After the battle, the hollow fell quiet again.
A heavy reek of blood, laced with the acrid tang of urine, hung in the air. The morning sun slanted into the ravine, carving a few visible shafts of light. Fine dust still unsettled by the fighting rose and sank in the beams, making everything look oddly peaceful and serene.
Logger George, however, felt anything but calm. His temples thudded, and his heart hammered with a mix of shock and excitement.
When he looked down, all he saw was a garish mess of green and red.
Goblin corpses carpeted the uneven ground in twisted, shattered poses. Some skulls had burst, brain matter spattered across the gray-brown rock like macabre graffiti; some bellies were split, with torn viscera and intestines spilling out and drawing flies from above; more bodies were bent at impossible angles—dolls wrenched and snapped by brute force.
Thick, dark red blood soaked the soil and pooled in the low spots into queasy little ponds.
He shifted his footing and suddenly stepped on a severed finger. The feel of it under his sole—soft with a hard core that collapsed—sent gooseflesh racing all over him. He flinched back a few steps.
Then—squish—he trod on an eyeball.
"Ah!"
George yelped, jerked his foot up, and staggered uncontrollably. The yielding-then-caving sensation under his boot, followed by that faint, crisp pop, replayed and amplified in his head.
He looked down. The edge of his worn shoe was smeared with a sticky yellow-white mix, and what was left of an eye—pulped flat but still barely recognizable—clung there.
A wave of nausea surged from his gut to his throat.
He spun, braced a hand on the rough rock, and dry-heaved violently.
His stomach churned but produced nothing; only sour bile kept rising.
He gulped breaths, trying to settle himself, but the pervasive iron stink made his head swim worse.
He was shaking all over—not just from bodily disgust, but from that primal animal aversion to death and mangled limbs.
Gauss heard the noise and glanced at the logger.
He'd expected this. The man had insisted on coming, and Gauss couldn't really be blamed for the aftermath. Scenes like this are hard to stomach unless you're an adventurer who's long since grown used to them; even the steadiest commoner would struggle to stay unfazed.
Expression unchanged, Gauss stepped through the gore and began harvesting the spoils.
He picked out small but valuable ironwork himself. As for the goblin left ears used as proof for the contract, the clay creatures handled the mechanical work—perfect for simple, repetitive tasks.
He stopped by the goblin shaman.
After a moment's thought, he took out a fine dagger and a shroud. He crouched, pulled the javelin that had nailed the body to the rock, then opened the torso cleanly with the dagger. Gloved hands searched the abdomen; sure enough, he found a glowing fleshy kernel. He cut it free and wrapped it in a small shroud.
That was the mana source some spellcasting monsters develop. Unlike human mages, who refine their magic, monsters tend to condense a crude, primal core inside themselves. Coarse as it was, it still made decent material for certain studies and specific spells.
The shaman's wooden staff was also a type of wood that conducted mana well.
And…
Gauss's hands moved quickly, stripping the field.
When he finished, he stood, swept the now even more chaotic clearing—made worse by the clay constructs plucking left ears—and, after making sure no goblin was hiding in some crevice, looked over at the logger, whose trembling had mostly eased.
"Forget what you saw. Go home and sleep well tonight." His voice carried a subtle weight.
The awe and fear George had felt for Gauss amid the blood-soaked earth ebbed, and his mood slowly steadied.
"Okay."
Back at the logging camp, the others swarmed the "lucky" George, peppering him with questions.
"Back so fast? Did you find those goblins?"
George gave an awkward smile and glanced at Gauss. Seeing Gauss calm and not about to embarrass him, he relaxed, lifted his chin, and waved it off with forced ease. "Handled. Mr. Gauss is amazing. Those green runts didn't stand a chance—cleaned them up in no time."
He skipped the gore and his own sorry state, and stuck to vague, impressive-sounding results.
The workers gasped and looked at Gauss with open respect. Gauss only nodded slightly and said nothing more.
When the foreman invited him to stay for a quick meal, he declined with a wave.
"I'll pass. I've got other contracts to run." He took the chocobo's reins back. "I marked the lair on your map. There are still supplies and salvage you can use. Take some people, collect what you can, and clean up. Best to burn the bodies."
He'd taken the more valuable bits, but he had neither the time nor the need to haul every odds-and-ends from a camp this size. He might as well leave them for the locals.
He handed over a simple parchment map he'd sketched on the ride back.
"No problem—leave it to us! Thank you so much, Mr. Gauss." The foreman took it with both hands, patting his chest in promise.
Gauss nodded, swung into the saddle, and with a flick of the reins the chocobo chirped and set off at a brisk, steady stride. Under many watching eyes, he left the camp, heading for the next contract—farmland plagued by berserk boars.
He'd barely gone when the loggers bustled into motion.
"Don't just stand there—grab your tools, bring extra sacks. Mr. Gauss left us some goodies. Move!"
"We'll sell it all together and split the coin."
What Gauss didn't bother with was a decent payday for them.
…
By early afternoon, Gauss watched his clay goblin finish its work and gave a satisfied nod.
The next two routine jobs had no surprises; the details matched the postings. The berserk boar was a bit bigger than usual, with wicked tusks, tremendous strength, and tough hide—definitely not something common folk could handle. The goblins in the abandoned hamlet were unremarkable in number, gear, and morale, with no real leader; aside from left ears, there was little worth collecting.
