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Goblin Chapter 210: Arriving in Lincrown Town
🕑 Added 2025-08-30 23:55:30 +0000 UTCDawn broke.
Grayrock Town woke from the night.
A thin mist still clung like gauze over stone houses and streets. The air was cool, tinged with the smell of cooking smoke.
Figures drifted along the lanes, already slipping into a new day’s bustle. Packhorses snorted, wagons rattled over flagstones with a rolling grumble. Leather-clad, weaponed adventurers yawned their way down the street, buns in hand, heading in twos and threes toward the guildhall or the town gate.
A perfectly ordinary morning in Grayrock.
Gauss and his two companions led their chocobos to the guild gate to meet the supply convoy bound for Lincrown. Their gear and provisions had already been checked. Unlike townsfolk and low-tier adventurers, their destination lay farther out—a forest town they didn’t know, full of unknowns and hidden threats.
The convoy waiting at the guild was sizable: a train of covered wagons hauled by a dozen hulking oxen, piled high with grain, basic medicines, arrow shafts, and reinforcement timber and stone. Escorting them—besides Gauss’s party—were a few cavalrymen and other staff.
The cavalry captain was a stubbled middle-aged man named Bard. After paperwork and a glance at the badges on their chests, a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face: three stars, three stars, two stars.
Gauss had passed a strength certification and been bumped from two to three stars; the six-pointed emblem on his chest looked less plain now. He was still a bit short on the raw task count, but Shirley had exercised her discretion to promote him—he hadn’t exactly done nothing, and there’d be more contracts once they reached Lincrown and pushed on to Outpost 11. Consider it “borrowing against the future.”
Gauss stepped up, shook Captain Bard’s hand, and after a nod all around the convoy rolled out through Grayrock’s not-so-imposing gate under a tide of curious stares.
A short way from town the stone gave way to packed earth. Sunlight fell across rutted road and hoofprints. The chocobos set a brisk, sure pace; the oxen’s plod was little more than a stroll by comparison.
“Captain Gauss—you’ve done well for someone so young,” Bard said, riding a brown horse alongside him at the head of the column.
“You flatter me,” Gauss replied evenly.
Bard chuckled, rubbing his stubble with knotted, calloused fingers. He meant it. It wasn’t just Gauss—his teammates were also young and capable. The whole party had a clear, upward pull to them, nothing like the bored types who muddled through jobs.
“My boy’s older than you and spends his days loafing in Falrim,” Bard added, casting a sidelong, envious look at Gauss’s calm, assured face. If his son had half this young man’s mettle, Bard might already be hanging up his spurs to enjoy a quiet old age.
As it was, he shouldered a family’s weight and still had to build something lasting for the next generation to squander. A few storefronts in Falrim’s center weren’t enough to let him retire easy.
Gauss didn’t comment. Mid-tier elites lived in a bind—too strong to fall back, not strong enough to push through. Fine for a bachelor, but nowhere near enough to found a lineage.
Families with “just enough” comfort bred soft heirs who lost their edge—too cushioned to fight like the poor, too under-resourced to pass on true power like the great. Let the pillar fall and a few generations later the shop’s gone, the name is dirt, and the grandkids have their backs to the fields again.
“You’re from Falrim, Captain Bard?”
Falrim was the heart of Coldemerald Province—and its largest city. Even Barry, the Forest Capital Gauss had visited, couldn’t compare; at best it was the province’s unofficial “secondary center.”
The headcount wasn’t so much higher than Barry’s, but the density of high-tier professionals and magic was. Falrim had been the political, military, economic, and cultural core of the province since forever.
Bard straightened in the saddle. Even a laborer from the poorest Ortega District would puff up a bit at the city’s name—let alone Bard.
“That’s right. I’m with the Iron Guard Knight Order. Orders came down to support the establishment of Outpost 11.”
No secret there. He said it lightly, but pride edged his voice. He envied Gauss—nearly his own strength at such a young age—but not everyone gets into the Iron Guard.
It’s the province’s elite, sworn directly to the governor, Border Earl Augustin Zevier. Talent alone doesn’t cut it; you pass screens within screens.
Bard hadn’t been the brightest of his intake, but he made it through and, with the Order’s backing, climbed from Level 1 to Level 4. With luck, he might brush Level 5 before he died—the peak most people will ever touch. Level 6… he didn’t dare dream.
