Goblin Slayer - Volume SS1.01 - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Tutorial First Adventure

The cave appeared abruptly in the middle of the forest just beyond the village. 

How long had it been there? None of the villagers remembered. 

It seemed as though it had been there forever—and yet, at the same time, it was like the cave had only just recently come to be, in a flash. Such an impression was common here on the frontier, which had not been under human development for very long. 

Every part of the world was continually changing. Even among the elves there was none who knew the exact geography of all places. 

And now, goblins had made a home in this cave. Were they stragglers, survivors from the battle five years earlier? Or just wild creatures? Nobody knew. 

What people did know was that goblins had appeared out of that cave, attacked the village, stolen some livestock, and finally, kidnapped a woman. 

A common tale, he thought. 

Including the part where someone came to the Adventurers Guild to file a quest. 

Now, he faced the mouth of the cave, hiding himself in the forest undergrowth, waiting intently for time to go by. The sun had passed its zenith and was working its way down through the sky. He spent the hours before twilight in observation. 

The goblins went in and out of their nest, showing no sign of noticing him. The guards didn’t take their jobs seriously, standing around almost, it seemed, out of habit. 

What drew his attention was the strange tower that stood just beside the pile of waste near the entrance. 

It doesn’t appear to be any kind of trap. 

The goblins he saw coming and going carried weapons, among other things. He just watched them and tried to breathe as quietly as possible. He remembered his sister telling him that this was a necessary skill for a hunter. Deer were skittish animals; if they didn’t think you were part of nature, they would run away. 

His father, so he gathered, had been quite good at this, although he’d never gotten the chance to see it himself. 

At last, the sun began to sink in the west, and the sky turned an eerie purple color. For some reason, the guards had disappeared from the mouth of the cave. They must have gone back inside. 

It’s time. 

He stood slowly from the bushes, first massaging his stiff joints. He had hoped the walk from town would be enough to accustom himself to his first set of armor, but there was no denying it was a bit heavy. What was more, simply lying in wait all day was enough to stiffen the body. 

Maybe I’ll loosen the straps of my equipment while resting. 

Once he had sufficiently relaxed his joints, he checked over his equipment. He raised and lowered the visor on his helmet, drew and sheathed his sword, made sure the blade was still sharp. 

The horns on the helmet made his head especially heavy. His field of vision was narrow, and he found it difficult to breathe. But he didn’t have the courage to take it off. 

He grasped the handle of the shield strapped to his arm, making some experimental feints. No problems. 

He stepped out of the bushes, careful not to rustle them, and slowly approached the cave entrance. He didn’t walk with his usual bold stride but, instead, moved delicately. 

He passed by the weird tower topped with an animal skull, then stopped next to the pile of waste. 

Should he light the torch or not? And was there anything else he had forgotten? 

A light source would give away his position to anyone with line of sight. And yet, the enemy could see in the dark and would find him first even without a torch. In such circumstances, having no light could only be considered a disadvantage. 

He took a torch from his item bag and made to strike a flint to it but then stopped. 

“…” 

He was just realizing something that should have occurred to him earlier. 

I can’t hold a torch like this. 

He had a sword in his right hand and a shield in his left. It was inconceivable that he would go without his blade, yet neither did he want to give up his only defense. He tried letting go of the shield’s grip in order to hold the torch, but the exaggerated angle of his wrist made it hard to move his arm. 

He let out a very frustrated groan, cursing his own stupidity and foolishness. If his master had been watching, he would never have lived this down. 

He spent a while in thought, looking into the cave entrance, and then gave up. Torch in the right hand, shield in the left, sword at his hip, and bag on his back. What was a torch but a wooden stick? It could double as a club if need be. 

He resolved to have the handle of his shield removed when he got back to town, then advanced into the entrance. 

Of course, he acknowledged, that’s if I get back to town. 

§ 

“Surely you don’t think you’re lucky just because I’m teaching you? That you’re blessed?” 

He was fairly sure those were the words the old rhea man had said as he had kicked the boy into the ice cave. 

The boy tumbled into the cave, which was full of waste and old food, the most disgusting place he had ever been. 

Rhea dwellings were renowned as some of the most comfortable, pleasant places in the world. That, at least, was what he heard later. 

The rheas were supposedly a people who lived among the fields, enjoying their daily labors and a distinct lack of adventure. They were cheerful and easygoing, given to a certain impulsiveness. 

Well, there are exceptions to every rule—and the old rhea man was the exception to this one. 

The rhea ignored the boy’s fit of coughing and closed the wooden door to the cave, barring it. 

“The really lucky ones are the ones who can do anything without needing to be taught.” 

There were no lights where the boy was, so he was plunged instantly into darkness. When he finally steadied his breath and looked around himself, he could see nothing at all. 

Nothing except a pair of eyes glimmering in the shadows: the old rhea. 

He realized they were focused directly on him, and he gulped. 

“You’re not that type, though. You can’t do a thing. Incompetent, shit-eating kid.” 

“Yes, Master,” the boy finally managed. Strangely, he didn’t think he was going to be killed. 

Of killing and being killed, he had learned more than his share at his village. 

But he suspected the old man could murder without giving it a thought. 

“You think if I teach you, you’ll get stronger,” the rhea sneered. 

Before the boy could so much as utter a yes, something came flying through the darkness and struck him in the forehead. It broke with a crackling sound, a warm pain running through the boy’s skull. Blood dribbled down his face. 

He stumbled. The rhea kicked him down, then loomed over him tauntingly. 