"That's more like it," he murmured.
He beckoned the clay goblin over. The clay he'd used—bought on the guild's second floor—was decent overall, and after absorbing the spirits of dozens of goblins plus the shaman, the construct had changed in subtle ways: its attack posture was nimbler now, less all-brute-force and more technique.
"Shame there still isn't enough clay," he said. With stronger spirit, a clay goblin that could carry the load perfectly could also be made larger.
"I wonder if anyone has picked up my commission for clay-type magical materials?"
Specialized collection jobs like that don't get accepted—or done—instantly. They have a barrier to entry and usually require Professionals. And for most Pros, vague, time-consuming scavenger hunts can't compete with steady exterminations or escort work.
"Total Monsters Kills: 3,103"
Three more contracts in half a day—Gauss felt good about the pace. Once you're practiced, the chain—locate, fight, strip—flows on its own.
"Let's head back." With the work done, he didn't linger.
It was still afternoon when he reached Lincrown Town. Without stopping, he went straight to the Adventurers' Guild to turn in.
First, he reported the anomaly in the goblin job near the logging camp. The guild took it seriously; the receptionist soon brought out a senior director to speak with him.
The Lincrown Town branch's senior director was a hale, sharp-eyed elder. Some branches had these senior administrators to help the guildmaster and vice-guildmaster. His temples were graying, but his gaze was hawk-bright. He wore a well-cut guild uniform with a stag-head brooch, and carried himself with polished grace.
He led Gauss to a quiet receiving room. After a thorough discussion, the elder stood and thanked him gravely.
"Mr. Gauss, thank you for this timely report. It was a serious oversight in our work. I'll escalate this anomaly. We'll contact you once we have specifics.
"And, once confirmed, per procedure, we will issue compensation of ten gold coins."
Gauss nodded.
It was a real problem. He'd cleared it easily only because his strength far exceeded a beginner's team's. This was a routine contract. He didn't dare imagine what a three- or four-person squad might suffer—especially in a closed terrain—if they lacked time or skill to scout properly.
Unlike Professionals, low-tier adventurers don't have a wide mix of scouting tools. Even with the right mindset, they often can't scout accurately. He hadn't come for the money—though a little extra for the extra effort was nice. He mainly wanted the guild to find the root cause quickly and reduce such incidents.
His first contract ever had bad intel; that temporary party was mauled, and the team fell apart afterward. Having been caught in the rain, he preferred to hold an umbrella for others.
Still—ten gold… He couldn't help recalling that first compensation. Back then it had been, what, around ten silver? A hundredfold now.
Different status?
He shook his head, rueful.
After filing the report and collecting the three bounties, he went up to the second floor. A glance at the board found his own posted request still there. Confirming with the receptionist, he learned no one had taken it yet.
"Mr. Gauss, these material collection jobs often need time—and luck," the receptionist said.
Gauss nodded. It had been less than two days since he'd posted it; he hadn't expected news so soon. He just liked to check daily.
"If you're in a hurry, you might try the informal marketplace," the receptionist added kindly. "Just note there's no guard detail there, and order isn't guaranteed. Please be careful."
"Thanks." After getting the exact location, Gauss left the guild.
Back at the inn, he settled the chocobo in the small rear shed and gave it food and water. He bathed, changed into casual clothes, and headed for the market the receptionist mentioned.
Even if he put the clay aside, he could still sell the goblin shaman's core to an alchemy supplier.
By the time he'd reported in, washed up, and rested, dusk had fallen. Along the streets, windshields and oil lamps winked to life, fixed to wooden posts or hanging from eaves, blooming warm, yellow halos. The light was dim, barely pushing back the dark hugging the roadside. Moths and glow-chasing insects fluttered tirelessly around the glow.
Townsfolk done with their day and adventurers back from jobs filled the night streets in little knots, chatting as they drifted toward taverns, homes, or still-open shops.
Gauss kept his purpose in mind and cut through the bustle toward the town's northeast.
As he went, the main-road clamor gave way to a different atmosphere.
At his destination, he stopped at the mouth of a lane and looked in.
The lights here were far denser—not cozy yellow, but a jumble of colored lamps, wavering candles, and the distinct cool blue and hot orange gleam from shopfront alchemy furnaces. The mixed hues painted the district in lurid color.
The air held a different bouquet too: pungent herbs, biting chemical reagents, and a faint residue of magic.
This was Lincrown Town's unofficial "market"—a spontaneous trading quarter run by alchemy apprentices, materials sellers, independent craftsmen, Professionals, and all manner of speculators.
As Gauss paused to take it in, a commotion flared ahead.
"Don't run!"
"Stop her! She stole our stuff!"
A figure wrapped head to toe in a black cloak vaulted lightly from a third-floor balcony not far away. In midair, her gaze met Gauss's for a heartbeat.
She landed without a wobble and, without breaking stride, brushed past him and was gone.
Gauss turned to watch her retreating back, frowning slightly.
"Feels like…"
A few heartbeats later, several men burst panting from the alley. "Where'd she go? Which way?" the leader—a slab-faced brute—barked, eyes raking the sparse passersby before fixing on Gauss, tall and obviously not an ordinary man.
"Hey, you!" he jabbed a finger at Gauss. "Didn't we tell you to block her?"
"Oh?" Gauss arched a brow.
~~~
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