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Goblin Chapter 211: Entering the Outpost 11
🕑 Added 2025-08-30 23:56:35 +0000 UTCLincrown had been a lot livelier these last few days.
It took Gauss’s trio a while to find rooms—eventually they rented enough space in a four-story treehouse inn. After dropping their packs and paying for a bath on the first floor, the three stepped back out into the streets feeling fresh.
The town had grown into a dizzying maze for newcomers. Beyond the greenery and trees, the multi-level transit itself was a spectacle: catwalks and galleries stitched together into a tangled, three-dimensional network.
Locals flitted over it like level ground; outsiders had to pick their way carefully. One careless turn on a skywalk and you could lose your bearings.
“Seeing a lot of druids here,” Gauss said, glancing at Alia.
Druids were easy to spot—by clothes, by gear, and by that unmistakable aura of the wild. Many looked fully woven into local life, dressed no differently from townsfolk.
“Staying here probably helps with communing with nature, right?” Alia guessed.
The town’s natural presence really was thicker than anywhere else—even the so-called Forest Capital, Barry, couldn’t match it. Barry was too big; outside the mother-tree’s core, the outer wards and keep were just an ordinary bustling city.
Lincrown, though, was truly co-grown with the forest—a town that had grown out of nature. Most residents were hunters, woodcutters, herbalists, fur traders, carpenters…
“Let’s hit a tavern and dig up intel.”
Taverns are the best place to get the lay of the land. After asking around, they found a lively one. Three thick tree trunks served as the load-bearing pillars; they pushed aside a curtain woven of heavy vines and stepped into a hall boiling with voices.
Overhead hung fungus lanterns shedding a soft yellow light; bundles of dried herbs, smoked meats, and odd beast bones decorated the rafters. The walls weren’t stone but the bark of ancient trees grown close; little patches of glow-moss in the seams added light.
Rough-sawn logs and stump rounds made natural tables and chairs, their surfaces sealed under thick, clear lacquer.
Most of the empty seats were filled by outsiders. Adventurers in all sorts of gear, faces marked by long miles and that first-time mix of curiosity and freshness. Conversations circled “Outpost 11,” “monster tide,” and “transport runs.”
Gauss and the others took a corner table and watched without making a show of it. Before long the fruit wine and food he’d ordered arrived.
“Enjoy.”
The fruit wine, a pale red from local forest berries, tasted sweet-tart with a clean vegetal note—barely any alcohol bite. The food came in a wooden basin: a heaping stew of unknown cuts of meat, roots, mushrooms, and bright leaves for garnish—fragrant and very cheap.
As he ate quietly, Gauss pricked his ears like a sharp-eared hound, snagging useful fragments from the din.
“Damn, the bugs in that place—everywhere! They chewed half through my leather!” a scar-faced bruiser groused after a swig.
“Could be worse. At least they don’t kill you,” his buddy muttered, voice dropping, face tight. “Heard a team from Blackwater blundered into a pack of berserk Direclaw wolves at the wyvern roost—lost two, barely got out…”
When you’re part of a push like this, you’re all in the same boat. No one laughs at someone else’s losses—you might be next.
“Looks like the wyvern roost is a no-go…”
At another table, a sharper-looking crew kept their voices down. “…Escort pay’s up thirty percent across the board, but they’re still short. We need a decent caster or a ranger to scout ahead, or this money’s not easy.”
At the bar, a few veterans sat nursing drinks. A young adventurer asked one of the grizzled ones about the outpost. “How’s it looking at 11?”
The old hand took the offered drink and tobacco, speared a piece of meat with his knife, and popped it in his mouth. “Wall’s up, more or less. But it’s not quiet.”
“On night watch you always hear something out there. Not wolves or bears—something that prickles your skin.”
“Patrols double their caution every time.”
“…And it’s not just beasts. Some folks say they’ve seen things that shouldn’t be there—like wild men tangled in brambles, roaming the forest.”
Gauss’s party wasn’t among the first to arrive. Some had already run contracts at Outpost 11 and returned for a breather. None of this was secret; go once and you’d see. No one here was hiding anything, and Gauss scooped up plenty of intel with ease.
“Doesn’t sound simple,” Alia murmured. “Beast waves, Direclaw wolves, swarms of bugs, weird wild men…”
Truth was, Gauss’s team didn’t know the Emerald Forest that well. They’d never worked in a place shaped by a natural mana node like this.
