Time passed steadily, each day blending into the next.
Under the guidance of the Hobgoblin named Muguo, Sakeer led a relentless campaign against various Goblin and Hobgoblins tribes. One by one, they fell — reduced to nothing more than experience points that steadily boosted his level.
The stench of blood now clung to the outer forest, saturating the air with its pungent scent. The once lively forest, filled with birdsong and rustling leaves, had grown unsettlingly quiet.
Upper Wind Month, June 29th.
Splash!
Water rippled as Sakeer emerged from a small river, droplets clinging to his skin. He waded ashore, the cool water sliding down his body.
While his Odorless magic could mask his scent effectively, it couldn't replicate the refreshing comfort of a proper bath.
Once on land, Sakeer grabbed a clean cloth to dry himself before changing into fresh clothes. The warmth of the nearby campfire beckoned him, and he soon settled in front of a pot of steaming broth.
Sip...
Sakeer took a mouthful of the hot soup and exhaled with satisfaction.
The flavor was simple — nothing remarkable — but in the wilderness, a warm bath and hot meal felt like rare luxuries.
His improved mood wasn't just due to the comfort, though. His rising level had left him feeling confident and content.
But not everyone shared his good spirits.
Muguo lay nearby, sprawled on the ground. His legs had been crushed, leaving him unable to walk. Now, the Hobgoblin could only drag himself along by his arms.
"No... no more killing..." Muguo whimpered, his voice weak and broken.
"Please... please stop... the Goblins... they're dying... too many are dying..."
His pitiful wails carried through the silent forest.
Sakeer barely reacted, sipping his broth with an indifferent expression.
Those cries, filled with what seemed like mourning and pleading, didn't fool him.
The truth was far simpler.
Despite sharing the same race, Hobgoblins like Muguo had no real attachment to ordinary goblins. In their eyes, those weaker kin were nothing more than expendable inferiors — useful only for labor, breeding... or food.
Muguo's real concern wasn't for his fallen brethren. His true fear stemmed from what came next.
Winter was approaching. Without a large supply of goblins to act as reserve food, creatures like trolls would eventually turn their hunger toward the Hobgoblin leaders — individuals like Muguo himself.
That fear was what fueled his pathetic cries.
"Shut up."
Sakeer's voice cut through the air like a blade.
The wailing stopped instantly. Muguo pressed his hands tightly over his mouth, trembling as he stared at Sakeer with a mix of fear and pitiful submission.
Thud!
A piece of roasted wild boar landed near Muguo, rolling through the dirt.
Muguo's face shifted in an instant— gone was the fearful expression, replaced by a greedy, primal hunger.
Without hesitation, he crawled forward like a starving animal, saliva trailing from the corners of his mouth. Grasping the dirt-stained meat with both hands, Muguo bit into it savagely, tearing at the flesh with his jagged, yellow teeth.
The pitiful, broken creature he'd seemed like moments ago? Gone.
Sakeer watched the display, unimpressed.
"Natural selection... survival of the fittest... that's just how things work out here."
He took another sip of his broth, his voice calm and indifferent.
"Disguise is just a way to survive."
E-Rantel
The third floor of the Adventurer's Guild — the highest floor in the building.
Inside a spacious room, the décor was simple, almost spartan. There were no extravagant ornaments or luxurious furnishings. The only notable decorations were the shields and swords mounted on the walls. Each weapon was marked with nicks, dents, and battle scars — silent testaments to countless battles and hard-won victories.
It was these battered weapons that gave the otherwise plain room a rugged, adventurous atmosphere.
By the side of a sturdy wooden table, three figures were seated.
On the left side sat a middle-aged man in his forties. His hair had turned gray, and wrinkles lined the corners of his eyes and forehead. Despite his age, his sharp gaze betrayed his alertness. Though his loose-fitting clothes concealed much of his build, the faint outline of well-defined muscles hinted at his enduring strength.
His rough, calloused hands — unmistakably those of a seasoned warrior — held a delicate silver container. Condensation formed on its surface, the chilled liquid within defying the warmth of June's air.
Across from him sat a slender magician clad in a robe of deep hues. He carried himself with an air of competence and was intently focused on a document he held in his hands.
The third figure, seated at the head of the table, was a rotund man whose sheer size seemed to sink him into his chair.
His bald head gleamed under the sunlight, and layers of fat stacked beneath his chin, giving the impression that his face was sinking into his body. His ample belly spilled over his belt, and his head lolled back as he dozed, his breathing punctuated by occasional nasal snorts — poof... poof... — resembling the sounds of a resting pig.
Yet despite his unflattering appearance, his attire spoke volumes.
He wore a crimson velvet jacket over a blue suit vest fastened with gold buttons, paired with a pristine white undershirt. Around his neck hung a shimmering gold tie, and nestled at its center was a ruby that glowed faintly in the sunlight.
Such opulent clothing left no doubt — this man was someone of significance.
Anyone from E-Rantel would have been stunned to see these three gathered together.
For they were the most influential figures in the city:
The middle-aged man was Pluton Ainzach, the leader of the E-Rantel Adventurers' Guild.
The magician in the robe was Theo Rakheshir, the head of the E-Rantel Magician's' Guild.
And the obese man at the table's head was none other than Panasolei Gruze Day Rettenmaier, the noble mayor of E-Rantel and a prominent figure in the kingdom.
A brief silence lingered in the room.
Finally, Ainzach gently set down the silver container and shifted his gaze to the mayor, who still appeared half-asleep.
"Your Excellency, the Mayor."
Ainzach's voice was calm, yet carried a hint of sternness.
The steady rhythm of the mayor's nasal snorts paused.
Slowly, Panasolei's eyes opened — barely. His eyelids, weighed down by layers of fat, narrowed his gaze to thin slits, making it impossible to discern the emotions behind them.