At 6, you might stand before Zevier himself and, on strength and merit, be enfeoffed as a landed knight—a real noble. That’s when you truly found a house.
He glanced at Gauss again and, yes, felt a prick of jealousy. With that kind of raw gift, he’d be “Lord Bard” already.
“Iron Guard Knight Order…” Gauss echoed, missing the man’s tangle of feelings. He’d heard the name. The Order was all professionals; officers were at least elite-grade.
Resources come with a price: you swear to House Zevier and surrender a slice of freedom. He wasn’t especially envious. More to the point—if the province had such elites and hadn’t mass-cleansed the Jade Forest’s monster forces in a century of uneasy peace, the elites out there weren’t to be taken lightly.
Still, that was “province-level.” Outpost 11 was just one node on a very long line.
Gauss made the most of the road time, drawing Captain Bard out about Falrim, the earl’s house, and the Jade Forest.
…
Lincrown wasn’t close to Grayrock. With ox-wagons in tow, it took two days before the far skyline showed the town’s silhouette.
“At last.”
Even the tireless chocobos looked a bit worn after the run. Gauss fed Golden Sheaf two carrots and, over the last easy rise, the gate came into view.
Unlike Grayrock—born of a mine and built of hard stone even after the veins ran dry—Lincrown looked grown from the forest.
The entrance was a towering arch not of masonry but of two ancient trees whose gnarled trunks bent and grafted to meet, their crown twined with vines and green leaves into a living gate. The lintel bore carvings of forest spirits and beasts, heavy with nature worship.
A town with centuries under it—more than a forward base that had swelled into a settlement.
They queued at the gate. The air was thick with forest—earth, leaf, a sandalwood-like calm—and a little cooler than outside. Maybe it was his imagination, but Gauss felt his mana stir livelier.
“We’re here—Lincrown,” Captain Bard said, exhaling, voice easy with a phase complete.
“We’ll rest here a night, resupply, and sleep well. Tomorrow we push to the outpost. Last leg—keep sharp.”
“Then we’ll part ways here,” Gauss said. Bard had to meet up with the Iron Guard; Gauss made the farewell easy.
Once the cavalry peeled off, Gauss finally had time to look properly. The streets and buildings surprised him. Many structures weren’t planted so much as coaxed from massive trees.
Treehouses were everywhere, some built on boughs thick enough to serve as a foundation, rising three or four stories, linked by rope bridges and spiral wooden stairways. Roofs wore deep moss or sod; building and forest folded into one.
Sunlight filtered through high canopy into soft shafts that scattered across squares and streets. The whole tiered, tangled, somehow graceful town felt forever held in a quiet, dappled half-light.
The townsfolk wore linen, hides, and dark cotton, practical and close to the land. Many carried weapons at belt or back—likely hunters in their off hours.
The three took a moment to settle into a place so alive and feral. Plenty of out-of-towners in mismatched gear moved among them, too—adventurers from Grayrock, Blackwater, and Wormwood streaming in over the next few days to launch the final leg to Outpost 11 from here.
“Uncle Mo, book me the best hotel in town,” a young warrior in shining plate called as he dismounted a gleaming white horse whose coat seemed to shimmer—some special bloodline, no doubt. He’d come through the gate with a middle-aged man at his side.
Gauss turned. Money clung to the young lord like perfume. Behind them walked a few quieter adventurers in very good kit.
Inland gentry, then—making no effort to hide it; high-profile in dress and bearing. The one called “Uncle Mo” radiated pressure. As Gauss took his measure, the man in white robes turned and glanced back at him. Seeing a young face, his brows drew together ever so slightly. His gaze slid, taking in their badges—one by one—and a flicker of confusion crossed his features.
“I’m hungry. Let’s eat,” the young noble said, following Uncle Mo’s look to Gauss. Finding nothing remarkable in their gear or poise, his eyes moved on as if over empty air.
“Yes, young master.”
They passed. Alia gave a tiny snort—only after they were a safe distance away. “So arrogant, these inlanders. Ever heard of not flashing your coin?”
Gauss smiled. He was used to being overlooked. So what if someone shone for a moment? If birth fixed fate, he wouldn’t be here.
“Let’s find an inn of our own.”
