Chapter 12: The First Battle of Expansion

On the 17th day of the fifth month, Year 9720 of the Radiant Calendar, after receiving sixty carts of grain and a batch of farming tools from Alec’s aid, Verin gathered his people and departed, embarking formally on his journey of settlement.

He had shamelessly lingered here for half a month, which left him feeling rather embarrassed; he could not wait to bid his cousin farewell and led his group away from the Ridge Territory, heading toward the Toxic region.

Standing atop the castle’s tower, Brian watched the departing party and let out a sigh.

“Master, while cleaning Lord Verin’s room, the servants found three hundred gold coins.” The castle steward approached Brian and reported in a low voice.

Brian was momentarily stunned by the news, then forced a wry smile. “He must have feared I would refuse if he tried to give them to me in person, so he resorted to this.”

“What should we do, my lord?”

“Take them,” Brian replied, gazing into the distance, eyes deep and thoughtful. “Remind me during our next transaction—my brother must not suffer any loss.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The steward withdrew, leaving Brian alone atop the tower, watching as Verin vanished into the horizon.

After five days’ travel, they reached the edge of the Toxic region. Verin ordered his men to set up camp, and commanded Baird to send scouts to investigate the surroundings.

Their arrival did not go unnoticed—a nearby, rather powerful goblin tribe had already taken note.

Two days later, inside a tent, Verin gathered all twelve of his knights for a simple military meeting.

Given their rudimentary facilities, everyone sat cross-legged on the ground.

“Gentlemen, after two days of scouting, this is a rough depiction of the surrounding area. Let’s hear your thoughts.”

In the center, a makeshift table of wooden crates bore a crude map, covering the basic situation across more than a hundred square kilometers.

The map was marked with various goblin tribes, numbering over twenty at a glance. The largest boasted more than three hundred goblins; even the smallest held dozens, for a total of well over two thousand goblins in the region.

“My lord, I believe we should focus our strength on eliminating the most powerful tribe. That way, even if the remaining goblins sense the danger and unite, they won’t pose a threat to us—perhaps infighting will even break out among them.” Baird, captain of the knightly guard, pointed to the largest tribe on the map and offered his suggestion.

“Hmm, that makes sense. Goblins are a greedy and base race, especially prone to bullying the weak and fearing the strong. If we take down their mightiest leader, the rest, even if they join forces, will lack a strong head and fall to in-fighting. We can then defeat them one by one.”

Verin nodded in agreement, then glanced at the others, hoping for more diverse perspectives.

But he had overestimated them. The other eleven simply looked about, then turned their eyes in unison to Verin, their clear gazes betraying only their foolishness.

“As expected, of these twelve, only Baird is fit for command—the others, at best, have the makings of generals.”

But he was satisfied enough.

As the saying goes, “It’s easy to gather an army, but hard to find a good commander”—and a true leader is rarer still. This holds as true in a world famed for strength as it does anywhere.

Of course, with a force strong enough, all strategies would be moot. If Verin had a thousand bronze knights, he would simply sweep across the land, slaughter every goblin, and seize the territory with ease—there would be no need for strategy meetings.

After a few minutes with no further suggestions, Verin looked around in disappointment and spoke: “We’ll go with Baird’s plan this time. Go make preparations; action begins tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord!” came the loud response, and the knights left the tent to prepare in their own quarters.

Outside, Orlando and Hebrews, stationed as guards, watched the group depart, then lifted the flap and entered the tent.

“My lord, is something troubling you?” Orlando asked, noticing Verin’s weary expression.

“It’s nothing—just a bit disheartened that so few of my men are clever.”

Hebrews, curious, remarked, “My lord, are all the knights so foolish?”

“Silence, Hebrews,” Orlando hissed, turning to Verin and apologizing. “My lord, my brother speaks without a filter—please forgive him.”

“It’s fine. Such words may be spoken in my presence, but never in public.”

“Yes, my lord,” Hebrews quickly replied, recognizing his mistake.

“Enough. You two should go and prepare as well. You’ll join the campaign against the goblin tribe—if you train without real battle, you’ll never truly grow.”

“Yes, my lord,” the two answered, bowing as they withdrew.

Back in their own tent, Orlando pulled his brother aside and scolded sternly, “What are the six words I always told you?”

Seeing his brother’s face, Hebrews looked away guiltily and mumbled, “Speak less, do more.”

“And what did you do today?”

“Brother, I…” Hebrews hung his head.

Orlando sighed helplessly at the sight. “There must not be a next time. The lord treats us as kin, but others may not. Remember those six words always.”

“Mm,” Hebrews nodded emphatically and followed his elder brother to prepare for the coming battle.

Since awakening their battle aura, the two had trained for just under a month and a half, and were already mid-rank bronze knights—their progress so rapid that even Verin could only marvel. He estimated that within a year at most, his two underage guardian knights would become silver knights.

Still, with their knightly vows and the blessing of the Goddess of Life, he had no fear of their betrayal.

Besides, neither Orlando nor Hebrews had any reason to turn against him.

…

In the Boulder Tribe, within a lavish cave, the goblin chieftain, staff in hand, listened anxiously to the scouts’ report.

“Did you see clearly? There are hundreds of them?”

“Elder, there truly are hundreds of humans, all armed—I stake my life on it.”

“What now?” the chieftain muttered, pacing back and forth. Must he flee yet again?

Thirty years ago, his tribe had been forced to migrate by human settlers for the first time.

Ten years later, it happened again—a second migration.

Now, even after fleeing to this remote place, human pioneers had found them yet again.

“Oh great Goblin God, grant your humble servant guidance,” the chieftain prayed, kneeling before the idol.

But the hideous statue showed no sign. Resigned, the Boulder Tribe’s chieftain rose, his face hardening with ruthless resolve. He would not run—not for the tribe, but for the hard-won salt mine.

He called out in a loud voice, “Go and summon the chieftains of the surrounding tribes. I must confer with them to defend our land.”

“At once, Chieftain,” the goblin warriors replied and hurried off.