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Goblin Chapter 258: Riot! Bare-Fist Rachel!
🕑 Added 2025-10-05 13:50:37 +0000 UTCRachel saw what was happening and immediately waved everyone out, easing the door shut to keep anyone from barging in.
She knew Gauss was in a rare, deep state of insight—the critical moment. In fact, the reason she’d carved time out of a packed day to coach him was to help him step onto his second class.
She just hadn’t expected it to come this quickly. She’d figured it would take several sessions to coalesce the path and pry open the class barrier. Instead, one lesson and he’d hit the key step.
A flicker of envy crossed her eyes. No wonder That Person had noticed him.
Gauss, fully immersed in the change, didn’t sense her gaze. His blood felt like surging waves hammering every part of him, turning his body fever-hot—a little skiff riding a raging sea.
The newborn force kept washing through him: tearing, reforging, burning. His larger mana pool didn’t intervene—just flowed steadily. The two very different powers crossed now and then without clashing, neither helping nor hindering.
Condensing a second class really was far harder than the first.
Rachel watched his billowing robe, quietly grateful this breakthrough was happening inside the Guild, away from interference. This was one of the safest places in Sena; in her years as guildmaster, no one had dared make trouble here. Only here could he complete the metamorphosis undisturbed.
Then—
BOOOOM!
A dull, penetrating blast ripped in from outside, making the training room’s walls shiver.
What—?
Rachel’s face hardened. She checked Gauss—still steady, undisturbed—exhaled, then let her usual easy smile drop away. Her eyes sharpened like a hawk’s.
“Who picked now of all times?”
The crystal on the doorframe flashed—the Guild’s emergency ping from her staff. She’d told them not to disturb her unless necessary; if they’d pulled the alarm, and with a tremor felt even here, something had happened.
She glanced at Gauss and chose to go. Best to clamp the problem down fast.
Outside, staff fluttered like ants on a hot pan until her appearance stilled them—backbone restored. She sighed inwardly. Peace had lasted too long; people had forgotten how to weather a crisis. But this wasn’t the time.
Her petite, sharp-dressed deputy, forehead beaded with sweat, hurried up. “Guildmaster! It’s bad.” She kept her voice low and fast. “We have reports of a mass breakout and riot in the Upper City and at Reef Prison. Prisoners somehow broke restraints and are clashing with the City Guard. Also—major explosions at key locations around the city.”
Rachel’s pupils narrowed; her face grew grave. Reef Prison was a fortified island fortress; breakouts didn’t worry her as much. The synchronized city blasts did—that reeked of a larger plot.
“My Orders: Level One Alert. Bring All Wards Online; Seal The Main Entrances. Get The Main Hall On The Line And Keep Contact.”
She took a breath, pointed a few people to tasks, and headed downstairs.
In the lobby, adventurers stared at each other, stunned—the boom from the plaza had been unmistakable. This was the Adventurers’ Guild, the biggest human organization in the world—someone dared strike here?
Thud… thud… thud…
A heavy, measured tread—like a footfall timed to their racing pulses—came from the stair. Heads turned. A towering figure, far beyond normal human scale, stepped out of the shadow.
“The Guildmaster!”
“She’s here!”
Recognition rippled. But as they saw her, necks drew in. The warm, smiling, gentle powerhouse was gone; in her place a mountain-weight pressure rolled out from her center, filling every inch of the hall.
Even knowing her anger wasn’t aimed at them, they felt pinned by an invisible field, breath tight, hearts hammering. No one tried to speak as she walked quietly to the front doors.
Outside lay the vast Guild plaza—usually neat stone, heroic statues, bustling crowds. Now: wreckage.
Near the Guild tower, a charred crater yawned, bricks, stones, and soil flipped outward; sulfur and smoke stung the air. The statues lay shattered.
Farther off, panicked civilians; closer in, Adèle and senior staff rallying members—treating the wounded, engaging the perpetrators.
Rachel stood, took it in. Her aide handed her a pair of mithril gauntlets; she slipped them on. “Whoever you are—you’ve gone too far.”
She clenched her fists. The ground underfoot crazed like a giant spiderweb—then she launched like a shell. In a blink she broke the sound barrier, crossing a hundred meters into the fight’s heart.
THUMP!
Her hand clamped a fish-scaled warrior’s head and slammed down. It burst like a melon.
Time seemed to stop.
She didn’t. She streaked toward a knot of assailants gripping alchemical devices, skimming the ground. She hit the brakes—went from blur to statue in an instant, all momentum gone.
Before the nearest thug could register it, her finger pointed; without even touching him, his neck snapped like a stalk. His head popped off.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
Reality resumed. People glanced around—gaping at the empty spaces where bodies had been.
