The biting cold wind, like dull blades, howled through the dry branches of Forest of Gloom, sweeping up snow and dead leaves from the ground, hitting the wooden palisade of Blackrock Clan with a mournful wail.
Bare branches shivered in the wind, and ice shards occasionally fell from them, shattering into sparkling fragments on the snow.
A month had passed since the last bloody battle with the skaven, and winter had completely enveloped the forest, yet it hadn't hindered the tribe's rapid development—the lumberyard had piles of wood as tall as small mountains, newly hewn stone slabs from the quarry were neatly arranged, and under the burlap sheds of the mushroom fields, a new batch of mushrooms was sprouting with plump white caps; the entire tribe exuded a vibrant energy.
At seven in the morning, the first faint rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds, barely illuminating the wooden window of the Chief's hut.
Kurzadh woke up punctually from his wooden bed; the thick goatskin beneath him was soft and warm, keeping the chill of winter at bay.
This wooden bed was specially crafted for him by the goblin Engineers; its legs were carved from thick wood, and the bed base was made of three layers of thin wooden planks.
Though crude, it was a hundred times more comfortable than sleeping directly on dry grass. For a greenskin tribe still lacking in resources, such a "Configuration" was considered a rare "luxury."
He stretched, his joints emitting soft cracking sounds.
The Chief's hut was divided into two levels. The lower level was a spacious council hall with a large, smoothly polished stone slab in the center, where greenskins usually reported matters and discussed strategies.
In the corner were stacked some spare axes and iron spears, along with several burlap sacks filled with dried mushrooms.
The upper level was his private space; besides the wooden bed, there was also a wooden cabinet—inside were his beast-hide coat and the captured iron axe, and even a small wooden table with a pottery bowl on it, which he had picked up from the ruins of the skaven tribe during their last raid.
These wooden furnishings were all meticulously carved by the goblin Engineers according to his memories from his previous life. Although crude in style, they greatly improved his quality of life, preventing him from living like a savage as before.
Kurzadh rubbed his eyes, and just as he was about to get out of bed, a light green system interface suddenly popped up before him, and lines of text instantly dampened his spirits: [New month's territory income and expenditure settlement: Income 271 teeth, Expenditure 399 teeth, Remaining inventory 1029 teeth].
He frowned at the interface, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the goatskin beneath him.
Greenskin society had a simple yet stable economic system, with "teeth" as the universal currency—hobgoblin teeth counted as 1 unit each, orc teeth were harder and counted as 2 units each, while goblin teeth, being small and brittle, were worthless and only fit for the trash.
According to tribal rules, each hobgoblin had to pay 4 teeth per month as "territory tax." After deducting 2 teeth for daily maintenance costs (including tool wear and tear, mushroom field fertilizer, etc.), the remaining 2 teeth were considered the actual income for the territory.
However, everyone in the tribe, from elite spearmen and archers to ordinary hobgoblins and the goblin laborers responsible for work, required maintenance fees—hobgoblins 2 teeth per month, goblin laborers 1 tooth per month.
Calculating this, every month was a deficit; this month alone, there was a shortfall of 128 teeth.
The current 1029 teeth, at this rate of consumption, would last at most half a year.
"Damn it, this money is burning too fast," Kurzadh cursed under his breath.
He knew the nature of greenskins ; trying to cut expenses by "Saving" was simply unrealistic—if hobgoblins paid taxes but received no benefits, they might rebel.
If goblin laborers didn't even have enough basic food , they wouldn't have the strength to work.
greenskins always solved problems directly: if they lacked something, they went and took it.
Since teeth weren't enough, they would go out and "Ask" other tribes for them! Thinking of this, his irritation somewhat dissipated.
He flipped out of bed and walked to the council hall on the lower level.
The campfire in the corner still held some residual warmth, and beside it lay a piece of roasted whole lamb that hadn't been finished last night—the skin was roasted to a crisp, and a little oil seeped from the meat seams.
Kurzadh walked over, picked up the lamb, and directly tore off a piece with his hand, stuffing it into his mouth.
The rich meaty aroma spread in his mouth, carrying a hint of charcoal char, making him narrow his eyes in satisfaction.