“Damn fool. As if an insect with a weapon were anything but an insect.” 

It was a plate, the boy realized. He’d been hit with a plate. 

He had never known such a simple thing could hurt so much. 

“Use everything you have. Prepare your equipment. If there’s something you want, and you don’t do everything in your power to get it…” 

Now that he thought about it, that may have been the first lesson his teacher ever imparted to him. 

“…then what’s the point of even being alive?” 

§ 

An acrid smell hit his nostrils the moment he entered the cave. 

Rotten garbage. Filth. Bodily waste. The lingering stench of carnality. 

He was used to it all. They wouldn’t be a serious problem for him. 

The darkness, however, was proving an obstacle. He had a torch, yes, but the blackness was overpowering. His mind filled with thoughts of what might be hiding in the flickering shadows at the edge of his torchlight. 

Not might be…what is hiding. 

There was no room to doubt that fact. He must not forget where he was: in a goblin den. 

If I force myself to breathe through my nose, I’ll get used to the smell. Human senses are convenient that way. 

He stood still and steadied his breath, then slid one foot forward, beginning his advance. It would be all too easy to lose his footing on the wet earth and the moss that covered the stone. He tried to focus on his steps, but the darkness quickly began to bother him. 

What awaited him ahead? Or above? The cave itself seemed to close in on him. His breathing became shallower, more rapid. Trying to pay attention to everything at once was making him dizzy. 

“…Take one thing at a time,” he murmured to himself, then turned his torch on the shadow of a rock wall. 

He just needed to take them down steadily. Don’t begrudge the time and effort to make your own life easier—that was what his master would have said. 

He tried to control his breathing as he listened to his surroundings, hoping not to miss anything. Besides the ragged sound of his own inhale and exhale, he detected a faint ringing in his ears. He didn’t know if it was because of the silence or borne of his nervousness. 

He wanted to take off his helmet and wipe the sweat from his brow. But of course, he couldn’t do that. He blinked repeatedly, then suddenly stared into the dark. 

Maybe it was his imagination. Then again, maybe not. 

He reflexively threw his torch at the wriggling shadow, right at the place that had moved differently from the rest of the darkness. 

“GOOROB?!” 

A scream went up, a choked cry. It was still alive. He leaped at it and pounded another blow between its eyes. He felt an unpleasant mushiness, like smashing a fruit, as the goblin expired and its brains went flying. 

“…Nghaa.” 

He let out a quick, loud breath. At the same moment, he thought he might fall over, the strength going out of his legs. 

He realized the spray of blood had nearly put out the half-broken torch. He thought it might be best to throw it away, but somehow he couldn’t let it go. His hand simply wouldn’t open. 

His hand and fingers shook; no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to let the tension out of them. 

“…” 

He gave a single annoyed click of his tongue, then forced the fingers of his left hand open, dropping the torch. The guttering flame rolled on the floor of the cave but continued to burn, licking the air like a tongue. 

It was nothing. Nothing, he told himself. What did it mean to kill a goblin? 

One goblin. Still just one. Only one. But he had managed to kill it. He checked again to be sure it was dead, then reached for another torch— 

“GOBGG!” 

“GBBGROBG!” 

He abandoned the torch and drew his sword instead. The next instant, innumerable gibbering goblins came flying at him from behind. 

He tried to spin and sweep them away with his sword, but the blade was knocked from his hand with a sickening clatter. Even as he registered that it had caught against the wall, a goblin was ramming into him, knocking him down. His item pack made a loud clang behind him as he landed, but he had no time to take note of it. 

“GROB! GOOROGB!!” 

“GROORB!!” 

One goblin, a hideous smile on its face, slashed at him with a dagger it held in both hands. The torch, nearly extinguished on the ground, still produced enough light to make the blade glitter dimly. Farther away, another goblin was pointing at him and smiling wickedly. 

I’m going to die. 

“Hrr—agh!” 

By sheer force of will, he bent his left arm, bringing his shield up in front of his face. The dagger lodged in the shield, and he swung it outward. 

“GBBROB?!” 

Goblins are not physically strong. With the weapon ripped from its grasp, the creature was thrown off balance. 

He immediately arched his back, pushing his abdomen up and forcing the goblin backward. There was no time to waste. If a larger group showed up now, he would be mincemeat. 

The goblin he had knocked to the ground was now trying to scramble to its feet, but he wasn’t about to give it the chance. 

“?!” 

The creature gave a breathless gasp as he kicked it in the stomach with the reinforced toe of his boot, the force tearing open its abdomen and spilling viscera onto the ground. Then he brought his foot down, with a motion as if he were shaking off dirt, and crushed its groin. 

“GBORROGBGOR?!” 

“GROB! GROORBG!!” 

His victim screamed piteously, while the other goblin cackled at his companion’s misfortune. 

The laughter didn’t last long. 

The boy was already picking up the sword he had lost, ramming it mercilessly into the goblin’s throat. The creature coughed, choking on its own blood; it tried to hold on to the blade. He kicked it away, drawing out his sword. 

“Huff…” 

Blood gushed all around him. He was hot all over, breath ragged, a dull aching in his head. His throat tickled; he wanted nothing more than to take a swig from his canteen. But there wasn’t time. 

He could feel something creeping nearby. There was a scratching noise coming from behind him in the dark. 

He groaned softly and gritted his teeth. At the same time, he tried to think. He must not stop thinking. 