In the middle stood a powerfully built woman in gauntlets, blood dripping from her fists to splash like opening roses.
“Battle Rose—Bare-Fist Rachel!”
A man who looked like the commander swallowed hard. He’d known this was her turf and thought he was ready; facing the killing machine herself, the sheer physiological pressure scrambled his brain.
Worse—her dead-cold gaze fixed on him.
“Who sent you?”
Too many coincidences. Her coaching Gauss today had been a last-minute plan; almost no one knew. That training room was her private, warded space—hard to disturb from outside, hard to sense the outside from within. And yet—during that small window, an attack on the Guild, clearly aimed at the building.
The tower’s defense had dumped the blast into the plaza. Was it about the Guild… the prison riot… or… her eyes flicked toward the training room.
The commander flinched, blood draining. He bared his teeth, mouth working for a threat—but under her flat stare, the words died. His eyes darted to the inside of his loose robe.
Rachel shook her head, vanished, and “reappeared” in front of him—too fast for the eye. Her hand pinned his wrist just as it moved toward something. A deadman’s device? Not on her watch.
Crack!
His wrist shattered under her grip. In the same instant she broke his other limbs and dislocated his jaw. He lost most mobility in a heartbeat.
“Hm?”
She reached to restrain him for questioning—only to find he was already dead.
“No—this isn’t an alchemy bomb!”
At her speed, he shouldn’t have been able to act at all, let alone suicide. Her strikes hadn’t been lethal. So the sudden death had to be prearranged. Light bloomed from his body, flaring brighter.
Too late.
No time to weigh alternatives—only instinct. Her right leg coiled like a steel spring; the cracked ground subsided again. Her core snapped, bow drawn, and her smooth, straight right leg whipped up—a full-body high kick smashed into the glowing corpse.
BOOM!!!
Like an invisible cannon hit it; the body shot straight up, beyond the eye’s track, a streak that ignited from air-friction before the blast—leaving a tail-flame.
KRA-KOOM! KRA-KOOM! KRA-KOOM!
The corpse went supersonic and soared a hundred, two hundred meters—and then, before it climbed higher, a miniature sun detonated in the sky.
The deafening report rolled over the streets. A spherical shockwave ripped outward, whipping clothes and staggering feet; dust and grit spiraled skyward. Burning scraps and meat pattered down.
Silence—then a thousand churning emotions: dread, relief, awe. Rachel had snuffed a catastrophic blast.
She swept the field and flashed from point to point, dropping the rest with help from other pros. After that sky-burst, the remaining culprits were small fry.
But her face didn’t ease. These were cutouts—they knew nothing. The one worth questioning had died in that blast.
Her hawk’s eyes scoured the plaza. Seeing the citizens still shaking, she raised her right fist and let a broad, almost goofy smile bloom. “All clear! Disperse—Go Home!”
Sunlight splintered off the mithril. A stabilizing calm flowed from her; people straightened.
“Long Live Guildmaster Rachel!”
“Guildmaster’s The Strongest!”
The plotted attack had been crushed.
Soon Alia and the others reached the plaza, drawn by the noise and worried for Gauss. In the crowd, Rachel spotted the three anxious faces at once and waved them over.
“You’re… Guildmaster Rachel?” Like Gauss before them, they didn’t “know” her—but after his description of a “monster” of a woman, the moment they saw her they connected the dots.
“Yes. You’re Gauss’s teammates?”
“We’re here for Gauss—he’s not hurt, is he?” Alia asked, swallowing as she scanned the wreckage. He wasn’t in sight; he’d come to see Rachel today but wasn’t at her side.
“Don’t worry. He’s in my room—safe—and he’s in the middle of a breakthrough. The fight was outside,” Rachel said, bending to rest a newly bare right hand on Alia’s shoulder. Next to her, Alia looked like a doll.
“That’s good,” Alia breathed, and the three of them visibly relaxed.
“If you’re worried, when I’m done here I’ll take you up.”
She couldn’t leave yet; she needed to anchor the response.
“Please,” Alia said. She still felt a flicker of fear.
The Guild’s cleanup was swift; rubble was cleared in short order. When the main hall signaled the wider crisis contained, Rachel exhaled.
Other riots around the city had been handled too. Most of the chaos had been driven by humans with seafolk blood. Which meant—this wasn’t the end, only the start.
Tolerance would erode; good folk would be targeted with the bad. She knew it—and couldn’t stop the trend. Someone was pushing it.
Face calm, heart heavy, she led the three to Gauss’s training room. He hadn’t been disturbed; the isolation worked—and he himself was too deep to be rattled. The sharpness rolling off him had climbed to a peak.
