Chapter 39: The Goblin Sentry

“A man as outstanding as you, no matter where you go, is like a brilliant firefly in the dead of night—so bright, so magnificent,” Gima said, her voice dripping with a sincerity she absolutely did not feel. “It’s only natural to attract the jealousy of lesser beings.”

“Lying will get you points deducted,” George said, his face a blank, unreadable slate.

“Hey, hey! That guy is practically stomping on your face with his big, stupid boots! Show him what you’ve got! Put him in his place!” Gima’s tail wagged happily under her skirt. “I just had a brilliant idea. You can smash the goblin’s head into its own chest cavity, then perform a live demonstration of tearing a goblin apart with your bare hands. Pull out one of its ribs and use it to kill all the other goblins. Their jaws will drop in amazement, I guarantee it.”

Although Gima was the one who had expertly fanned the flames of jealousy and directed them at George, it wasn’t just to cause trouble for him. It was also to use George as a convenient, heavily-armored weapon to strike at the people she didn’t like. One, her enemy suffers a humiliating setback; two, an annoying person gets put in their place. It was a double portion of happiness, a win-win situation.

Agree to it, agree to it. A tool should act like a tool. It’s your purpose in life.

“No.”

The only response Gima received was a firm, resolute, and very disappointing “no.”

“Huh?”

“Why should I punish myself for someone else’s ignorance?” George asked, as if it were a genuine, philosophical question. “Actions speak louder than words. The poor goblins we encounter later will naturally prove my worth.”

“Well, isn’t that just being a coward?”

George flicked Gima on the forehead. “Stop saying things like ‘put him in his place.’ It gives me goosebumps.”

“Ow.”

Gima let out an exaggerated cry and glanced at George’s face, realizing with a sinking feeling that he really, truly didn’t care at all. Her tail drooped in disappointment.

A pleasant, light laugh came from ahead.

“Strong must have endured many hardships to become so strong and knowledgeable,” Liz said, her bright blue eyes fixed on Strong with a look of pure, unadulterated admiration.

And Strong, basking in her praise, continued to loudly boast, ensuring he remained the center of the beautiful maiden’s attention.

Previously, Liz had at least made a few attempts to talk to George out of politeness, to avoid making things too awkward. But ever since Strong had been unofficially promoted to captain, she hadn’t said a single word to Gima or George.

Gima felt that the two of them had been completely, and quite rudely, ignored, as if they were just servants hired to carry the luggage.

After walking for nearly two agonizingly long hours, Gima’s delicate feet had developed several painful blisters.

Finally, they arrived at a forest on a small, unassuming slope.

“We’re here. Quiet your footsteps. We’ll sneak up to the top of the slope,” Strong whispered, his voice a deafening stage whisper.

They were still a hundred meters from the top of the slope, with the ample cover of a dense forest. Yet Strong was already hunched over, his big, meaty head on his thick, bull-like neck looking left and right with extreme, almost comical vigilance, as if this were a legendary dragon’s lair fraught with unimaginable danger, with a great, sleeping wyrm lying just ahead.

The others didn’t make such exaggerated movements, but they all instinctively lightened their steps. The only exception was the poet Disha, who still had a lazy smile on his face, his long, slender fingers gently stroking his lute.

“Hey! You! Be careful not to make any noise! Be serious!”

Strong then pointed an accusatory finger at George. “Adventuring is not suitable for wearing such thick full plate armor. You should take it off immediately.”

George didn’t speak, merely bending his waist slightly in a half-hearted attempt at stealth. Strong nodded, then pointed a finger directly at Gima’s nose. “And you! Don’t you dare cry later, understand?”

Gima took a deep, steadying breath, suppressed the powerful urge to give him the middle finger, and silently added this insufferable blockhead to her ever-growing blacklist.

Strong was very satisfied with their obedience. He turned his head and continued to lead the “stealth” mission. Liz had an excited look on her face, tiptoeing behind Strong as if there really were a sleeping dragon at the top of the slope.

The five of them slowly, painstakingly, and with much theatricality, crawled to the top of the slope. Gima deeply felt that she had just wasted seven precious, irreplaceable minutes of her life.

Below the small slope, there was a cave. The entrance was on the side of the mountain, about one person high and two people wide, and it was dark and menacing inside. On a small hill in front of the cave, three goblins were ganging up on a scrawny member of their own kind, kicking and punching him with glee.