It was obvious that there must have been an ambush tunnel behind him. He had simply missed it. The question was, how had his entry been noticed? He had gone in when there were no guards, and the first goblin hadn’t made too much noise. 

“…!” 

Then, he had a flash of insight and looked down at his gear. It was brand-new, gleaming, untarnished. Leather and steel. 

The smell! 

He was late realizing it. The goblins were nearly upon him. He checked his sword. It was still fairly free of blood and guts, but the blade had a large chip in the middle. He clicked his tongue. 

He plunged his hand into his item bag, where he thought he felt something strange. Nonetheless, he grabbed the torch and threw it to the ground. It caught the flame of the guttering torch, flaring up in a burst of light. The illumination reflected countless yellow eyes shimmering with hatred and murder. 

“GOOROGB!” 

“GROB! GOBORB!!” 

“GOOROGBGROOB!!” 

Then he was swept up in chaos. 

He crouched down, keeping his back to the wall and raising his shield. He thrust out with his sword, trusting to luck to land any blows. 

He didn’t want to make the same mistake he had before. He focused on stabbing the goblins. This way would work. 

Throat, eyes, stomach, heart. He lashed out with the sword, piercing through, seeking places that would kill in a single blow. 

But he and the goblins were equally intent on killing one another. Rusty daggers and spears struck his exposed arms and legs, tearing at them, drawing blood. The goblins, however, started getting in one another’s way, tripping over one another and jabbing elbows into their brethren; a series of ugly arguments started. Goblins hardly knew the word teamwork. 

At the moment, all he needed to do was to keep stabbing with his sword. Everything that wasn’t him was an enemy. That made things easy. 

So he gritted his teeth and kept working. If his arm gave out, he would surely die; that was all there was to it. 

Blood and fat, flesh and bone: he resented the blade for growing duller each time he used it. Perhaps it would have been different if he were a more accomplished fighter. 

Then came a great thud that heralded a change in the tide of battle. 

Beyond the immediate horde, there was a large—massive, really—goblin shuffling toward the fray. A club rested across its shoulders, and it plodded like a man on his way to work the fields. 

“HOOOOB…” 

It almost looks like a hob, he thought, his breath coming in gasps. A hob: a hobgoblin. Was there any chance of victory? Yes. 

His body moved mechanically. It was just like tossing a silver ball into the mouth of a frog. The sword rotated in his hand until he was holding it in a reverse grip. Simultaneously, he slammed the goblin in front of him with his shield, killing it. His master had taught him that if you crush someone’s nose and keep pushing, it will go back into their brain and kill them. 

Now he swept with his sword, taking his first step away from the rock face. 

Throw. 

“GOROOGB?!” 

A critical hit. 

The sword whistled through the air, passing easily over the heads of the goblins and lodging itself in the hobgoblin’s throat. Clawing at the empty air, the creature toppled over, slamming into the ground. Pathetic. 

He grabbed the dagger at his waist, turning his attention to the remaining enemies. 

“GROBG?!” 

“GRG! GOOROGGB!!” 

The surviving clutch of goblins were looking in every direction. 

They stared dumbly at their bodyguard’s corpse, then looked at the boy in front of them with his armor and his mask, and promptly ran screaming in the other direction. 

They dropped their weapons as they fled into the cave, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to chase them now. Dragging his battered, bleeding body forward, he bore down on the still-twitching hobgoblin. 

“Take…this!” 

With both hands, he grabbed the sword that was still lodged in the creature’s neck and tore out its windpipe with all his strength. There was a cracking sound, and the blade split in two at the nick he had noticed earlier. 

The boy lost his balance, slipping in a pool of blood. Suddenly, he desperately wanted lemonade. 

In his hands, he found himself holding a haft and about two-thirds of a sword. He got unsteadily to his feet and gave it an experimental swing; he found it unexpectedly nimble. 

This is good. 

At last, he was able to breathe again; he looked around himself. 

“How many was that…?” 

It was carnage. There was no other term for the picture illuminated by the lolling torch. 

Now that the stomach-turning fight was over, he began to trample on the dead goblins’ corpses. 

How many had he killed? How many had fled? And how many were left? He had no idea. 

How many goblins were even in this cave to start with? 

“…” 

As the thought sank in, he shook his heavy head slowly from side to side. 

Whatever the case, it was clear what he should do—what he had to do. 

“Guess I’ll start with first aid.” 

He reached into the bag of items on his back. Needless to say, he was exhausted. His breath was harsh, his pulse flying and his vision blurry. His nerves were giving out, and the rush of blood dulled his thoughts something terrible. 

That was why he didn’t notice it. 

“GOGGBR!!” 

The boy cried out. 

The goblin with the crushed groin jumped at him, brandishing a dagger. By the time he felt something heavy collide with his back, it was too late. He tried to turn around, only for his head to suffer a violent jerk. The monster must have grabbed on to one of the horns. 

“Hrr… Why, you…!” 

“GBGGB!” 

He almost thought his right shoulder had exploded. It took him several seconds to register that the goblins had stabbed him with the dagger. 

He was coughing up blood in time with his pulse, spattering his helmet. 

“Grraaaahhh…!” he growled, trying to fall backward toward the wall. He slammed into the rock. 

There was a scream: “GOOROG?!” 

Again. 

“GORO?!” 

Once more. 

“GOROOBGBG?!” 

There was a dry crack, and suddenly, the weight on his head and back was lifted. Even so, his head hung at a terrible angle. The horn must’ve broken off. 

He turned around, using his still-functioning left hand to grab the horn off the ground. He ended up hurting his wrist, because the shield was still attached. But he didn’t care. He had one thing to do. 