This goat had been slaughtered the day before yesterday. When the tribe had just finished upgrading the lumberyard, he had specially asked Fatso to roast a whole lamb, allowing all the greenskins to sate their cravings.
Just as he was gnawing on the lamb, the wooden hut's door creaked open, and Scarface walked in, covered in snow.
He was much sturdier now, almost as big as an ordinary hobgoblin, and carefully held a lotus leaf package in his hands, wrapped around half a dried Squig.
"Boss, I... I brought you something to eat," Scarface's voice was a little clearer than before.
He handed the lotus leaf package to Kurzadh, his small eyes full of fawning.
Kurzadh's eyes lit up. He took the lotus leaf package and opened it—the Squig inside was dark brown all over, with firm flesh and a faint salty aroma.
Squigs were squid-like creatures that usually hid at the bottom of the pond next to the mushroom fields, slippery and extremely difficult to catch.
In the beginning, ten goblins would go down to catch them, and they wouldn't even catch one in half a day.
Kurzadh simply had Scarface organize a hundred goblins to take turns guarding the pond, using nets to scoop up any Squig that surfaced.
This finally made this rare ingredient his "Special supply."
He broke off a piece of Squig meat, tore it into thin strips, and put it in his mouth—the dried Squig meat was full of umami, chewy, and tasted very much like the beef jerky he had eaten in his previous life, becoming more fragrant with every chew.
Occasionally, he would also have Fatso stir-fry fresh Squig with red mushrooms; the freshness of the red mushrooms and the tenderness of the Squig blended together, making the taste even more exquisite.
As a "food ie" influenced by five thousand years of culinary culture, Kurzadh's cooking skills in this medieval-level world were simply a "Dimensional strike."
When they had the whole roasted lamb before, he personally supervised Fatso in preparing the lamb—first, hollowing out the lamb's belly, filling it with chopped mushrooms and herbs, then wrapping the lamb tightly in yellow mud, and roasting it over a fire.
When the yellow mud cracked, the lamb inside became crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, with oil dripping when torn, and the aroma wafted throughout the entire tribe.
At that time, all the greenskins swarmed around the roasted whole lamb, snatching pieces frantically.
Even the few hobgoblins who had just surrendered were impressed by the taste, and their eyes held a newfound reverence for him.
Not to mention that he had just led the greenskins to victory against the skaven, and now he could ensure everyone ate well.
The tribe's cohesion was far stronger than before.
Kurzadh held the dried Squig meat and walked to the window of the hut, pushing open a crack to look down.
Inside the palisade, the greenskins had already begun their day's work: goblin laborers carried wood, scurrying to the construction site with their short legs moving quickly.
hobgoblin spearmen trained in the open space, repeatedly practicing stabbing motions with their iron spears, their shouts echoing.
Wrymouth led several elite archers, heading towards the forest, seemingly for patrol.
By the mushroom fields, Fatso and Zaggur were lifting the burlap sheds, checking the newly grown mushrooms, occasionally bending down to pull out weeds.
The cold wind seeped through the window crack, carrying a bone-chilling cold, but Kurzadh paid it no mind.
Chewing the chewy dried Squig meat, he looked at the bustling tribe below, feeling the umami in his mouth and a sense of calm in his heart, his lips unconsciously curving into a smile.
This was probably the most leisurely time of the day—no tension from fighting, no anxiety about resource shortages, only the satisfaction of watching the tribe he had built with his own hands slowly grow stronger.
He touched the system interface in his arms; the remaining 1029 teeth, though not many, would be enough to get through this winter with just one or two more victories, snatching some teeth and supplies.
When spring arrived, upgrading the mushroom fields to level two would allow the automatically generated goblins and hobgoblins to boost the tribe's population once more.
By then, whether it was to raid the dwarves or cause trouble for other greenskin tribes, they would have more confidence.
"Things will always get better," Kurzadh bit off a large piece of dried Squig meat, thinking silently.
The cold wind outside the window still howled, but the sunlight gradually broke through the clouds, casting a faint golden glow over the snow-covered tribe.