“There’s bound to be trouble. That’s why they pulled in multiple towns—and sent in provincial cavalry like Captain Bard,” Gauss said, sipping the sweet-sour wine. Calm. If things looked too peaceful, that would worry him more. Open threats are always easier than unseen ones.
Serandur nodded slightly, eyes sweeping the room. Suddenly they tightened on a table where a few men in matching leather with a uniform crest sat—and his pupils contracted.
“What is it?” Gauss had been watching his teammates out of the corner of his eye. The serpentfolk didn’t spook easily; he rarely showed much expression. The change got his attention.
“They’re wearing the Azure Scale Company’s insignia,” Serandur sent via Message to both Gauss and Alia. He knew just a name would be a riddle, so he added: “Azure Scale is a major outfit on the West Coast—old, strong, lots of branches.”
He weighed his words, then chose the blunt truth. “They started by hunting, capturing, and selling my people’s organs—on a massive scale in the Scales Archipelago and nearby seas. For the last two, three hundred years, pressure’s forced them to drop it publicly, but they’ve always been in open and covert conflict with us.”
His slit eyes were complicated as he stared at the emblem: a severed azure scale. “Out in the wilds and in unclaimed places, our people and theirs… clashes happen. If we run into them outside and they come at me—leave it to me. Don’t get involved.”
Gauss and Alia immediately understood. Blood feud. But Gauss didn’t see much hate on Serandur’s face—more a knot of something denser and older.
“We’re a team. If they come at you, I’m not standing aside,” Gauss said, shaking his head.
“Me neither,” Alia added at once.
Serandur was quiet a moment. “…Most of the time, we keep the peace,” he said. His shock wasn’t just recognition; he couldn’t fathom why they were here.
Just then, a lanky man with an eyepatch at the Azure Scale table glanced their way, eyes flicking past Gauss and Alia and pausing a hair on Serandur. His brow twitched—barely—and he turned back to his drink.
“He saw me,” Serandur said, taking a sip. He hadn’t bothered to hide what he was; of course they’d clock him—especially Azure Scale.
“Looks like they’re not in the mood to stir trouble. They must have business here,” Gauss guessed. They weren’t looking for a fight, but they wouldn’t shy from one. Since the other side signaled “not interested,” they let it lie. Both groups kept listening, their gazes studiously avoiding each other.
Gauss chewed a piece of meat—then froze, fork midair, puzzlement sliding to interest.
“…energy… in disarray…”
“…the Great One was disturbed…”
“…don’t let the humans find it…”
“Drive the outsiders out. Drive all humans… out!”
Huh?
What the hell was that?
He’d thought at first he’d caught a snatch of talk from some dark corner—but the voices were broken, the cadence strange, like toddlers forcing human speech for the first time. That’s when it hit him something was off.
He looked toward the sound—and saw no one. The voices faded quickly.
He stared at empty space, thoughtful. Was Proto–Hive Mind picking something up? Were those bugs… talking? Until now, the little crawling things conveyed only raw, useless impulses. He usually filtered them out. This had meaning, even if choppy. Could ordinary insects do that? If not them—then what? He saw nothing unusual. And once he’d focused on it, the voices ceased entirely; as if it had been a hallucination.
“Energy in disarray. The Great One disturbed. Don’t let humans find it. Drive outsiders out.” Find what?
If it wasn’t a hallucination, that tidbit might matter.
“What’s up?” Alia waved a hand in front of his eyes—he’d been staring at a bark wall, fork raised. “Don’t tell me you’re tipsy. This fruit wine is basically juice.”
“I’m fine—just thinking.” He didn’t say more. He wasn’t sure it was real, and they weren’t using magic to talk. This wasn’t the place.
“Let’s eat.”
…
Gauss finished the last bite, chewing slowly. They’d gathered enough. It was mostly rumor and fragments, but together they painted a rough picture of the outpost’s surroundings.
He set down his knife and stood, stretching. On the way out he paused at the spot he’d heard the voices, probed carefully, found nothing, and let it go.
“That’s enough. We’ll stock up this afternoon, then get some rest. We head out in the morning.”
The next day, they reached the rendezvous point with Bard. The convoy had just arrived and was checking gear.
“Morning, Captain Gauss. Sleep well?” Bard called.