He slammed into the monster writhing on the ground, shoving the horn through its throat. 

“GOOBGGB…?!” 

The goblin howled, then ceased moving. The boy just managed to sit down—rather than collapsing—next to it. 

First aid. That was what mattered. Healing. There were still enemies about. He couldn’t let himself be rendered immobile. 

“Hrgh…” 

But his whole body shook. He thought wounds were supposed to burn, yet he felt terribly cold. 

He made to remove the dagger with his left hand, but his arm twitched and his mouth slackened; drool ran from his lips. 

He soon understood why. 

He drew the dagger out forcefully to discover a viscous, unidentifiable liquid coating it. 

“Hrr…kk…” 

Poison. 

He tossed the dagger aside and it clattered to the ground. 

He plunged his hand into his item bag again. He had bought an antidote. This would be all right. He would be all right… 

“…Hrk…?” 

All he could feel against his fingers, though, was a wet sensation, and tinkling bits of something like glass. 

But there were no bottles. 

They broke…! 

He felt himself going pale, and it wasn’t just because of the poison. 

It must have broken when he had fallen in the ambush earlier. Well, regret would do nothing for him now. 

If he got back to town—no, to the village—could they help him? It was impossible. His body would barely listen to him; he felt as weak as if he were ridden with fever. 

If this went on, he was going to die. There was no question. 

Silently, he pulled the bag close with a trembling hand. He pushed the edge of the bag through his visor and wrung it out. 

A mixture of healing and antidote potions dribbled into his mouth; he suckled at it desperately, like a tender child at his mother’s breast. 

He had no intention whatsoever of dying. 

At least, not today. 

§ 

The chieftain grumbled angrily as he was interrupted by one of his lackeys, pale-faced, crying, Intruder! Intruder! Intruder! 

He gave the underling a smack with his staff and kicked his now-silent goblin-mother. “Tell me,” he demanded. 

He quickly pieced together the lackey’s confused account. He was smart that way. 

It seemed an adventurer had entered the nest—and all alone, at that. 

What a fool. The chieftain laughed. He would soon die in an ambush. It was a shame that the newcomer was a man, but males were still useful for their meat. It was really no bad thing. 

That was what the chieftain thought—but he was wrong. 

Not only had the adventurer thwarted the sneak attack, but he had even killed their Wanderer. 

The chieftain rained foul curses upon the adventurer, stamping the ground in frustration; he gave the lackey another whack for good measure. 

He wasn’t specifically angry that his minions had been killed. But he couldn’t stand the thought of his perfect (in his eyes) nest being upset by this intruder. 

Get together whoever’s still alive, he growled, and the goblin who had fled to him now went running off again, howling. 

Curse and ruin these damnable adventurers. Making me have to go grab myself another goblin-mother. 

It suited goblins to believe that because they were weak, they were always the victims. Yet, in their hearts of hearts, they saw themselves as the most important creatures in the world, and that was what made them so profoundly unpleasant. 

The chieftain put the spurs to the four goblins who had come back alive as he sought battle with the adventurer. He would finish the job himself. His followers wouldn’t settle for anything less. After all, half the reason a goblin nest’s existence continued at all was the leader’s untrusting nature; the other half was the jealousy of his followers. 

If he wasn’t careful, the idiots who surrounded him might get in his way. And that, the chieftain couldn’t abide. 

Luckily for him, it was reported that the adventurer had been wounded in combat. There was a stippled trail of blood leading toward the entrance, away from the piles of corpses of his moronic fellows. What was more, the footprints suggested the adventurer had been all but dragging himself along. He was badly wounded, no question about it. 

The chieftain smiled wickedly; he gestured with his staff to encourage the others. Arguing and complaining, they moved forward, until at last they arrived at the mouth of the cave. The great hole let in the light of the green moon, the whole place filling with the brightness of “morning.” 

There was no way the adventurer would escape under these conditions. The chieftain waved his staff, sending his fellow goblins out of the cave. 

The moment he did so, there was a wet smack, and two of the goblins were simply obliterated. 

“GOROB?!” 

What had happened? The chieftain wasn’t sure at first, but he thought something large had fallen down from above. 

It was the hobgoblin’s corpse. As far as the chieftain was concerned, the huge lug was a worthless lump of waste that was still causing problems for him even after it was dead. 

It had never occurred to the chieftain that the adventurer might drag the corpse up somewhere and then push it down on the goblins. 

“GOBBBR!” 

“GBO! GROOBGR!!” 

The remaining two goblins, having narrowly avoided disaster, turned to the chieftain with fear on their faces. 

Accursed, brainless fools. The chieftain gave them each a smack on the noggin and kicked them out of the cave. 

Immediately, something fell down and attacked one of them. 

This something was an adventurer, wearing armor and a helmet. The horn on one side of his helmet was broken off. 

“GORB?!” 

The adventurer started by slamming his shield into the head of the nearest goblin, splitting the creature’s face open. 

“GOROBRG?!” 

Then he spun, catching the second goblin (who had snuck up behind him) with the edge of the shield in a sideward sweep. The metal edge wasn’t sharp enough to be called a blade, but it was plenty to shatter the creature’s chest, causing it to let out a scream. 

The adventurer clicked his tongue when he realized he had failed to finish the monster in a single blow, then jumped upon it, slamming the shield into its throat. Windpipe crushed, the goblin suffocated over the next several seconds. 

For the chieftain, it was enough. 

