outpost and camp set up by the Empire of Sein reduced to ashes, Rockseeker’s Outpost, untouched by war, became the prime resting spot for opportunistic adventurers.
By the time Charles and his companions arrived, night had fully fallen. Cold, exhausted, and starving, he wasted no time. He found the town’s lone inn, ordered three bowls of vegetable stew and two pounds of roasted beef.
Ruth and Sephera had no need for food, so they merely sipped the broth. Nearly all the beef ended up in his stomach. He devoured it ravenously, dipping each bite into the house’s garlic sauce, then—under the envious stares of the other patrons—retired to a large bedchamber with both women and called it a night.
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