Morning dew still clung to the burlap awning over the mushroom field, refracting scattered light.
Kurzadh stood by the awning with his hands behind his back, looking at the soft humus soil beneath his feet, a smile on his lips—today was the day the large mushroom field produced new greenskins , and the feeling of watching life emerge from the dirt made him feel more secure than winning a battle.
The humus suddenly moved, first swelling into a small mound, then cracking open, and a round head poked out—it was a goblin!
Its gray-greenskin was wrapped in sticky mycelium, like a layer of transparent glue. Its mung bean-sized eyes were not fully open, covered in a layer of mist, yet it instinctively arched its round belly to push out of the soil.
Its tiny limbs kicked at the dirt, and the resulting soil particles stuck to its skin, making it look like it was studded with crushed coal slag, appearing both clumsy and foolish.
Just as half its body emerged, the goblin suddenly stopped moving, its round belly swelled violently, and with a "poof," it sprayed a cloud of yellowish-green mist from its backside.
The mist carried a faint scent of mushroom spores, drifting onto the surrounding mycelia, which instantly curled up into coils, as if they had been scalded.
Kurzadh couldn't help but laugh out loud—this was the goblin's innate "Birth ceremony," and the mark that distinguished them from other greenskins . No matter when he saw it, he found it comical and endearing.
After spraying the mist, the goblin seemed relieved. It shook its head and began slowly scraping the dirt off its body with its small claws.
Every now and then, it would bend down and nibble on a small mushroom nearby, eating with an expression of satisfaction.
Just then, the giant cap beside it suddenly began to shake violently.
This cap was three times larger than the surrounding mushrooms, and its gills were dark and heavy. Inside, dense clusters of black spores were currently condensing, gradually forming a humanoid outline.
With a "Crack," the spore shell shattered in the humid air, revealing the Zaggur limbs inside—it was a hobgoblin!
This hobgoblin was not as clumsy as the goblin. As soon as its claws appeared, it used its sharp nails to grip the edge of the gill, climbing upward like a monkey, and within seconds, it was squatting on top of the cap.
It shook off the spore dust from its head, its mung bean eyes darting around, quickly scanning the surroundings. Its gaze was full of vigilance and a certain cleverness.
Before Kurzadh could react, it had already ripped off the mycelia wrapped around its waist.
Its fingers flew, and in moments, it had woven a crude rope, which it held and swung, seemingly testing its strength.
"As expected of a hobgoblin, born knowing how to tinker," Kurzadh muttered internally.
The hobgoblin's survival instinct was etched into its bones from the moment of birth.
They always realized the importance of "Collecting" and "utilizing" sooner than goblin, which is why hobgoblins could become the main fighting force of the greenskin tribe, while goblin mostly only handled miscellaneous chores.
The goblin under the awning smelled the spores on the hobgoblin and happily made "Gurgling" sounds, hopping excitedly, trying to tug at the hobgoblin's hem.
The hobgoblin, however, lifted its foot in disgust and lightly kicked the goblin on its round belly, sending it tumbling.
But the fallen goblin was not angry at all. It got up, patted the dirt off its body, and went back to the hobgoblin's feet, rubbing its round belly against the hobgoblin's ankle.
It even cautiously scraped up the spore particles that had condensed from the mist it had just sprayed, piling them up in front of the hobgoblin, as if presenting a treasure.
Kurzadh watched this scene, feeling warmth in his heart.
The symbiotic instinct of the greenskins had quietly manifested from the very first moment they were born in the mushroom field—hobgoblins were responsible for tinkering and fighting, while goblin handled chores and following, relying on each other, indispensable.
He walked over, patted the hobgoblin's head with his rough palm, and then rubbed the goblin's round belly, controlling his strength just right so as not to hurt them.
"Grow up strong. Follow me into battle later, and you'll have meat to eat!" Kurzadh said, smiling.
