With mixed feelings, Gauss walked the country lane.

The gate guard led him straight to the village head’s house—standard procedure for village-side commissions.

After showing the way, the young man bowed and hurried back to the gate. Monsters seemed more active of late; even a small place like this was mustering able-bodied youths to form a standing militia against roving bands.

“Please, sirs—sit.”

This village head looked barely thirty. From his eyes, Gauss could tell the man seemed to recognize him—or had heard of the “Goblin Slayer” persona.

The anxiety on his face eased at their arrival. A title like that genuinely soothed ordinary folk. His gaze slid to the indigo gleam of their badges—professionals taking a job meant for bottom-tier adventurers? How could the outcome not be near certain?

Once they got the goblins’ approximate location, Gauss and Serandur rested briefly, then set out.

On the way out, Gauss and Serandur talked it over. “Feels like someone’s pushing this from behind,” Gauss said.

“It’s still a good thing, no?” Serandur didn’t dwell on it. Even if he was an “attachment” to a Goblin Slayer party—so what? “Plenty of people wish they had a nickname people knew.”

He wasn’t wrong: adventurers usually didn’t earn epithets until black-iron tier—and only the distinctive ones, remembered for a trait, a feat, or a big event.

Many nicknames tied to monsters, events, places, skills: “Scourge of the Dead,” “Windswept Ranger,” “Ring of Stone,” “Law-Eater,” and so on. Few bronze-tier ever got one; if you did, count yourself lucky.

He swung into the saddle; a flick of the reins, and Golden Sheaf trotted for the outskirts.

“Should be around here,” he said later.

According to the head’s hazy directions, the goblins’ nest sat in a valley nearby. It took time to find it. Gauss couldn’t help missing Alia; had she been here, Echo would’ve spotted the goal from above—horses for courses.

The terrain was trickier than expected: low ridges interlocked like teeth; the valley floor was a maze of gullies—less a valley than a scrubland carved to pieces by wind and rain. They followed what looked like a main ravine inward.

On either side rose ocher walls, only a few meters high, weathered so badly that jagged rocks and thorn scrub choked the view and made probing harder. Wind moaned down the slot, adding a chill. Light was dim; the walls blocked most of it. The air reeked of rot, dung, and a rancid musk.

“Definitely monster sign,” Gauss murmured.

With the Horn Bangle, a soft glow fringed his vision; prints and traces on the ground popped into view. “Looks like more than one species…”

He rode to the wall, crumbled a friable chunk in his fingers; it sifted away like sand.

“We’ll need to be careful with Missiles. Serandur—watch your sound. Don’t bring the walls down and bury us,” Gauss warned. On jobs, the terrain mattered as much as the target—too many pros died to falls, drowning, cave-ins. He’d often seen bones near watersides and falls.

“Understood, Captain.”

They moved on with care. After checking a few branches quietly, Serandur halted, tongue flicking in quick waves. “Sss—Captain, ahead—monsters.”

His tongue caught scent molecules far away, ignoring line-of-sight.

“Got it,” Gauss nodded. “Can you tell what?”

“Let me think… that musk… kobolds.”

The posting had noted other species may lair here; compared to goblins, some were less likely to harry humans.

“Let’s close,” Gauss said.

Serandur wasn’t surprised. By now he knew some of Gauss’s habits: he tended to “finish the job” with monsters—and unlike most casters who stood back, Gauss liked to be up front and make the kills himself.

After the first mission, Serandur took the supporting role—buffing the captain before the fight, cursing enemies during, and letting Gauss work. It looked simple, but the buff upped damage and the curses dragged foes down—the push-pull sped the kills.

They slipped through the gully and emerged into an open bowl. Sunlight fell from above.

“Kobolds, yes—but… winged kobolds,” Gauss said, eyeing the resting shapes. First time seeing these. Winged kobolds—born with leathery wings, they fought by dropping rocks from height.

Their wings were seen as Tiamat’s gift, earning them the envy of wingless kin—the two close cousins didn’t mix. Despite flight, they still had the kobolds’ frail bodies; stronger than the common sort but far from elite. One thing to watch: they could flee by air.

Would these count as a new entry—or under kobolds?

