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Ogres are far from intellectual, but their crude cunning is enough to drive lower life forms into a frenzy. In this world, the strategy of using Goblins or Kobolds as "meat shields" to drain a target's stamina is a classic, brutal tactic.
"Hold the line! Don't let these runts break the barricade! Marin is already at the castle. Just a little longer!"
The caravan leader's voice boomed over the chaos. The "runts" he spoke of were Goblins—vile, impish creatures barely reaching an adult's thigh. Individually, a farmer with a pitchfork could take one, but in a swarm, they were a tide of green malice. If they bypassed the vanguard, the non-combatants in the rear would be slaughtered in minutes.
The leader delivered a heavy horizontal slash, bisecting a leaping Goblin mid-air. He was a man who had clearly invested in Warrior class skills; his two-handed sword whistled with the weight of a Battle Cry buff.
Despite his skill and the presence of a veteran Adventurer party, the Ogre ambush had been devastating. They were pinned against overturned carriages, using cargo as a desperate shield. If the Ogres charged again, the line would snap.
"I've been royally screwed by this contract!" the Adventurer party leader grumbled, clutching a staff.
"How many spells do you have left?" the caravan leader asked, eyes fixed on the treeline.
"Zero. My mana pool is dry. If those Ogres move, we're roast meat."
In this world, magic was a "distortion of principles," a miracle with a high price. Even a genius could only cast two or three times before their mental circuits fried. While a Fire Arrow could half-zero an Ogre, the cooldown was a death sentence.
"Then set the cargo on fire," the leader said grimly. "We go out in a blaze."
The party leader nodded, failing to notice a severed Goblin torso crawling toward his ankle. Goblins are a contradiction—cowardly until they smell blood, then fearless in their spite. The half-creature bit into his instep. He crushed its skull with his boot, but the damage was done. The rusted blade was coated in filth; without a high-tier antidote, infection was a certainty.
The smell of blood acted like an Aggro-buff for the remaining Goblins. They swarmed the limping party leader, dragging him down by sheer numbers. The caravan leader moved to help, but his heart stopped as the Ogres finally roared, beginning their final charge.
Then, a warhorse burst from the center of the Ogre pack.
"Nna?" an Ogre grunted, looking at the human rider suddenly galloping within their ranks. It took its brain several seconds to register: This isn't one of us.
The Ogre raised a two-meter club, but Kael was faster. His Calculating Survivor mind had already mapped the swing. A cold flash of steel cut through the air—a strike more bone-chilling than the Northland snow.
A massive head thudded into the slush. Hot blood sprayed, melting the snow into a crimson stream.
Kael didn't stop. He moved like a ghost through the pack, his Magic Knight's Longsword appearing as light as a willow branch. Even without the Blood Qi Power, his base stats—synced across seven worlds—were astronomical.
"Nna!!"
The Ogre leader, enraged, triggered Barbarian: Berserk. Its muscles swelled, its eyes turning a feral red. Five other giants joined the charge, creating an oppressive aura of raw, physical terror.
The Young Lady, sitting in Kael's embrace on the horse, felt her mind go blank. Her body trembled so hard she forgot she even held a sword. Only Kael's Riding skill kept the horse calm, shielding it from the mental debuffs of the giants.
"Hoo..."
Kael exhaled. A blast of scorching air erupted, melting the snow for a hundred meters around. This wasn't an illusion; it was the physical manifestation of his Flame Breathing merged with Knightly Blood Qi.
"Flame Breathing, Fourth Form: Blooming Flame Undulation."
Kael unleashed a soaring vortex of fire with himself as the epicenter. The Ogre leader slowed, its hand reaching up to feel a head that was no longer there. Its body shriveled like a punctured balloon, collapsing into the mud along with the rest of its tribe.
"Kael! That was incredible! I want to learn that move!" the Young Lady squealed, hugging him.
"It's poking me," Kael said with clinical disdain. Her breastplate was hard and protruding; there was no "physical pleasure" to be had through cold steel. He pushed her away slightly.
"You bastard..." she flushed, glaring at him.
"You wanted an adventure?" Kael patted her backside—the only part of her not covered in rigid plate. "The Goblins are yours. Go subjugate them."
"You—!!"
She was exasperated, remembering her mother's warning that half a man's brain is lewd thoughts. Yet, beneath the shame, she felt a surge of pride. In a world of widows and dangerous knights, Kael's touch was the ultimate confirmation of her value.
"IT'S THE NORTHLAND KNIGHT!" the caravan cheered.
The morale of the survivors hit its peak. The Goblins, sensing the shift in the "system," felt their courage evaporate.
"Get lost, you vermin!" the caravan leader shouted, helping the party leader to his feet.
As the remaining Goblins attempted to beg for mercy—a classic, lying disguise—the Young Lady hesitated.
"Lightning!!" she chanted, her incantation sending a green bolt through three Goblins. She turned to Kael, looking for praise.
SHINK.
A wounded Goblin lunged at her back. Kael's throwing knife ended its life before she could even scream.
"Turning your head during a fight? Is that what your tutor taught you?" Kael's voice was like ice. "Give up on being an Adventurer and go back to being a high-born lady before you get yourself zeroed."
The Young Lady bit her lip, her eyes turning stubborn. She didn't argue. She turned back to the Goblins, her heart hardening. She knew Kael was right. In this world, there were no second chances.
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