The sky was a clear, vivid blue.
Trunks of every shape grew wild—twisted, arrow-straight, gray-green and furred over with moss. In the gaps where no trees stood, grass ran riot; wild celery, nettles, and thistles sprawled thick and rich.
Suddenly, crisp hoofbeats broke the forest hush—like a pebble tossed into a lake, sending ripples wide.
A party's silhouettes slowly surfaced along the dappled path.
"There's a strange scent." Serandur's forked tongue flicked twice in the air. "Camp here?"
"Just goblins," Gauss said after a glance, certain.
No one knew goblins better than he did. He could even feel where they'd passed recently—a kind of murky second sense he couldn't quite explain.
"Those green runts? Where? Don't see 'em," Solin said, peering around.
"Their nest isn't close."
Gauss swept the trees and made his call.
"In that case, leave it," Solin said, hopping down to make camp. If monsters were near, he didn't mind stretching his arms; hunting them down, though—especially goblins, who were hardly worth the trouble—he preferred a rest so they'd make time later.
"I'm going to take a loop—maybe bring back something for the pot," Gauss said, eyeing a line of tiny dried tracks. This was still the forest's outer ring; danger was low.
"Right," Solin grunted, elbow-deep in ingredients.
Nancy and Elton glanced over, then back to their tasks. Alia and Serandur traded a look; they had a guess where he'd really go.
"I'll have Echo tail you."
"Fine." Gauss's figure slipped into the shade.
A short while later—before Solin's lunch was done—Gauss was back, dropping two pheasants at his feet.
"I'm back."
"Good man," Solin said, hefting the birds, fully believing he'd gone out just to hunt.
Alia asked under her breath, "Gauss, those are safe to eat, right?"
"Relax—nothing to do with our little green friends." Gauss sat, wiping his short blade with practiced hands.
Killing goblins was more and more run-of-the-mill now. A handful more was the work of a walk; he spent more time getting there than finishing it.
"So you did go swat the little mice?" Solin arched a brow.
"Mm. Small goblin post. Seven. I ran into them while hunting and cleared them on the way," Gauss said, sheathing the knife as if he'd swatted a few flies.
…
Rested, the party moved on—and the deeper they went, the more careful they grew.
"We'll have to detour."
Nancy held her map open, pupils bright as she stared toward a monster camp. After a moment the glow faded. "An extraordinary monster. Out of our league."
"Extraordinary" meant master-tier—iron-rank in adventurer parlance. Their six were five at best—still elite tier. Leaping tiers was harder than leaping levels. Worse, extraordinary monsters often had lesser hordes as vassals. Start a fight, you might never get out.
Fortunately, Nancy had a way to sense strength at range, and they slid around the worst of it before it saw them. Now and then a camp sat astride the only trail; then they hit fast and moved.
"There's a big lizardman tribe here," Nancy went on, tracing routes. "Vassals of the Green Dragon Queen. We must skirt it."
"And this mine," she tapped. "Mostly kobolds and goblins, but lots of elite gnolls on guard."
…
Within the Jade Forest, monster settlements were legion—scattered like stars in a green sea. Some, though, merited special attention: those under the Green Dragon Queen, the "Green Dragon Army." On paper, they might match other hordes; in truth—worlds apart. Morale, organization, coordination, kit—everything was different when you served a true dragon.
Many would never see her—but the meaning of service changed them. Even high monsters burned fear and awe of dragons into their bones. Not just dragons, perhaps—absolute submission to the mighty.
The Green Dragon never needed to appear. Her will and name alone built a vast, efficient terror.
They pressed on along the mapped route.
"There."
Nancy pointed to a camp tucked under a twisted giant. "Camp" was generous—it was a small town. A ring of sharpened palisades, watchtowers, archer's nests, several gates.
Outside, armored hobgoblins drilled a goblin cohort, barking and cuffing stragglers—no show here. Lizardmen and gnolls took turns as sentries and archers on the towers. Green banners snapped over the center.
Alia lowered the glass. "They're drilling and patrolling?" Seeing it was one thing; she still had to whisper it.
Terrifying, Gauss thought. He'd known smarter monsters rose with rank; large camps would grow their own "civilization"—but order at this scale, with his own eyes, hit hard. And this was the skin—the inside was hidden.
"That's the difference between serving a dragon lord and running wild," Solin said, a flicker of something crossing his face at the word dragon. Then, to the others: "The dwarven workshop ruin we're after is near. Move carefully. Don't stir that hornet's nest."
That green-bannered camp was, to Gauss's eye, the strongest monster power he'd seen since coming to this world—far beyond anything a party like theirs could face.
