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Goblin Chapter 240: Goblin's Nightmare
🕑 Added 2025-09-19 14:16:20 +0000 UTC“But where are we supposed to get a ballista?” Alia voiced the question on everyone’s mind.
Out here in the wilds, there wasn’t even a decent workshop, let alone a ballista. And even if there were one, building a ballista takes time; it’s not something you whip up overnight.
But Gauss wouldn’t have floated the plan without a basis. Unhurried, he pulled the commission scroll from his pack, unrolled it, and pointed at a line in the addendum.
“The brief notes a rally point at the foot of the Hren Mountains. If needed, the guild authorizes us to use the armory there free of charge.”
“Chances are they have a ballista.”
“It might be old, but with some basic maintenance it should work.”
He rolled the scroll back up.
“We need to reach that camp and secure a ballista or other long-range weaponry. That way, next time we meet them we can knock them out of the sky—or at least keep them from getting close.”
The others nodded. Against fast, high-flying enemies, you do need direct, heavy ranged firepower. It wasn’t that their party lacked breadth; the truth is, most elite teams are stymied by foes like that—unless they happen to have agile flying mounts strong enough to threaten goblin bat riders. Such teams exist, but they’re rare.
No time like the present: the party moved at once. Following the map, they returned to the village where the chocobos were stabled, mounted up, and headed for the mustering site at the foot of the Hren range.
Nestled in Gauss’s collar, the sprites chirped excitedly. Only then did he learn this was their first time traveling far from home. They’d never left the forest before. Human villages, dirt roads, merchant caravans—everything set the wide-eyed little things buzzing.
“So this is what a human village looks like…”
“Not much to see, if you ask me.”
“It’s not as pretty as ours, and there aren’t as many houses,” Moss the sprite muttered.
“Hush, Moss! Don’t embarrass yourself,” Dandelion hissed, patting him. “This is just the smallest kind of village. They say some ‘villages’ are huge—hundreds of thousands of people in one place!”
“Hundreds of thousands?” Moss fell silent at once.
“Is that true, big one?” he asked, tipping his head up at Gauss.
“It’s true,” Gauss nodded—if you count cities as ‘very large villages,’ as Thistle put it.
With that confirmation, Moss’s mind went blank, trying to reckon how many times bigger that was than their village. He counted on his fingers for a long while and got nowhere, beyond “that’s a number too big to picture.”
Gauss listened to the chatter in his collar and smiled without commenting. He found the little guys charming. Maybe it was their race, maybe their upbringing—but sprites were naturally straightforward.
Blunt, and they said what they meant. He liked that. Compared with people who hid schemes behind smiles, these tiny folk were easier company—provided you’d earned their approval. Otherwise, they’d have dosed him with toxins and dumped him in the woods on day one.
Their prattle made the long miles lighter.
Before sundown, they reached a fenced compound. Checking the map, Gauss nodded. “This should be it—Lawrence Camp.”
It had earned the name from the first settler, an adventurer named Lawrence who’d brought his family here. Others trickled in after—adventurers and homesteaders—until a little hub formed, and the name stuck.
The place looked more orderly and larger than a typical village. The outer palisade was stout and spiked against climbers. A watchtower flanked the gate; two militia stood atop it, watching Gauss’s group with wary eyes.
When Gauss came closer and showed his Adventurer’s badge and the commission, their faces shifted to business. One trotted inside to report.
Soon, a solid middle-aged man in well-kept armor and a sword at his hip came out—looked every inch the captain.
He checked the papers carefully, especially the clause authorizing use of the armory and the guild seal. Satisfied, he broke into a rough grin.
“I’m Miller, captain here. Welcome to Lawrence,” he boomed in a voice hoarse from years of shouting orders. “Here to deal with the goblins in the hills, I hear? Good! Those green pests have gotten worse—hit one of our foraging teams the other day, left a few folks hurt.”
“Mm. Do you have a ballista?” Gauss asked.
“Let me think… There’s one in storage gathering dust. Come on, I’ll show you.”
He led them in warmly. The fact that a three-star was leading while a four-star and a five-star followed didn’t quite add up for him, but his smile didn’t falter—in fact, it widened. Years on post had taught him: when things look odd, you treat them with more care. The wisdom of middle age.
There were several adventurer parties in camp, some squatting on blocks outside their tents to talk, smoke, or tend weapons. Compared with city-going adventurers, these folks’ gear was more battered, but their eyes were sharp—and they watched Gauss’s group with prying caution.
When they saw Serandur the Serpentfolk and Shadow with her hard-to-approach vibe, their looks picked up a few notches of wariness—then slid away.
There were plenty of herb-gatherers and miners too.
“Busy camp,” Gauss said.
“We’re mountain folk—we need a place to rest between runs,” Miller said lightly as he led them down clean if narrow lanes. “The mountains’ve been jumpy lately. More monster attacks. Fewer people on the roads. A lot of laborers haven’t gone out in days.”