“Very,” Gauss nodded. “Everyone here?”
He glanced around. The folks who’d come with them were present.
“No. A few more are joining us—other adventurers heading to Outpost 11.”
“Oh.” That explained Bard’s lack of urgency. If they weren’t here, they’d have to wait.
A few adventurers trickled in. Knowing they were late, they apologized as they slipped into place. Gauss waved it off; with that attitude, no need to harp on it. He looked back to Bard—still not mounting up.
Ah. No need to ask. Still waiting.
He found a low step at the roadside, sat, and opened a book. He wasn’t in a rush—but waiting like this always chafed.
In a year of adventuring he’d never once been late—and usually showed early. Most adventurers did.
After a long wait—long enough for him to sink into the page—the far end of the street filled with clatter, light laughter, and crisp hoofbeats.
“Uncle Mo, see? I told you we’d make it. They’re still waiting for us.”
It was the young noble from the gate, taking his time on that gleaming, other-blooded white horse. He’d changed into jungle greens cut to flatter, subtly patterned with dark runes, the leather not common cowhide but some expensive monster-hide. His face carried lazy entitlement; holding up the convoy seemed perfectly normal.
Behind him came the man Gauss had found so dangerous—“Uncle Mo,” white-robed—and a few silent, well-equipped adventurers.
Gauss lowered his book and glanced over—not at the peacock, but at the middle-aged threat.
“Apologies, everyone,” Mo Jarl said with a smile, stepping forward to address the convoy. “We hit a snag on the road. Sorry to keep you waiting. If we run into anything on the way, let us handle it—you won’t have to lift a finger.”
Gauss arched a brow. He hadn’t expected that—based on yesterday’s attitude, he’d assumed the guy wouldn’t bother. But here he was, offering a sincere-looking apology and a “make-good.” Whether they’d deliver later was another question, but for now, the stance was clear.
“No harm done. Let’s tidy up and move out,” Bard said, stiffness easing into a faintly ingratiating smile. He knew perfectly well this man’s power wasn’t “elite tier.” Even if Mo hadn’t apologized, Bard wasn’t about to give a strong man attitude.
“Thanks for the understanding.” Mo nodded to Bard, then turned to Gauss. “Well then, brother—shall we?”
“Let’s go.” Gauss swung onto his chocobo. The young noble looked ready to add a jab—but Mo’s gentle cough cut him off. He cast Mo a glance and swallowed it. “Fine, let’s get moving. I don’t want to spend another minute in this backwater.”
He nudged his horse to the front. Mo and the rest mounted and moved up too—guarding him and taking point.
The hiccup passed. Gauss took it all in, exchanged a look with Alia and Serandur, and saw the same wry resignation in both. At least they’d only be traveling together for a short while.
“Let’s roll.”
The column finally crept out through Lincrown’s living green gate and into the deeper, unknown danger of the Jade Forest.
…
“Stop here—lunch.”
Half a day in, they’d entered the forest proper. True to his word, Mo Jarl’s people had cleared every threat they met en route, even cutting brush and branches ahead. Gauss’s impression improved—slightly.
At noon, they split to eat—one group near the middle, the other up front.
“You must rein yourself in out here, young master,” Mo Jarl sighed, voice low and earnest. “Even if you have opinions, no need to say them out loud and insult people.”
“So what if I do?” Locke shook his head, unbothered. “You’re here, aren’t you? And even if I offend them, I’ll hardly ever see them again. In a few years I’ll be master-tier, and they’ll still be grubbing in this wasteland.”
His mouth curled. He understood plenty—he just didn’t care. His birth guaranteed he’d stand above most. Why waste thought on extras in the crowd?
“You’re misreading this, young master,” Mo Jarl said gravely.
“You mean the man in the black robe?” Locke followed his glance, brows lifting.
“Yes.”
“He’s just a Level 3. Nothing special.” A hint of rivalry crept into Locke’s tone. “I’m probably younger than he is.”
His house retained plenty of Level 3 guards. For commoners, a 3 might be unreachable; to him, it wasn’t much. If not for family-restricted tonics, he’d be 4 or 5 already—not stalled here.
“He’s not a normal 3,” Mo Jarl said, shaking his head, gaze lingering on Locke’s bright, arrogant face. “He’s strong.” Strong for a Level 3, he meant.