These small, weak, and thoroughly evil creatures were shorter than Gima, about the height of a ten-year-old human child. Their skin was a sickly green, their long, pointed ears stuck out to the sides, their eyes were a beady red, and their mouths were so wide they almost reached their ears. Their equipment was also laughably poor. Their small, emaciated bodies were dressed in ill-fitting, filthy rags, and the only piece of iron they possessed was a single, rusty spearhead lying on the ground.

As expected of the universally recognized “newbie monster.”

These sentries, who were so thoroughly neglecting their duties, didn’t seem to pose much of a challenge. The only thing that might pose a slight difficulty was the wooden rack about ten meters behind them. A rusty bronze gong hung from it, and a heavy wooden stick lay underneath.

The red-haired Strong was lying flat on the grass, a ridiculous ring of grass on his head for camouflage, his eyes as wide as a bull’s, as if facing a great and terrible enemy, as if a group of three-meter-tall trolls were below instead of a few pathetic goblins.

“Come here. Listen to my battle plan.” The red-haired Strong crawled back. He pointed at the lazy poet Disha. “You provide ranged support. First, take out the goblin closest to the gong with a single, well-aimed arrow. You, George, you’re in charge of appearing at the top of the hill, banging your sword against your breastplate to intimidate them and draw their attention. And I, together with the lovely Liz, will crawl through the grass and launch a devastating sneak attack from the rear.”

“And remember,” he added, his voice full of authority, “you only make a move after I begin my assault.”

Just then, a strong gust of wind blew across Gima’s face. She smelled the faint, sweet scent of Liz’s perfume.

She smiled slightly, looking at Strong with cold, pitying eyes, and waited for him to make a complete fool of himself. A goblin’s sense of smell is incredibly keen.

“No,” George said flatly. “Their sense of smell is kee—”

“Do you know better, or do I?” Strong interrupted, his voice full of arrogance. “These beasts are too busy playing to notice a little perfume.”

George closed his mouth and said no more.

Liz looked very excited, her little face flushed with anticipation. She held a beautiful, jewel-encrusted magic staff in her hand, though for what purpose, no one knew. Strong led her, crawling on the ground, using the tall grass as cover, inching their way towards the goblins.

“Another ten precious minutes of my life are about to be completely and utterly wasted,” Gima lamented with a sigh.

The poet Disha, who was lying comfortably on the lawn, stretched lazily. “Sir Knight, if you were in command, what would you do?”

“I would charge directly.”

“A brilliant idea. I suspect our esteemed captain has been poisoned by a recently popular, and very poorly written, novel and is grossly overestimating these weak little creatures,” the poet Disha said. “Speaking of which, you don’t give me the feeling of a Bartonian knight at all.”

“And you don’t seem like a poet,” Gima said on George’s behalf.

“You’re quite right about that,” the poet Disha laughed, picking up his lute. “The ‘bard’ is just something I do for fun. A nobleman’s life is full of variety and whimsy. Today I want to be a poet, tomorrow I want to be an adventurer. There’s always someone to clean up my messes. It’s great, isn’t it?”

With that, he stuck a piece of foxtail grass in his mouth and closed his eyes to rest.

George took off his bucket-helm and whispered to Gima, “He was telling the truth just now.”

Gima was about to look at the poet Disha when a piercing, terrified scream came from below.

“GROO-LOO! LONG-LEGS! LONG-LEGS!” 

“IN THE GRASS!”

Gima quickly ran to the top of the slope to watch them make complete and utter fools of themselves.

In the grass, about fifty meters from the goblin sentries, the red-haired Strong, with grass all over his head, scrambled to his feet and charged at the four goblins. Liz, however, stayed where she was, momentarily frozen with indecision.

Two goblins immediately bent down, picked up their short spears, and pointed them at the red-haired Strong. And what was worse, one goblin made a mad dash for the bronze gong, grabbed the wooden stick, and was about to strike it.

It looked like he wouldn’t make it in time.

An arrow shot through the air, sailing over the goblin’s head, and stuck harmlessly in its butt. The goblin let out a yelp and jumped up, but it wasn’t dead, and it still tried to hit the gong.

Gima watched as George picked up a rock he had prepared earlier and threw it with a flick of his wrist. It flew through the air and directly smashed the goblin’s head into a pulp. He had averted the crisis. He then drew his sword and charged at the other goblins.

The red-haired Strong charged into the three remaining goblins, directly cutting one down. The other two immediately turned and fled in terror. Strong chased after them, killed one, and threw his short sword, luckily managing to kill the other.