The hobgoblin blinked, offering the rope in its hand toward Kurzadh, as if showing loyalty; the goblin, meanwhile, gave a "Gurgle" and rubbed itself even tighter against Kurzadh's foot.
Just as Kurzadh was enjoying this moment of warmth, hurried footsteps suddenly came from afar.
He looked up and saw a hobgoblin scout running toward them frantically.
Its beast-hide armor was askew, its hat was gone, and its face was full of panic. It ran and shouted, "Boss! boss! Something's happened! Outside... there are lots of humans outside!"
Along the Khyprian road, on the edge of the Forest of Gloom, a contingent of about a hundred people was slowly advancing.
Hooves trod on the muddy road where the snow had melted, splashing brown mud.
Dozens of black-based, eagle-headed banners fluttered above the contingent; the eagle's eyes were embroidered with gold thread, shining with a cold light in the sun.
The composition of this contingent was comprehensive: the front rank consisted of infantry carrying long spears, the iron-wrapped tips reflecting a sharp light; on both sides were archers, their quivers bulging, fingers resting on bowstrings, their eyes scanning the roadside woods with vigilance.
In the center of the contingent were more than a dozen prison carts, their wheels grinding against the road with a "Creak-creak" sound.
Inside the carts were tall orcs—they averaged over two meters in height, and even though they were bound by iron chains, their muscles remained bulging.
their green skin was covered in scars left by battle, and their red eyes revealed ferocity as they stared fixedly at the humans outside the carts, letting out low "woo-woo" growls.
At the very front of the contingent, a middle-aged man wearing silver heavy armor rode a black warhorse.
He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed full beard. Complex patterns were carved into his heavy armor, and the eagle head crest on his chest matched the design on the banners.
He held the reins loosely, his expression relaxed, even occasionally raising a hand to adjust his collar—it wasn't that he ignored vigilance, but rather that, in his view, there was nothing in this forest worth being wary of.
"My Lord, ahead is the depths of the Forest of Gloom. As per your command, we have already slowed our pace," a cavalryman approached him and reported softly.
The middle-aged man nodded slightly, his voice carrying a hint of arrogance: "No need to rush. This forest was swept clean by the dwarves long ago. To open up trade routes, they uprooted the greenskin tribe inside. Now, you can't even find a decent greenskin. The orcs we captured this time are enough to fetch a good price in Katushir."
He was right; this contingent was a slaver Squad from Prince Patton's Fiefdom, specializing in capturing greenskins in various forests and transporting them to the slave market in Katushir for sale.
orcs are tall, strong, and enduring, making them highly favored by nobles—some are used as miners, doing the hardest and most strenuous work in the mines; some are used as cannon fodder, thrown onto the battlefield to wear down enemies; and others are treated as playthings, used for gladiatorial performances.
It was a win-win situation: they made money while weakening the greenskin forces.
The Soldiers in the contingent were all relaxed, some humming tunes, some joking with each other, and others staring at the orcs in the prison carts with mocking smiles.
A young infantryman approached a prison cart and poked an orc's arm with his spear: "Hey, big guy, stop glaring. Once you get to Katushir, you'll have a good time!"
The orc roared, lunging fiercely at the prison bars, but the iron chains held it fast. It could only watch the humans mock it, the fury in its eyes practically overflowing.
The middle-aged man glanced at the orcs in the prison cart, a cold sneer playing on his lips.
In his opinion, these greenskins were nothing more than unintelligent beasts that could be manipulated at will, provided they were locked up with chains and sufficient force.
He reined in his horse and looked up at the sky. The sunlight was perfect, and the road was relatively smooth.
At this pace, they would reach Katushir in three more days, and then these orcs would be converted into bags of gold coins.
What he failed to notice was that in the woods along the road, pairs of eyes were peering out from behind the trees—they were hobgoblin scouts of the Blackrock Clan.
They hid in the shadows, staring intently at the slaver Squad, their iron spears tightly gripped, their eyes full of vigilance.
They knew they had to quickly take this news back to the tribe and tell their boss—Kurzadh.