Put the “safety trumps” aside and rely only on what Locke himself could do, and he’d lose in a few exchanges. Levels mostly reflect strength, but sometimes they lie. Some people kill the same-tier and even higher with ease. He hadn’t seen Gauss fight, but his senses told him: the kid was one of those freaks.
“…So what?” Locke wanted to argue, but the man’s rank sobered him, and the wind went out of his sails. He grumbled under his breath. “Give it a few years—when I’m master-tier, he’ll still be stuck in elite. Being stronger now doesn’t mean anything. My talent isn’t something commoners can catch.”
Mo Jarl fell silent, at a loss. Did the boy really think it was his talent alone—and not the family’s? Still, he wasn’t entirely wrong. The gulf between tiers is huge; once Locke hit master, that young man would indeed be no match.
Plain talent pales next to centuries of family accumulation. Not everyone’s the peasant-born Sword Saint who became the strongest of mankind.
He shook his head. Lunch ended; the convoy pressed on. The road widened ahead; the noise grew—not forest calls, but human racket: metal on metal, saws on wood, rough shouts, thumps of crates…
They broke through the last screen of brush into a broad clearing cut from the forest. The wall of Outpost 11 rose in the middle—impressive—until you went around it and saw the rest: for now, a giant, busy, slightly chaotic construction site.
Inside and out, people swarmed. Sappers and laborers heaved tools and logs into place. Smiths hammered under open-air sheds, forges roaring. Adventurers clustered—some returning to turn in work or report a scout, some checking gear to head out.
Provincial soldiers in standard leather and mail drilled or stood post. Supplies piled into little mountains—timber, stone, bundled arrows, sacks of grain. Construction mages walked the lines, smoothing roads, raising buildings and defenses.
A taut, urgent, pressure-heavy air blanketed the outpost. There was little idle chatter; most faces were wary. Land might be leveled and work ordered—but this was inside the Jade Forest.
A monster siege could slam into them any time. Look closely and you’d see bloodstains and damage already on the walls. They’d seen plenty of action.
“We’ll part here, then,” Gauss told Bard. They weren’t in the same chain of command. He needed the adventurers’ temporary office.
“Sure. Grab a drink with me sometime,” Bard waved. He liked the kid.
“We’ll be off too, brother,” Mo Jarl said.
“See you.” Gauss lifted a hand. To his surprise, the cocky young noble gave him a nod. He checked—no one else was nearby. Had the boy really turned over a new leaf?
Scratching his head, Gauss led Alia and Serandur into the flow. First stop: the outpost’s temporary Adventurers’ Association office—check in early, get paid early.
Even half a day meant coin. One gold per day was no small sum. They also needed to understand assignments, duties, and intel.
Inside was tighter than out. Tents and half-built stone-and-wood houses jostled for space; roads were muddy and cramped.
“Crowded,” Alia muttered, dodging a crew hauling a log.
"This is the Front line after all,” Serandur said, watching.
Following charcoal-scratched placards, they reached a bigger two-story stone-and-wood building near the center—clearly a priority build. Adventurers streamed in and out.
Inside was wider than expected. Staff sat behind a long makeshift table, shuffling papers and talking with adventurers. Huge sheets of vellum on the wall were crammed with postings—scout, cleanse, garrison, gather, escort—pay in coin or merit.
Directed by a clerk, they entered a room for registration. A man with a monocle sat inside—tall, muscles like hewn rock, and yet dressed in a neat suit: an odd contrast.
Gauss handed over their papers.
“You’re the trio from Grayrock—Gauss, Alia, Serandur?” he asked.
“That’s us,” Gauss nodded. For recordkeeping they were listed as “from Grayrock,” Serandur included; adventurers were mobile, after all.
“We’ll count today as your first day.” The man cleared his throat. “I’m Ritchie Phoenix, head of Lincrown’s Adventurers’ Association branch. Call me Ritchie. For the duration, I have full authority over adventurer coordination here. If you hit trouble, you can come to me.”
Unlike the freelancers, Gauss’s party was one of the “invited elite teams” that drew extra stipends—and more access, including direct contact with him.
Admittedly their levels were on the low side—most “elite teams” were Level 4–5—but he could feel the power here, especially in the young man: only Level 3, but the presence was strong.
“Thank you, President.”