Worry edged his words. The camp’s prosperity depended on adventurers and caravans. If the threat lingered, it would hit Lawrence hard.
Gauss just listened, eyes on the miners and herb-men—weathered faces, rough hands, threadbare clothes, eating simple fare in silence, tired and tense. The goblins had hit their livelihoods too.
Those cunning beasts were likely copying last night’s raid across the forest’s edge, harrying the other thinking races. What the party had to do was find their nest and wipe it out.
The armory sat deep in camp—a stout stone cellar guarded at the door. Miller unlocked the heavy irons and swung the door. Cool air rolled out, rich with anti-rust oil, wood, and dust. Lantern in hand, he led them in.
The stock wasn’t vast but it was tidy: big hide-covered shields on the walls, racks of spears, axes, and swords in the corner.
The star of the room was the ballista fixed on its stand at the back—beefier than Gauss expected. Its dark hardwood arms were thick; the bowstring as big around as a finger. Despite “gathering dust,” the metal trigger assembly was slathered in fresh grease; clearly it had been maintained.
“That’s the one.”
Gauss inspected it, then asked Miller to walk him through operation. He learned how to break it down and set it up, then stowed the disassembled ballista—stock, arms, base, heavy winch—into his bag of holding. Whole, it wouldn’t fit.
Ballista secured, he turned to go—only for Miller to fetch a few packages from a corner and press them into his hands.
“You might need these too.”
Inside the oiled canvas—heavy in his grip—were several metal cylinders. Roughly tubular, etched with simple reinforcing runes and a trigger groove up the side, a throwing grip on top; they smelled faintly of sulfur and magic.
Alchemical bombs?
“These are too valuable,” Gauss said.
Miller waved it off. “Take ’em. Gear is dead; people live. I hope you can crack their nest and give us some peace.”
Gauss didn’t argue. He packed them carefully.
By the time they left the cellar it was dark. They accepted Miller’s offer to stay the night.
At dawn, they left their mounts at the camp and set out again. Under a tangle of curious stares, they walked away from Lawrence into steeper, darker country.
…
Somewhere in the Hren Mountains.
A hidden cleft had been turned into a strongpoint—easy to hold, hard to take. Goblins of every size and shape swarmed it. Rough hide tents were crammed together; meat strips and crude bone trinkets hung from the guy lines.
Shallow fire pits of rubble and mud crackled everywhere, throwing ugly faces into relief.
Most goblins idled—squatting, baring teeth over scraps of food, or scraping stone tools against crude weapons with a tooth-aching grind. Now and then bulky elites bedecked in trophies tromped by, shouting and lashing to keep a chaotic sort of order.
Deep in the mountain camp, the largest tent—built from giant beast bones and thick hide—hummed with grumbles and stifled roars.
Fire popped in the center; warped shadows danced on the crude walls. Had Gauss been there, he’d have recognized the bat rider from that night—hunched and timid on a seat.
At the head sat a Goblin Chief—even more powerfully built than a Hobgoblin, crisscrossed with scars. It tapped a thick bone—some unknown beast’s leg—against the floor, thud, thud, thud.
Below it, a hunched old shaman clutched a staff wrapped with feathers and bone chimes, milky eyes half-lidded.
The Bat Rider squirmed under their stares.
“So,” the chief said suddenly, in gravelly, grudgingly clear, unconcealed anger. “You took our best squad, those big strong whelps, to ambush a four-man party—and you alone come scampering back like a monkey with its tail on fire? The rest are in the ground?”
The Bat Rider was silent a long moment before a thin, sharp voice squeezed out. “Chief! They weren’t a normal human team. There was… a monster! He countered us better than the reports said… Chief, we have to be careful of that human.”
It tried to paint the dreadful aura Gauss had worn that night—the feeling of a born goblin-killer. But to the chief, its fear was just cowardice and buck-passing. Even the old shaman shook his head. If the rider weren’t top-tier muscle in this expedition, they’d have torn him apart for the loss alone.
Even goblins, dull as they are, get wits at higher tiers. They knew they couldn’t afford to lose that much more.
“If he comes, I’ll eat him alive!”
“Get—out!”
The tent’s tension was about to snap when—
KRA-THOOOM!
A mountain-deep rumble ripped the air. The whole camp shuddered; tents swayed violently. Dust and pebbles rained down. The chief lurched to his feet, a flicker of doubt crossing his scarred muzzle for the first time. The old shaman’s eyes snapped open; his bone bells jangled in a frantic clatter.
“What’s happening?!”
“An earthquake?!”
“The ground’s shaking!”
Outside, the camp exploded—shouts, wails, panicked screams, the thud of bodies running, all tangled together.
“N—no… not thunder…” The bat rider froze at the threshold, swallowing hard. “It’s… it’s him! He’s here!”
That awful silhouette flashed through its mind again. Since it fled, the figure had only grown clearer—like a ghost—the goblin-ending ghost—haunting its dreams.