They might be stupid piles of excrement, but they had at least served to buy him time to incant his spell. 

The chieftain was already raising his staff, topped with an animal’s skull, and declaiming an incomprehensible curse. 

The adventurer realized what he was doing and turned, but it was too late. 

At that instant, lightning burst forth from the staff. 

§ 

It was a Thunderbolt. 

He had not realized such things existed: goblins who could use magic. 

He braced himself with his right arm—he wasn’t about to sacrifice his good left arm—and used the hobgoblin’s body to shield himself. Blue-white lightning slammed into the corpse, crackling and fizzing as it burned his arm. 

He didn’t cry out—on some level, he didn’t experience it as pain, but rather a loss of sensation, almost like his arm had been flung through the air. 

“Argh…!” 

In fact, he had been thrown several feet from the hobgoblin’s body. A weird, medicinal flavor spread through his mouth, and sweat suddenly dripped from every pore. 

He rolled along the ground, then used his left hand to push himself to his feet. 

What about the right? 

He looked down and saw his arm. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it, but it was still attached. He tried to move it, but it didn’t quite respond the way he expected, almost as if it were badly swollen. 

It was not, however, without sensation. 

The pain was difficult to describe: it was as if instead of an actual arm, he had a thousand needles that happened to look like one. 

And there was more. He clicked his tongue. The goblin in front of him was raising its staff again. 

He would figure out what this creature was later. If his right arm was still there at the end of the fight, he would deal with that then, too. He had to kill the monster before another bolt came. 

The hobgoblin’s body twitched with the last of the electricity, smoke rising from the cooked flesh. The corpse had given him some cover but hadn’t protected him entirely. That much was obvious now. 

What could he do, then? What equipment did he have on hand? What options were available to him? And what path should he take? 

How can I kill this creature? 

His mind worked quickly, reviewing the possibilities. He undid the strap on the back of his shield, gripping it by the handle. 

“GOOBOOGOROGOBOG!!” 

The chieftain—the goblin shaman—bellowed the words of the spell again, and a second Thunderbolt rent the air. Its blue-white light bent at wild angles but came flying straight at him. 

“—ngh!” 

He caught the assault on his shield—the shield he had thrown with his left hand from the shadow of the hobgoblin’s corpse. 

It flew in a sharp arc, intercepting the lightning and sending it flying off in another direction. 

Easier than throwing silver balls into the mouths of frogs at a festival. 

The bright light filled his vision, and the acrid smell of scorched leather reached his nose; black smoke billowed into the air. The situation wasn’t conducive to seeing well at all. The flash was still imprinted on his retinas. But the same would be true of his enemy. 

And that’s good enough. 

He took his sword, now of a strange length, in his left hand. He raised it in a reverse grip and jumped through the smoke to attack the shaman. 

“Ha—ahh!” 

“GBBRGGGG!” 

The shaman thrust its staff upward. Could it use yet another spell? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. 

What I must do is simple. 

He jumped, clearing the hobgoblin’s body, staying as low as he could, bringing his sword up, then down toward the throat. 

That was all. 

“GOBORG?!” 

There was an impact hard enough to knock someone down; he felt something under him, heard the scream and saw the spray of blood. It seemed even the broken blade of the sword was enough to destroy a goblin throat. 

That should keep it from being able to use any more spells. 

Even as the foul goblin gore drenched him, he leaned in with his weight, hoping to break its bones. It was more difficult than he had hoped, having only one arm as he did. 

He stabbed out with his sword again. This time, he braced the pommel against his immobile right arm, giving it everything he had. 

“GOROGOGOR?!?!” 

Just for good measure. It didn’t matter whether the creature could use spells or not. He wouldn’t give it the chance. 

He pushed his body weight even harder into the twitching form of the shaman and struck again, once more at the throat. 

“—?! ??!” 

Again and again, until the shivering body stopped moving. Again. As many times as it took. 

“…” 

Then, finally, he let out a breath. 

His sword was buried up to the hilt in the throat of the shaman, who had finally fallen still. His hand and fingers felt frozen solid; he simply stayed there with the sword tight in his grip. 

“…Hrm.” 

With effort, he managed to free his fingers from the sword, coating the pommel with gore to lubricate it. 

He looked around and saw, in the dim darkness, goblin corpses scattered all over. He was the only thing moving. 

The goblin shaman, the hobgoblin, the rest of the goblins: they were all dead. 

No. 

He had killed them. 

If he killed them, he would not be killed himself. 

“……” 

Silently, he grabbed the sword that was lodged in the corpse’s throat; he braced his foot against the body to pull it out. But it was slick with blood, and he found he simply couldn’t handle it with only one hand. 

He grunted, looking around at the aftermath of the fight, then pulled out the dagger he had brought along as backup. 

It was the only weapon he had left. 

He forced his head, which wanted to lean to one side because of the missing horn, to stay straight, then somehow managed to prepare a torch with just his one hand. 

By the light of its flame, he went back into the cave. 

The place was full of bodies. Steam rose from innards, dark blood coated everything, and the empty eyes of dead goblins stared at him. 

They were lucky there were even any bodies left, he thought. It was better than goblins deserved. 

“Four by the entrance, and only…” he concluded, “…one chieftain. Five total.” 

He kicked one of the corpses, which rolled over on its back, clearly dead. 

Or at least, it appeared to be dead. 

So he raised his little dagger. 

“Six.” 

One at a time, he drove the knife into their throats, carved them open, made sure they would never breathe again. If they were already dead, well and good. If they were mortally wounded, he finished them off. If they tried to ambush him, he killed them. 