Ritchie spread a map on the desk—plain in color but rich in detail, faint magical ripples playing over the surface. Outpost 11 sat at center; names radiated outward.
“Because the outpost sits on a special mana node, the surrounds are more complex. The field effects have formed several distinct danger zones.”
He traced a few highlights.
“Southeast—Fungus-Beast Swamp. A persistent miasma, giant luminous fungi, and toxic-adapted monsters—venom gators, spined water pythons. Some have died there. Mind your bearings.”
“Southwest—the Black Forest. Ancient treants and their insect vassals—hostile to trespassers.”
“This is the Mist Trail—a canyon shrouded in dense mana fog. The mist blocks sight, unsettles the mind, causes hallucinations and sleep. The gorge holds swarms of banshees and undead. A dozen cavalry went missing there recently. The knights have sealed it off—they’ll handle it.”
Last, he tapped a broad hilly region due south.
“The Wyvern Roost. The cliffs hold several wyverns and many wingdrakes—plus various vassals—under the Green Dragon Queen’s garrison. Wyverns are vicious with a fierce sense of territory. They often strike ground traffic. I don’t recommend going there.”
After the overview, he pulled a scroll from under the desk and handed it to Gauss. “A fresh contract. Interested?”
“Rating: 4 stars (basic). Task: enter the Black Forest, locate the recent ‘bramble wildmen’ sightings, and record locations and numbers.
“Note: they move strangely, seem to sense capture attempts, and possess a special power to beguile minds. Several people have already been charmed and converted.”
“Reward: 40 gold and 5 Association merit.”
A scout job? Gauss mulled it. Of the four zones, the one tugging at him had been the Black Forest. The roost was too dangerous—strike that out. And “ancient treants and insect vassals”… it made him think of those broken whispers in the tavern. Maybe Proto–Hive Mind would have extra yield there—more clues?
They were new here. Might as well pick the place that felt right.
He looked at his teammates. “Your call,” Alia said. “Captain, I’m with you,” Serandur echoed.
Gauss turned back to Ritchie. “We accept.”
“Good. Time limit: seven days. Whether you succeed or fail, you must report back by sundown on the seventh day. If you hit an emergency, return and file immediately.” He passed over the scroll. “Be careful out there. Good luck.”
They left the office. At an empty patch of ground where they meant to camp, Gauss decided to mention the broken “voices” from the tavern.
“So you want to poke the bug-dense place for clues?” Alia rubbed her chin. “Might be some amazing treasure!”
Her eyes lit up—then she slapped a hand over her mouth and looked around, relaxing only when she saw no strangers nearby.
“Alia, you used Message. We’re fine,” Gauss reminded her.
“Right, right.” She giggled at herself—treasure talk had gotten her giddy.
They pitched camp, lit a fire, cooked, slept. Next morning, after a quick wash and gear check, they mounted chocobos and rode out from the outpost, the whole camp a noisy, efficient machine. They followed the map’s mark for the Black Forest until their silhouettes sank into the distance.
…
At the center of the outpost, inside a core pavilion ringed by elite cavalry, Locke lounged in a plush chair; Mo Jarl stood at his side.
“This camp is filthy. Why would Father send me here?” A day had passed; Locke’s nature reasserted itself. The chaos unsettled him. Seventeen outposts, they said. He saw nothing special about “11.”
“And we have to go incognito as ordinary adventurers—only you allowed at my side.”
“This is Archmage Zaran’s prophecy: ‘Sleep, slumber, and a miracle soon to waken—the legend to come will be born here; those who stand with it shall share its glory.’” He paused, solemn now. “But we must not disturb it. Locke—this is your chance.”
“Sigh… fine.” Locke’s face was all reluctance. Before coming, he’d nursed a spark of legendary ambition; the camp’s stink of sweat, the roar of voices, mud everywhere, the ant-like flow of bodies—doused it cold. How could legend rise from such squalor?
And this “archmage”—a fraud. A man who knew no real magic, only star-charts no one could prove.
“Today we must push into the Mist Trail,” Mo Jarl went on, unaware of the boy’s thoughts. “The mana fog there muddles minds, spins illusions, drags you to sleep—exactly as Archmage Zaran described. I’ve already had the outer approach sealed. In theory, no one can interrupt us. But we should hurry; we can’t hold it forever. Too long, and it may stray from the prophecy and invite… complications.”