They watched longer. Beast wagons rolled in and out, tarps pulled over cargo—raw materials, supplies.
Suddenly Nancy folded her map and gave the sign for silence. Her pupils flashed again. "A squad's coming."
"On to us?"
"Not necessarily. Footsteps scattered—standard patrol. Right place, wrong time."
Eyes flicked around—settled on a tumble of boulders, thick with moss. "Hide."
They slipped into the cracks and vanished behind stone. "Elton."
"On it." He raised his holy symbol; a gentle light fell over them, and their presence faded—tracks and scuffs smoothing away.
Good thing they'd stashed the mounts earlier in a quiet, narrow vale; you don't hide a horse in a crack.
Within two minutes a patrol slid by: a goblin wolf-rider at point—short, wiry, a pressure that beat the hobgoblins Gauss knew.
Behind, four lizardman hunters in leather, poison-tipped steel spears on their backs, forked tongues tasting heat and scent. Trailing, two gnoll crossbowmen, hawk-eyes combing the brush.
They were well kitted, well drilled, moving in a neat combat wedge, talking in hand signs—soldiers, not a mob.
Elton's blessing held. They scanned once, saw nothing. The wolf-rider signed, and the squad flowed away at a good clip.
Only when the last shadow vanished did anyone breathe.
"Too close," Alia muttered, wiping at sweat that wasn't there.
Every one of those patrolmen was elite tier—and a fight here wouldn't have scared them; waking the camp behind them would.
The brush with danger drove it home: the ruin wouldn't be simple.
They waited longer, saw no second patrol—and moved. Feeling their way—
"We're here," Nancy said at last.
Here? Gauss turned a slow circle: dense brush, knotted vines, a few moss-buried rocks. No hint of a door. If Nancy hadn't spoken, he'd have walked by.
"The entrance collapsed, then got buried," Solin murmured. "If not, someone else would have beaten us to it."
He shoved vines aside to bare a fitted stone, scraped away earth and moss—clean dwarven geometries gleamed through grime. "This is it," he said, excitement tight under the words.
He palmed a hand-sized hammer and began tapping in a pattern. Nancy cast a silencing ward; the air rippled—and sound died beyond it. Inside, light tink tinks chimed against stone. His eyes lit; he jerked his chin. "Found it. Back up."
Thud—thud—thud— His wrist snapped; the little hammer fell again and again on the same point, a whip-fast, steady rhythm. Strange ripples trembled the air; a vein in the rock traced out and raced wide. Dozens of blows later, something tipped—the stone gave with a crash, a two- or three-meter span shedding into blocks from fist-size to head-size.
"Whoo—" Solin blew out a long breath, chest heaving. It hadn't looked like much—small hammer, short arc—but the drain was real. Skill and control—use the shockwave or get nowhere.
"Nice work," Gauss said, genuinely impressed. He couldn't have cracked that much stone so cleanly, so fast. Solin's storm of strikes was technique—not dumb force.
"Let's clear it."
They hauled rubble; a narrow, downward-slanting split surfaced, roots clinging to the sides—a natural tear, not a formal door, just wide enough for a man to stoop through. Cold, wet earth and a hint of rust breathed out.
They didn't rush in. First they tidied the rock pile and scuffed every trace. The camp's patrol range wasn't far; caution first.
"I'll take point," Solin said, stepping forward without second thoughts. He thumped his breastplate. "If something jumps, I can eat it."
"I'm second," Gauss said.
Before going in, they layered wards. Gauss's [Omni-Armor] had already been laid on everyone before they'd reached the site; it wasn't as strong on others as on him, but at Level 2 strength it was plenty. Serandur and Elton added their blessings, heavy on Solin and Gauss. Ready, the two men raised Light-lit weapons and led the way into the cleft. Alia, last in, cast Entangle; vines grew and wove, sealing the mouth behind them.
…
Tap—tap.
Drips hit cold rock and echoed down the passage. The Light's clean, bright glow pushed back the dark and showed them the way—a cut corridor, walls square and stout in classic dwarven craft, now slimed over with slick fungi that squished underfoot.
Gauss followed behind Solin. For all Solin had volunteered for the lead, Gauss wasn't much less exposed—maybe more. Advantage dwarves.
The passage ran a few dozen meters and split left and right—a Y of black throat.
"Left or right?" Solin rumbled from the front, warhammer never far from a swing.
Gauss studied the forks. He replayed what Solin had told them on the road—this place hadn't simply been "abandoned." It had gone quiet at once, centuries back. Time erases strangeness—but not always all of it.