Doing all this with just his left arm was exhausting work. The dagger became so covered in blood that he thought it might slip from his hand, so he switched to a reverse grip and wrapped it around his hand with a bandage. He couldn’t tie it, but as long as he had the least grip on the weapon, he wouldn’t drop it. 

Partway through his work, a stomach-churning stench and shocking pain in his right arm suddenly assailed him, making him feel faint. Was it seconds or minutes that he lay there? Or hours or days? In an instant, his consciousness snapped back into focus, and he vomited. 

What had he fallen into? Waste, or blood, or both? He slowly rose to his feet. 

With his one good arm, he searched through his bag, retrieving some potion-soaked herbs and pushing them into his mouth. They tasted disgusting, but as he chewed on them, he felt his mind growing slightly clearer. A few herbs wouldn’t heal his wounds, though. He needed medical attention. 

His right arm throbbed viciously, but pain was a sign that he had sensation. He could worry about it later. 

After he had done everything he had to do. 

“…Ten, eleven? Twelve, thirteen, fourteen… Fifteen… Sixteen…” 

It took an agonizingly long time, but he made sure that each goblin was dead. Pierce the throat, sunder it, then draw the dagger back and on to the next one. Time and again, he repeated the process. 

He had no idea how long it was before he finally arrived at the deepest part of the cave. 

He didn’t immediately understand what he was looking at. The ceiling was high above him, the wind blowing through. Was the chamber natural, or had it been dug out? He had no idea. But the deserted room was obviously intended for some important person (or goblin). In the middle of the chamber, bound by chains, was a woman. 

She was covered in filth and not moving a muscle. 

If he remembered correctly—and if he hadn’t been unconscious for very long—she had been abducted about a week earlier. 

“…Are you alive?” 

He saw a movement, so slight that at first he thought it was a trick of the flickering torchlight. But then he saw her breasts—covered in painful-looking bite marks—swell gently up and down, proof that the village girl was still living. 

So now she was rescued, but her life had been wrecked. 

“…” 

Without a word, he knelt down beside her and checked her over, then silently stood up. 

That wasn’t for him to decide. He could only have faith. 

Might she not have been happier to be killed by the goblins than to be rescued in this state? Killed by goblins—how could that be happiness? It was a foolish thought. 

He looked around the chamber, noting several spots that seemed like places where a goblin might still be hiding. The corner, for example. An altar stood there as if designed to draw attention, although it appeared to be a pale imitation of some original. It was made of human bones. He kicked it down, the bones clattering to the ground, and then he looked all around it. 

“…” 

He found his goblins. 

Several small creatures, huddled together, shaking and jabbering in thin voices. Were they begging for their lives? 

He gazed at the monsters, cowering in the corner of the room. 

Tiny goblins. Children. Goblin children. 

He was sure the adults had told them to hide. He could imagine it easily. 

He recognized their expressions: they looked at him the way anyone would look at someone who burst into their home. 

He cocked his head as if thinking about something and stood for a long moment. 

The goblin children started to pick up rocks in their miniature hands. Did they think he couldn’t see them? 

He took a breath in, and then let it out. He detected the already familiar scent, a mixture of rotten flesh and waste and mud. 

He looked around, listening to the shallow breathing of the village girl, utterly robbed of her dignity. 

With a slow nod, he counted the goblins up. 

“Twenty-one.” 

Then he brought his dagger down. 

§ 

She looked at the twilight sun that to her seemed the color of blood. 

It sank in the west, turning the sky red. 

Every time she saw it as she followed the cows around the farm, she averted her gaze. 

Have I always done that? 

Yes, probably. She hated twilight. She loved the night sky but couldn’t stand the sight of the setting sun. 

I wonder why that is. 

The reason was different now than it had been before. Even she understood that much. 

When she was little, it had been because she didn’t want to go home. Playtime was over when the sun set. She had to part ways with him and go home. For some reason, it upset her every time. 

But now… 

“I guess this isn’t the time to be thinking about it.” 

She had to hurry and get the cows back to the barn. Cow Girl shook her head. Her long hair billowed. She had decided to grow it long for herself, but there were times when it could be quite annoying. 

“Oh, come on,” she grumbled, sweeping her hair out of the way. She went after the cows, calling, “Come on, cows!” 

She looked up to see the long shadows of people passing by the farm along the road. Their shadows reached out eerily, legs and arms stretching unnaturally. 

Merchants, travelers, adventurers. Yes—adventurers. And among them, an exceptionally strange-looking one. 

He was covered by armor and a helmet, carrying a shield and sword, clear markers of an adventurer. 

That was well and good, but his entire body was covered in grime. One of the horns had broken off his helmet, his shield was in tatters, and his sword didn’t seem to be quite right. On top of all that, he stank. Some people grimaced as he passed; others laughed at him behind their hands. 

He didn’t seem like trouble. Just another novice who had bitten off more than he could chew and wound up dragging himself back home. Nobody could grow without struggle, just like how a child could never learn to stand without falling down. 

The reaction, though, was only human: when people saw someone in dire straits, they either pitied them or mocked them. 

Cow Girl was the former, feeling sorry for the adventurer. She frowned. 

I wonder if he’s hurt. 

One of his arms hung limply, and he was dragging one foot as he walked silently along. It was painful just to look at him. 

But that was all there was to it; it wasn’t like she felt anything special for him. 

Anyway, it was just some injured adventurer walking along the road. Was there anything special about it? 