Gauss and Serandur exchanged a look and a Message. Serandur called back his weapon and drew a hand crossbow; he blessed Gauss.

Gauss walked alone into the open. The winged kobolds sprang aloft—alert but not panicked. Unlike miner kin, they were bolder and more willing to pick fights—often flanking in packs to hunt wildlife. They quickly marked Gauss as an intruder.

Thud! Rocks smashed near Gauss’s feet.

The bone-white staff appeared in his hand. The narrow ravine had been bad for spells; here, a cave-in was less likely. And melee wouldn’t touch flyers.

Boom! Three missiles hit three kobolds. They fell and broke. “Winged Kobold Slain ×3.”

His Common Monster Index ticked to its 30th entry. No new title—still “Kobold Slayer”—but a new species was added. Counted as different species, shared the same title and progress? Best of both.

Once the fight started, the rest realized he was trouble and shot up to run—

—and a gust tore the valley. The thin wings couldn’t hold in it; they flailed and fell—and Gauss kept the rhythm, firing Missile like a ranged quickdraw while Serandur’s curses bit.

They weren’t many; soon all were down.

“Total Monsters Kill: 1875.”

Closer to 2,000.

They had little “treasure”—stone weapons at best. Gauss collected some blood, then peeled wings, hearts, viscera.

“There are eggs,” Serandur called from a twig nest, tapping brown shells. “Nearly hatched.”

Kobolds are oviparous, frail, short-lived; they lay ten-plus eggs a year. Incubation runs weeks to a couple months.

“Kill them,” Gauss said.

Near hatching, not food. He’d never liked “balut”; that hadn’t changed here. No particular value—destroy them on sight.

He drew the steel longsword and cracked them one by one. Rust-colored albumen oozed; tiny lizardlike forms curled within.

As Serandur said, nearly ready—many already twitching. Soft, batlike winglets lay across their backs. Compared to adults, they were almost cute—big-headed, soft-bodied, “awooh”ing faintly.

Scritch!

Red spurted.

Gauss glanced over and dispatched them quickly.

“Harsh, Captain.”

Gauss shot him a look—as if he weren’t doing the same. They were grown adventurers; no room for sentimentalities about monsters. Cute mewls—or calling you “Dad”—didn’t change the mission.

Even “less troublesome” kobolds would turn vicious when they had numbers—ambushing, robbing, killing travelers.

Miner and bandit—roles they swapped with ease.

And even aside from that, monsters near human lands squeeze out human life.

Give up five towns today, ten tomorrow—you only buy a single night’s sleep.

“Let’s keep moving.”

They searched the valley. For all its plain looks, it hid quite a few kinds—a real den. Besides goblins and kobolds, Gauss found a Giant Spider—and unlocked entry 31.

Looking over the goblin corpses: “Total Monsters Kill: 1935.”

Closer still.

As always, they looted after the fight—then cleaned up. With that done, Gauss had time to study the surroundings.

“Something’s off here.”

“Too barren,” Serandur nodded. “This kind of weathering is rare around the Jade Forest.”

It was as if the land were cursed—dead soil with no green; only the hardiest thorn took root.

They exchanged a look, hesitated. At last Gauss said, “How about… a quick search?”

Clearly something was wrong—or there was no explaining the blight. Sometimes anomalies yield profit; sometimes danger. But to walk away now—and wonder later—would gnaw at him.

“Alright, Captain,” Serandur said—he’d been thinking the same. As a teammate, he wouldn’t preempt the call and muddy the decision.

“Let’s stick together.”

They’d already swept the valley for monsters, but a different goal yields different clues. When they’d focused on monsters, they’d seen fur, tracks, scents, scat. Focused on the land, Gauss soon found something new. He crouched, rubbing soil; fine sand slid under his fingers.

“The ground’s sinking in a fixed direction. The angle’s tiny—but it should all gather at a lowest point.”

Prompted, Serandur tasted the air again and saw it too: a subtle slope across the entire valley. Follow it, and they should find that low point.

After a quick exchange, they picked their way along it, checking as they went, winding through branching gullies—until they reached a “dead end” indistinguishable from a dozen others.