The West Swamp was damp and dreary.
A glossy Beetle huffed and puffed as it crawled over a slippery old tree root.
A thick blanket of green moss covered the root, causing the barbs on the Beetle's legs to slip. It nearly fell.
It crawled and crawled, finally emerging from the perpetually misty old forest.
The light grew a little brighter, though the sky remained a dusty gray.
But the ground underfoot was noticeably drier and firmer, no longer the kind of mire that oozed black water with every step.
The Beetle comfortably stretched its legs.
Just then, a stench—a mixture of rotten fish, rank sweat, and scorched hair—assaulted its senses.
Startled, it looked up and saw a stinking fortress perched on the relatively dry, habitable high ground ahead.
That was the territory of the Goblin Army.
The Beetle twitched its antennae. To avoid being kicked like a rock by a goblin, it decided to take a detour.