Then he passed by the farm, heading for town, and with a little distance between them, she saw his back and stopped. 

“Wha…?” 

The stick she used to guide the animals fell from Cow Girl’s hand. She couldn’t explain it—she just had a feeling. A foolish feeling. But on reflection, maybe no other explanation was necessary. 

If. Just if. 

If he had survived, I’m sure he would have— 

—become an adventurer…! 

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Cow Girl was running. She jumped the fence, completely forgetting about the cows. 

It was only a short distance to the road, but she refused to blink, feeling as though he might disappear if she did. 

“H-hey, hey, you! Wait— Just wait a second!” 

He didn’t stop or turn around. Maybe he didn’t realize she was talking to him. 

Cow Girl gritted her teeth and ran faster. She was sure she hadn’t run so hard since she’d been a girl. She could never have gotten so far from the village, no matter how hard she’d run. 

“I said, wait…!” 

Almost before she realized it, she’d reached out her hand and grabbed his arm. She had been able to touch him. 

She tugged on that arm, and finally, he stopped walking. She put her free hand on her chest and breathed a sigh. The way passersby were looking at them made her uncomfortable—but no matter. 

The helmet turned toward her, and a red eye stared at her from behind the visor. 

“Er, um…” 

She couldn’t see his expression at all, yet the eye seemed to pierce through her, and she swallowed hard. 

“Hey, you… You remember me, don’t you?” 

Her voice shook. Would he recognize her? Or did she have the wrong person? Her hand trembled on his arm. 

What would she do if she had made a mistake? It was a little too late for such doubts. 

How ridiculous she would feel. How stupid. She bit her lip hard. 

He inclined his helmet ever so slightly and, after a moment, in a terribly quiet and cold voice, murmured, “…Yes.” 

So it is him! 

Cow Girl couldn’t identify the emotion that flared up in her heart. She didn’t know whether she was joyful or sad, but tears streamed down her face. 

“Where’s your house? Where are you staying? What have you been…? Are you all right? What about your sister?!” 

She couldn’t stop anymore. The words poured out of her; she shocked even herself with how much she spoke. 

Five years. It had been five years. What could they talk about? What should she ask? What should she say or tell him? 

At last, the seemingly endless stream of words stopped, stymied by his complete silence, the lack of even a whisper. 

“Oh, um…” Now she was staring at his helmet, embarrassed. 

And then he spoke. Easily, as though it were nothing unusual. 

“…I was slaying goblins.” 

“Oh…” 

She could hardly breathe. 

Through her mind flashed the image of her parents’ empty coffins, no bodies to bury at their funeral. 

She remembered asking her uncle something. Him not telling her anything. 

The wind grew stronger, sending a sigh through the grass of the farm. 

This wind seemed so cold, so cruel. 

“Um, I just…” 

She removed her trembling hand from his arm. She was sure now that he wouldn’t move even if she let go of him. 

Cow Girl took in one deep breath, her chest expanding, then let it out. She didn’t know what was best, but she knew what she could do. At least, she thought she did. 

“W-wait right here, okay?” 

“…” 

He gave no answer. She thought, though, that meant “okay.” It had to, she told herself. 

She started off running, but after a few steps, she spun around. 

“If you disappear, I’ll never forgive you!” 

Now she knew he was still there behind her. Rubbing her eyes, she kept on running. 

He was just…standing there. Just as if he was waiting for his sister to come get him. 

§ 

“Uncle!” 

The owner of the farm looked up slowly as his niece threw the door of the house open with a bang. He had finished his day’s work and had just been packing some tobacco shavings into his pipe to enjoy a moment’s relaxation. 

It was unusual for her to seem so out of sorts. In fact, he couldn’t remember it happening before. 

“The boy— The boy, he—!” 

“There, now, calm down. Are you all right? Did something happen to you?” Her agitation caused him to half rise to his feet before he knew what he was doing. 

This was his younger sister’s daughter. She had known terrible misfortune. The owner of the farm was under no illusions that he could replace her parents, but he liked to think he had raised her with care. 

There were a lot of rough people in town. Some of them were even adventurers: often, the lower ranks weren’t so far removed from average street toughs. He felt a clinging fear that one of them had done something to his niece. 

“N-no, no, it’s n-not—” 

But she shook her head vigorously, her hair flying every which way. The words spilled out in a trembling tone, almost as if she were crying. 

“That boy… The boy from next door, he’s alive… He’s been alive all this time!” 

“What?!” Her uncle jumped completely out of his chair. “Next door? You mean…from the village?!” 

“Yes…!” Her face was a mess of tears that poured out of the corners of her eyes, but she nodded again and again. She managed to keep talking through her sniffles. “I g-guess he’s an—an adven…venturer now… And he’s right…out…!” 

“An adventurer…” A cloud passed over the farm owner’s face, and he shook his head. “Is he coming back from work?” 

“I think… I think probably, yes…” 

There were many rumors about adventurers, and not all could be believed. But novices to the trade were said to take one of two types of jobs: mucking out the sewers or… 

“So he was slaying goblins, was he?” 

“Yes…” 

The owner saw his niece nod weakly. “Goblins. Of course.” He let out a sort of deep groan. 

Adventuring. Maybe the boy had had no other choice. The world was too cruel for an orphan to survive any other way. But still…an adventurer. And one involved with goblins, no less. 

“I want to…let him stay…here, but…” 

Maybe you won’t let him. At the girl’s question, the farm owner’s face took on a pained expression, and he let out a sigh. 

