CHAPTER 170: THREADBARE

He let out a strangled growl and charged at me, his bare feet slipping slightly on the frost-covered ground.

The sight might have been almost admirable if it weren’t so painfully naive.

Before he could even reach me, I moved. A single, controlled kick to the chest—nothing more than a reflex—sent him flying backward.

He hit the tent wall with a dull thud and crumpled to the ground, groaning but alive.

For a moment, I thought that would be enough to stop the others. But it wasn’t.

Another youngling scrambled to his feet, face contorted in anger and fear, and rushed me. Then another followed, shouting something incoherent.

It was chaos—raw, desperate defiance.

They didn’t stand a chance. Each movement was predictable, untrained. I sidestepped the first, my leg snapping out again in a restrained motion that sent him tumbling. The next one barely made it halfway before meeting the same fate.

One by one, they fell, landing in the dirt with pained gasps and broken courage.

I lowered my leg slowly, the tension in my body easing as I took in the rest of them.

None of the others moved. The fight, if it could even be called that, had already drained what little courage they had left.

Then I heard it—a step from behind me, deliberate but shaky, followed by a voice.

"She’s not a Chosen."

I turned, instinctively ready for another attack, but it wasn’t one of the younglings this time. It was the female goblin who had tried to stab me earlier.

Talia—yes, that was the name I’d heard shouted in the chaos.

Her breathing was uneven, and one of her arms hung limp at her side, but her gaze was steady:

"She’s not a Chosen," she repeated, louder this time. "I am."

I studied her in silence, narrowing my brow.

Her posture was tense but not reckless; there was a strange calm about her now, a quiet acceptance that made me pause.

"You can use [Analyze] if you want," she said.

The mention of that word gave me pause. [Analyze].

It wasn’t something ordinary goblins should’ve even known about, let alone used with such casual confidence.

I decided to verify her claim.

I activated [Analyze], focusing it on her first.

And a familiar pulse of mana swept through my vision as the information appeared before me.

Name: Talia

Title: Drugar’s Chosen

Class: Goblin Craftsman | Level: 20

Innate Skill:Threadbare

Threadbare?

The name alone gave me nothing to work with. It didn’t sound like a combat ability, and judging from her build and stance, it probably wasn’t. A craftsman’s class aligned with it—support-based, maybe something that enhanced creation or repaired materials.

Definitely not the type that belonged on a battlefield.

If it had been a fighting skill, she wouldn’t have been hiding behind tents or throwing half-hearted strikes. She’d have been up front, alongside the others, or she’d have tried to use it on me already.

I turned my attention toward the one still kneeling on the ground:

Name: Zivra

Title: Chief’s Daughter

Class: None | Level: 15

Innate Skill:Mindbreaker

My brows furrowed.

Mindbreaker?

The moment the word registered, a faint pressure bloomed behind my temples again, a ghost of the earlier pain.

I hissed under my breath, fingers brushing against the side of my head as if that would stop it.

"Mindbreaker..." I muttered. "That doesn’t sound terrifying at all."

The sarcasm left my mouth on reflex, but the truth was—whatever that ability had done to me before, it had been strong enough to bring me down to my knees. If she’d been stronger, she might have actually killed me.

The thought alone sent a shiver crawling down my spine.

Also, was she the daughter of the clan’s chief?

A chosen offspring, just like Zarah and Narg.

The thought lingered as I crouched in front of her.

"What are you going to do to her?"

The question came from behind me.

It was Talia, her voice sharp but trembling at the edges.

When I turned toward her, I found her standing awkwardly, her weight shifting between her legs as if her body couldn’t decide whether to flee or fight.

"If you do anything to harm her," she said again, louder this time, "the chief is going to be mad."

I studied her for a long moment. Her words weren’t a threat—they were a plea dressed up as courage. T

"You..." I said slowly, straightening to my full height.

"How long have you been in this world?"

She froze at the sudden question.

Her eyes darted to the side, avoiding mine, before she finally answered in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Days," she said, swallowing hard.

I rose slowly to my feet:

"Days?" I repeated, my voice low but edged with disbelief. "How many exactly?"

She hesitated, her eyes flickering between mine as though searching for the right answer.

"I can’t tell," she murmured, her tone uncertain—like she genuinely didn’t know if it had been two days or twenty.

I took a slow step toward her:

"What do you know about the chief’s plan?"

Her breath hitched, and she instinctively began to back away.

"Nothing," she said quickly, shaking her head. "I don’t know anything at all."

I didn’t stop.

My boots pressed lightly against the frozen dirt as I continued forward, closing the distance between us.

"Goblin King," I said softly, watching for even the slightest reaction. "Ring a bell?"

"None," she replied almost instantly, her voice cracking.

Her back hit one of the wooden pillars supporting the tent with a dull thud.

She flinched, glancing briefly over her shoulder as though hoping for a way out, but there wasn’t one.

I leaned in slightly, close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat gathering along her temple. She turned her face away, her jaw tightening, her breath uneven.

"You," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

"What exactly have you been doing for this chief?"

She gulped:

"Making garments and armors."

Armor? That word alone caught my attention.

I tilted my head slightly, the corner of my mouth tightening with interest:

"You can make armor?"

"Not...