"Left?" Solin said, scratching the back of his head when no one spoke.
"Left," Gauss nodded. He'd already noticed faint scuffs on the right—and the air felt too still, too wrong. The left breathed more. He was a little surprised that Solin had matched him so quickly. He'd shown that knack more than once on the way in. Talent, then?
They took the left. Soon the tunnel opened into a larger space.
"Whoa."
"So many weapons."
A workshop-cum-store, by the look of it. Racks and benches spilled blades and heads everywhere.
Up close, the letdown: most iron had died long ago, forms slumped and pitted, thick with red scale. Touch, and it fell in layers; at the cores, a hint of metal—no strength left.
"What a waste."
"There are a few in decent shape—elite grade," Solin said, true dwarf that he was. He sprang onto a platform, eyes skimming once and landing on the rare sound pieces. Elite gear eclipsed common in craft and stock; even caked and scarred, the bones were sound—polish and care would bring them back. A master piece might pass centuries untouched.
"Pick what you can use," Solin said, generous, turning to Gauss's trio.
"Much obliged," Gauss said, not beating around. He could tell these three were more than they seemed; to them, elite steel wasn't priceless, just valuable.
His eye went to a longsword—slender blade with a slight curve. Dust and rust couldn't hide what it was—no common steel, but a silver-white alloy that flashed cold in even dim light. The guard was a ring of feathered wings. The lines were clean; the core still strong.
He wiped the grip and guard with a cloth. Dwarf-runes flickered up and sank again. He closed his hand on the decayed leather—and a hum ran up his arm. Balance, length, feel—perfect.
His old steel longsword—white-glow in Identify, a decent common piece with a hint of wind-drag cut—suddenly felt… stiff.
"Mm?" Solin's brow went up. "Nice eye, Gauss. If I'm not mistaken, that's a 'Zephyr' forged of windsteel. Didn't expect to see one here. Not a common rack piece—custom issue from the dwarves to the kingdom, for nimble officers and special scouts."
"Windsteel's main vein was overrun, then the alloy got scarce. Fewer made since. But for quality? It's top shelf among elite weapons—especially early runs. No corner-cutting yet."
He clicked his tongue. "It'll let you swing much faster. See those runes? That's [Combo] and [Wind Pressure]. First burns to spike your attack rate for a moment; second loads your next cut with a strong air-shock—bigger knockback, or sloughs a shot."
Solin read the faint sigils like a book—even if he swore he knew nothing of making one.
Gauss turned the blade; it moved silk-smooth, far livelier than his old standard. He focused on the runes. Stamina trickled away; the blade whispered, the air around it rippling as if unseen currents wound about it.
[Wind Pressure]?
He tried both at once. More stamina bled—two at once cost more. Zephyr sang—clearer, higher—and the air around the blade condensed into pale, spinning edges, a tight little cyclone wrapped to steel. His arm felt pushed by wind—light, eager, ready to outrun its own limits.
"You can stack them?" he thought, delighted. He slashed—at a half-man-high scrap block. As the edge fell, [Wind Pressure] and [Combo] flared together—
Sssssssssk!
A tight cluster of cutting shrieks set teeth on edge. He'd deliberately taken only a corner—but the wind around the blade bit into the stone, furrowing it with crossing lines. A breath later, tens of grooves—several inches deep—scored the near face. Dust poured down.
Fast to the limit—and savage.
On flesh? He could imagine.
With Zephyr in hand, something in him tugged loose. His solid swordwork shook free a rain of ideas.
Swordsmanship Basics +1
Swordsmanship Basics +1
…
[Swordsmanship Basics] Lv4 (13 → 25 / 100)
The moment bloomed—and passed. He didn't mind. Where there's a first, there's a second.
"Whew…" Solin sucked air and stared. "You combined the runes?"
He scratched his head. Normally—even with multiple effects—you fired one at a time. With practice, you could chain them with barely a seam. Combine? It happened—but only when the fit was perfect and the practice heavy. Few fit; fewer stayed to grind that long—most moved up and changed blades.
Gauss had just picked it up.
If not a combination—why so much power?
He was still puzzling when the others lifted their finds: a golden dagger for Alia; a silver buckler for Serandur. Nancy and Elton had their own prizes.
Joy lasted a heartbeat.
From the dark beyond came a crisp sound. The relief carvings—blended so cleanly into walls, corners, and ceiling that they had vanished to the eye—flared with cold red light in their sockets.
Click… click… click…
Mechanisms churned in a dozen throats. Statues shivered; dust and grit sluiced off. Stone bodies groaned like gears as they peeled from the rock and woke.
"Not good!"