When I think of what that boy must have gone through, I guess it’s only natural he’d want revenge. 

The farm owner himself had lost family, after all. It wasn’t as if he didn’t understand the feeling. 

As he recalled, his niece and the boy in question were close in age: he must be thirteen, or fourteen, or maybe fifteen… 

Too young, in any event, to cope with such burgeoning emotions. 

Suppose someone passing by in the street punched you in the face, then simply walked away smiling. Few people would forgive such an act, let alone forget it. But to then hunt down the person who had hit you, and hit them back—how much time and effort would that take? And how much the more so if there was an 80 or 90 percent chance that someone had already dealt with that person? 

I suppose he’ll feel better after he’s destroyed two or three nests. 

That would be the limit of it, the farm owner decided. That would be all. Otherwise, where would it end? 

If he decides he wants to learn a respectable trade, he can help me on the farm. 

And above all, it was his niece’s request. 

Ever since he had taken her in, she had been given to keeping her eyes down, never letting her feelings be known. Now she had come to him with a desperate wish. How could he trample on her emotions? 

“…Fine.” The farm owner let out a long, deep breath, the crags of his sunbaked face breaking into a smile. “Tell him he may stay. For tonight. For as many nights as he pleases.” 

“You really mean it?!” 

How did that proverb go? “The crow who was just crying now cackles with laughter.” 

The girl’s face was shining, even as her tears still glistened in her eyes. 

“However,” her uncle said, “I will need him to pay rent. That will make sure he’s at least somewhat invested in this place.” 

The farm owner didn’t forget this word of admonishment. His niece obviously trusted the boy, but as her guardian, he had to be more careful. It had been five years since her home had been destroyed, more than enough time for the boy to become not just an adventurer but a ruffian, one of those unsavory creatures. 

He could stay in a barn or someplace until the owner was more certain of who he was now. 

“If he can accept that, then bring him here.” 

“R-right! That’s perfect!” 

His niece rubbed her eyes repeatedly with her sleeve. They were red and swollen, and she blinked to clear them. 

“I’ll—I’ll be right back with him! Thank you, Uncle!” 

Then she spun and flew out the door even faster than she had come in. 

The door closed with a slam. The farm owner looked at it and sighed yet again. 

“Now, then…” 

She had been in such a rush; he was sure she had forgotten to bring the cows home. 

He would have to do it for her. The farm owner gave a great stretch and got ready for work. 

This boy wasn’t a total stranger. He wasn’t blood, just his niece’s friend, but a bond was a bond. He came from the same village. 

Who knows? If we show him a nice, quiet life, maybe it’ll temper his feelings as well. 

Then the farm owner went outside, having no idea how wrong he was. 

§ 

The stars gleamed in the night sky, and the twin moons shone brightly. 

He was looking up, staring intently at the red and green moons. 

In the distance could be heard the last of the day’s hubbub from town, a din that stretched from the dark depths of the forest to the grass of the farm’s fields. If one listened closely, one might even hear the voices of wild beasts hiding among the shadows. 

But listening closely was not what he was doing. 

He was simply standing, replaying the battle in his mind. 

He had prepared his equipment, gone into the cave, fought the goblins, and killed them. 

He could still feel in his hands the sensation of having taken twenty-one lives. He wasn’t used to it yet. 

He had carried the girl out and delivered her to the village chief. He didn’t know what happened to her after that, nor did he care to ask. 

He didn’t think of it in terms of having won or lost. He didn’t even think of it as having rescued someone. 

All he knew was that he had destroyed a nest. 

What did he think would come of obliterating a single goblin hole? 

Nothing. 

All he had done was destroy one goblin nest. 

Nothing more. 

Nothing had changed. 

Of course it hadn’t. Had he expected it would, even a little? Ridiculous. 

His heart felt cold. Not so much as a ripple of emotion ran through it. 

I have much to think about. 

His sword had broken, but it turned out to be more convenient that way. He would need to procure a short sword. 

His armor satisfied him, but it seemed to be vulnerable to stabs. He would need a fine chain mail or the like. 

A shield had been the right choice. Ideally, it would be a little smaller and easier to move… One with no handle, just a strap. 

The helmet was important. It had saved his life. But what to do about the horns…or horn? 

Antidotes. Potions. Healing items. He would require a variety of such things. It was many against one. He needed every ace he could get. 

He would have to think of a strategy. If he kept doing what he had done this time, he would die. He didn’t mind dying, but he wanted to take more than one or two of them with him. 

Tactics were important, too. He would have to be able to kill more goblins more precisely, and without leaving the job half-done. 

If he could kill them, he wouldn’t be killed. The truth was as simple as that. 

He would think, plan, and attack. He could not ignore continued training. 

There were no guarantees that things would immediately go well. But he would do better next time. And better still the time after that. 

It would not end with one or two nests. It couldn’t. 

This was the beginning. Only his first step. 

I’m going to kill all the goblins. 

“Heeeey!” 

That was when she arrived: a girl rushing down the dark path without so much as a lantern, her chest heaving from exertion. 

It was the girl who had stopped him. He remembered her. She had said, “Wait right here,” and so he had waited. 

“M-my un…uncle, he—he says—!” 

He was sure he imagined the look of relief and joy that seemed to pass over her face when she saw him. 

“He says you can…stay here! S-so let’s— 

“Let’s go.” The words were so soft, so strained, that it seemed she was about to burst into tears. 

He was silent a moment, thinking. And then, he slowly nodded.