Days passed swiftly.
Under Mugu's guidance, countless goblin tribes fell, their deaths fueling Adam's experience and boosting his level.
The air in the forest's outskirts grew thick with the stench of blood. The jungle itself quieted, the usual cacophony of birdsong now sparse.
June 29.
Splash!
Water sprayed as Adam surfaced from a small river, swimming to the bank for a thorough bath.
Though the Odorless Spell could mask his scent, it merely eliminated smells, nothing compared to the comfort and cleanliness of a proper wash.
Mugu knew the outskirts like the back of its hand.
Stepping ashore, Adam pulled out a clean cloth, dried himself, and donned fresh clothes.
He plopped down beside a campfire, where a pot of steaming meat broth simmered.
"Hss."
Adam sipped the broth, letting out a contented sigh.
The broth was plain but satisfying in this environment. A bath and hot soup lifted his spirits immensely.
Of course, his recent level gains had kept his mood high.
Not so for another.
Mugu lay on the ground nearby, both its legs broken, forcing it to sprawl.
"No more… no more killing."
"Please, human lord, no more."
"I beg you, stop the slaughter."
"No more…"
"Too many goblins have died."
Mugu's weak wails and sobs drifted from its prone form.
Adam, long accustomed to the noise, continued sipping his broth, expressionless.
Mugu's cries seemed to plead for the slain goblins, but that wasn't the truth.
To Hobgoblins, regular goblins were little more than breeding stock, lowly creatures unworthy of being true kin.
A race that devoured its own kind felt no pity for lesser brethren.
Mugu's true anguish stemmed from the consequences of Adam's rampage. With so many goblins dead, come winter, the Hobgoblins would lack their usual food reserves.
The Gigu Tribe might become fodder for the ogre lords!
That was the source of Mugu's lament.
"Quiet." Adam said, swallowing another mouthful of broth.
Mugu's wails stopped instantly, its mouth snapping shut, black pupils brimming with grievance and cowardice.
Thwap!
Adam tossed a piece of cooked boar meat toward it.
The meat, dusted with dirt, rolled into Mugu's view.
In an instant, Mugu's fear and pitiful expression vanished, replaced by feral greed.
Clawing at the ground, it scrambled toward the meat.
Saliva dripping, Mugu's jagged, yellowed teeth tore into the boar meat it clutched tightly.
Gone was the pitiable creature of moments ago.
"Survival of the fittest, nature's law, this is the jungle's way." Adam said, taking another sip of broth. "Deception is just another means of survival."
…
E-Rantel.
The top floor of the Adventurer's Guild, third level.
A spacious room, simply furnished, devoid of opulence. Only the walls, adorned with scarred shields and notched swords, silently spoke of their storied past.
These battered weapons imbued the otherwise plain room with a rugged, adventurous aura.
At a long, rustic wooden table sat three figures.
On the left, a man with graying hair, wrinkles creasing his eyes and forehead, appearing in his mid-forties.
Though older, his gaze was sharp, and his loose clothing couldn't hide the robust muscles and strength beneath.
His calloused, rough hands hinted at mastery with weapons.
He held a silver vessel, its contents emitting faint wisps of cold despite the June heat.
Across from him sat a lean, efficient-looking Magician in a robe, poring over a report.
At the head of the table was a rotund man.
His bald head, fleshy chin, and bulging belly made him seem melded to his chair.
Leaning back, head bowed, his chins overlapped, and every few breaths, a "pfft" escaped his snoring nose.
He looked like a pig.
Yet he wore a deep red velvet coat, a blue vest with gold buttons, and a white shirt. Around his neck, a pure gold tie, silky and adorned with a ruby that glinted faintly in the sunlight.
Such lavish attire marked his high status.
The people of E-Rantel would be stunned to see these three together.
They were the city's most powerful figures.
The gray-haired man was Pluton Ainzach, president of E-Rantel's Adventurer's Guild.
The Magician was Theo Rakheshir, president of the Magician's Guild.
And the mayor, a kingdom noble, Panasolei Gruze Day Rettenmaier.
After a brief silence, Ainzach set down his silver vessel, his expression serious but his voice measured, addressing the seemingly dozing mayor.
"Your Honor."
The "pfft" stopped.
Panasolei opened his eyes, his fleshy lids narrowing, concealing any hint of emotion.
***
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