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Goblin Chapter 292: Hephaestus Might
🕑 Added 2025-11-06 09:54:09 +0000 UTCEven loaded with four riders, Hephaestus’ speed was still blistering.
In short order they were above Shattered Shell Shoals. Gauss looked over the flat shallows and smiled. If he wanted to chase rank, who could compete? Another party might spend hours just getting here.
The straight-line distance wasn’t huge, but overland travel can’t touch flight—rivers crossed the country in a web; every few miles you’d be fording or detouring, bleeding speed. Flying mounts were just too broken.
WHUMP—WHUMP—WHUMP—
The drake beat its great wings, sand and shells whipping up in gusts, then dropped onto a flat patch at the edge of the shoals. They dismounted.
“Crazy fast,” Alia said from the heart. What kind of hard life had they been living?
“Easy, though. For long trips we still march,” Gauss said lightly. Hephaestus was a juvenile—too small and too little stamina to carry four far. And flying too long broadcasts your position—more eyes, more problems.
People might covet; flying monsters might challenge. The sky—especially away from towns—isn’t safe; who knows what prowls above the clouds? For now, Gauss kept flights close to settlements.
On the ground, he studied the surroundings. The name fit: the water was shallow; beneath the clear surface lay a mat of shell fragments and weathered rock. Little fish flitted among the rubble, foraging.
“Looks like these shards are from the big crabs cracking mollusks,” he murmured. “And plenty from fighting, too.”
Iron-Claw Giant Crabs were feisty. They didn’t just brawl with enemies—they went at kin, too. Lost legs were common—but their limbs regrew in two to four weeks, then sized up again after successive molts.
“I wonder how they taste.”
He swallowed. In his past life he’d liked crab; here he hadn’t had much more than tiny river crab diced as garnish or paste.
After a brief check for other monsters, they went hunting their quarry. Finding the tribe wasn’t hard. It was late morning; the sun baked the shallows; warm water held less oxygen. The crabs left the low-oxygen water for the bank’s cooler shade.
With the monocle, Gauss’ gaze speared the reed-beds. The reeds shook—not from wind, but from crabs. Don’t let “trash mob” fool you—hardened shells and swarm tactics made them nasty. A lone fisher or angler who didn’t run immediately would be in trouble; even some parties balked at a hard-shelled hundred.
And this tribe was no small fry. Hidden in the reeds, he couldn’t count precisely, but there were over a hundred. A handful of larger elites sprawled under trees, half-buried in damp soil, polishing black, metallic claws that looked like they could snip iron.
One in particular drew his eye: a scar-latticed shell, huge and battle-worn—the chief.
“Nearly two meters across?” Albena grunted. First time she’d seen one that big.
“Mhm.” No wonder the job had sat. Even Level 5 Parties wouldn’t relish this. And the threat was middling; keep villagers away from the shoals and most danger vanished. So it languished.
Gauss didn’t care—after beating a red drake, elites didn’t look so scary. He was here to unlock Index entries. And… to taste crab. Everyone knew crabs were stingy with meat—but an iron-claw chief with half-a-person-sized claws? Those must be packed.
His mouth watered. He hadn’t had “river-fresh” in a while—last time was the last time.
“Let’s net as many as we can.”
No one was relaxed—this job had teeth. The ordinary crabs hid in waterline reeds; they were violent by nature, but might still spook and slip into the water. He had no interest in fighting underwater.
“Grab some bait and lure ’em up.”
Primitive, but effective—and easy. Prey was everywhere. They left the bank, swept the area, and soon had a fine selection.
“D’you think they eat goblins?” Alia eyed ten bound goblins. Their mouths were stuffed with straw; their eyes were glaze-shocked. Beside them, a boar and sow lay trussed.
Hephaestus dipped his head over the catch and cut Gauss a side-eye. For him? He sniffed at the goblins and made a face—but the boars… those looked acceptable. He glanced at Gauss—busy talking plan—then snuck another look at the pigs and swallowed.
One bite wouldn’t hurt, right? Just one?
He sidled closer. The pigs panicked immediately—even tied, they thrashed, stinking urine spraying.
“Yow!”
Gauss’ head snapped around. The drake’s jaws were opening over the boars. It felt a gaze hammer down and looked up—right into Gauss’ flat, calm eyes.
They stared for several seconds.
“Ungh—”
Hephaestus shut his mouth, backed up, and started looking everywhere but the pigs. Totally not interested.
Seeing sense, Gauss looked away and went back to the plan. Raising a drake was like raising a kid—turn your back and it tested lines. It wasn’t hungry—he hunted game for it every day; this was pure greed.
They finalized the plan and moved to the river. “We’ll do this, then this, then this…” Gauss ran through assignments one more time. “Anything to add?”
“No, you’ve covered it,” Serandur said. Alia and Albena nodded.
“All right—let’s go. Try not to let too many run.” He cared less about points than about ecology: iron-claws bred fast—let a few go and in a couple of years you’d have another tribe.
“Roger!”
“You sound like a drill sergeant.”
“What?”
“Nothing—let’s move.”
They spread out according to plan. The bank fell quiet. Heat shimmered; reeds whispered; the shallow hummed—only the lap of water on shore.
Then noise broke the calm. A handful of green-skinned humanoids and two boars burst from the trees. The racket drew the elites’ attention. They rose warily from the dirt—then, seeing goblins and boars, their tension eased.
Goblins and pigs hit the shoals—and dropped mid-stride, limp “asleep.” Another monster might have thought twice; iron-claws did not. Free lunch! Especially the boars. The chief seized the big boar—nearly 300 kilos, handpicked for him. He was clearly pleased. The sow went to other elites.
Compared to pork, the goblins looked… stringy. That was why Gauss had gotten both—elites would hog the pigs and ignore the goblins at first. Ordinary crabs, drawn by the scent, scuttled ashore—dozens of centimeters wide and fast.
Takk-takk-takk—
Takk-takk-takk—
A hair-raising clatter—limbs on stone. The rank-and-file swarmed the goblins—snipping throats, racing off with heads to a quiet corner; clipping arms or great gobbets; the greedy tried to tow whole goblins and were swarmed in turn. Each goblin wore a coat of crabs—pincers shoveling flesh into mandibles.
The quiet shoals turned raucous in a heartbeat. From above, Gauss smiled. People’s biggest edge over most monsters is the brain.
On the saddle, Hephaestus stared down at the feasting crabs—then cast a wounded look at Gauss. Why feed them and not him? He worked hard—no glory, lots of grind. Seeing Gauss ignore him, he looked back at the frenzy—and anger surged. He couldn’t do anything to Gauss—but these weaklings? He’d pour it all on them—
“Down!”
“Rr!!!”
At last—a command. He roared and dove. Gauss blinked—what got into him? He hadn’t figured it out, chalked it up to good influence—lazy dragon habits giving way to hustle. They say you become the company you keep.
Either way, motivation was good.
The red silhouette dropped from the clouds—
BOOM—
—and hit with a thunderous thud.
A furious Hephaestus opened his jaws—fire boiled up—and a tongue of flame blasted out. He beat his wings as he poured fire—turning the reed-beds into a wall of flame hundreds of meters long and cutting off any retreat.
The dragon’s aura in anger worked wonders. Crabs froze mid-meal, lifted those tiny eyes, and saw a red dragon glaring down at them with murder in its gaze.