He panted, grateful for his good luck. He had managed to hit it with a completely random, and very panicked, throw.

“So… so amazing,” Liz said, walking over, her eyes wide with what looked like admiration. “I’m sorry, I held you back.”

“It’s okay. It’s I who should be sorry,” the red-haired Strong said, puffing out his chest. “Killing goblins is too simple. I wanted to present you with a more thrilling and dramatic adventure.”

“It was certainly thrilling enough,” Gima said, arriving at the scene of the crime. “If my master hadn’t thrown that rock and hit the little guy, a hundred more goblins would have come out of that cave and run away.”

The red-haired Strong completely ignored Gima. He put his foot on the only surviving goblin, the one that had been bullied by its comrades earlier.

The scrawny goblin pleaded for mercy in broken, whimpering Common Tongue. “Hero, Hero, spare me! I have an eighteen-year-old mother at home, and an eight-year-old wife I just kidnapped last week.”

The red-haired Strong smiled and turned to Liz. “Good luck. Watch and learn.”

Liz nodded, her face full of anticipation.

The red-haired Strong kicked the goblin. “Do you want to live or die?”

“Live!” the goblin cried, kneeling on the ground, tears streaming from its beady red eyes.

“How do I know you won’t betray me?” The red-haired Strong placed his short sword on the goblin’s neck. His own face was red, and he looked more nervous than the goblin.

“Hero! I… I will lead the way for you! There are big, big holes on the path! You’ll die if you fall in,” it said. “They… they are busy with eggs. They hit me all day. I am very, very happy to help you.”

The red-haired Strong was overjoyed. “Very good.”

With that, he turned his head to enjoy Liz’s admiring gaze, then looked at George and said, “Greenhorn, did you learn something from a true professional?”

But he found that George wasn’t looking at him at all. He and Gima were over by the side, bent over and examining some suspicious-looking cart tracks in the grass.

Gima patted George on the back. “He’s showing off again.”

George stood up and pointed at the trembling goblin. “It’s lying.”

“Greenhorn, if you don’t want to learn, then don’t talk nonsense,” the red-haired Strong said, holding his head high with pride. “I know what I’m doing. Now, let’s go. We’ll give them a surprise attack they’ll never forget.”

“There’s something strange,” George said, pointing at the tracks again.

Gima helped him explain, “The tracks are very deep. It looks like a four-wheeled cart. That means a large amount of supplies may have been transported here recently. If we go in now, we’ll probably have to say goodbye to our happy little adventure.”

The red-haired Strong approached, glanced at the tracks hidden in the grass, and said with a sneer, “You scared?”

Gima gave him the middle finger. The red-haired Strong gripped the hilt of his sword, but then, remembering that Gima was just a child, he said, “What’s the matter? Are you going to let a little girl fight your battles for you?”

George, who had been about to try and persuade him further, simply lowered his hand and silently pulled Gima away.

Liz shook her head, feeling more and more that George was all show and no substance. The poet Disha stood by, smiling but saying nothing.

“Hero, let me lead the way,” the scrawny goblin said, leading them to the cave entrance like a loyal, slobbering dog.

“Attention! We must be both cautious and bold in our surprise attack! We must be very, very careful! Liz, you just stay right behind me,” the red-haired Strong said at the cave entrance, continuing in his lecturing tone. “Hey, greenhorns, what are you doing?”

Gulp, gulp.

Gima, with a pained expression on her face, drank a brown, tree-bark-colored potion. Her skin instantly took on the rough color and texture of tree bark. George was in the process of downing a second bottle of a strange, bubbling magic potion.

“Buffing up, of course. Didn’t you say we had to be cautious? So we’re drinking our magic potions in advance,” Gima said with a shrug.

“Want one?”

George asked, offering a bottle to the others.

The poet Disha took a bottle. “Tsk, at least fifty gold coins a bottle. You couldn’t sell the entire goblin nest, and all the goblins in it, for that much money.”

Liz looked at Gima’s brown, bark-like skin and smiled, politely refusing. “Thank you, but I don’t need one.”

“I don’t need one either. I have my own.”

The red-haired Strong said unhappily, feeling he couldn’t lose face. He took a leather waterskin from his backpack, chugged it down, and also took a large bite of dried meat.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The five of them, all “buffed up,” walked into the dark, damp cave one by one. The little goblin leading the way had a cunning, treacherous glint in its beady red eyes.