Chapter 23 – Goblin Slayer in the Making
Ethan kept his eyes on the pair in the distance for a moment longer, committing their faces to memory. Not a threat—not yet. His real focus was the training ground in front of him.
He rolled his shoulders, exhaled slowly, and let mana flow into his fingertips.
Fwoosh—shnk! The first Magic Arrow whistled through the air and buried itself in the target.
No pause. He forced more mana into shape.
Fwoosh—shnk! The second arrow struck clean.
By the tenth shot, a familiar heaviness began building in his limbs.
By the fifteenth, his vision wavered slightly at the edges.
By the twenty-third, his lungs were pulling in air like he'd just run a sprint, and a dull throb pounded in his temples.
"...Damn." He clenched his jaw, letting the last arrow dissolve in the air. "Even this much mana burn is enough to slow me down. If I want to fight for real, I need to keep a reserve—no exceptions."
He leaned on his knee, catching his breath.
"Fhew… at least I know this now. Would've been a real nightmare to figure it out in the middle of a raid."
A mental glance at his quest timer brought the faintest smirk to his lips. Two more days left.
He let out a short laugh. "Those two idiots earlier must be newbies. Otherwise, they'd have heard of me by now. After all…" His smirk widened. "Realistically speaking, I'm the new 'Goblin Slayer.'"
The familiar chime of a system update flickered in his mind:
[Magic Arrow] – 14% Mastery (Basic).
Training done, Ethan headed back toward Amelia's house. The warm lights spilling from the windows were a welcome sight after the chill of the night air.
The moment he stepped through the gate, the door swung open and a small figure darted out.
"Big Brother!" Mary's voice was bursting with cheer. "Let's play!"
Ethan gave her a tired glance and dramatically hunched his shoulders. "Ehh? No way. I'm basically dying here."
"You always say that!" she puffed her cheeks, hands on her hips like a tiny general.
"And I'll keep saying it, because I'm always tired," Ethan replied with a straight face.
Mary narrowed her eyes. "You're not tired. You're lazy."
"I'm strategically conserving energy," he corrected, raising a finger in mock seriousness. "Big difference."
Mary squinted at him for two seconds before poking his arm. "Strategic… laziness."
Ethan almost smiled but kept up his act. "You wouldn't understand. It's an advanced skill."
Before Mary could think of a comeback, Amelia's calm voice floated from inside. "Mary, let your big brother rest. He looks more tired than usual."
Mary crossed her arms and muttered under her breath, "More tired than usual… he's always tired…"
Ethan leaned down, ruffling her hair as he passed. "Don't worry, General. I'll report for duty tomorrow."
That earned him a reluctant giggle before she stomped back inside.
He took his time in the bath, letting the steam ease the ache from his muscles. The smell of fresh food drew him to the table, where he ate quietly, the simple comfort sinking deep into his bones. Soon after, he collapsed onto the bed, the world fading into silence.
Ethan woke up earlier than usual, the faint light of dawn slipping through the window. After freshening up, he stepped outside, rolling his shoulders and preparing to begin his morning exercises.
A sudden weight pressed against the side of his head. Not physical—visual.
He glanced over.
Mary was standing there, arms folded, giving him the look.
"Tsk… looks like there's no escaping today," he muttered under his breath.
"Come on!" she said, already grabbing his hand.
And so, instead of push-ups and stretches, his morning began with Mary's version of a "warm-up"—which included chasing her around the yard, pretending to get caught, and listening to her chatter about absolutely everything.
Though he never said it out loud, Ethan didn't mind. In fact… he enjoyed it. More than he'd admit to anyone, especially himself.
Once she was satisfied, Mary let him go, and Ethan returned to his real training. The repetition was exhausting but rewarding.
[Stats Updated]
Strength: 13.7 → 13.8
Constitution: 12.4 → 12.5
Stamina: 15.2 → 15.4
After a bath and a hearty breakfast, he finally set out toward the market. Today was important—he'd been saving for this moment.
The scent of heated metal and oil hit him the moment he stepped inside the blacksmith's shop. Rows of armor and weapons lined the walls, some polished to a shine, others scarred with use—a sign they had been bought back from less fortunate adventurers.
The blacksmith, a burly man with forearms like tree trunks, eyed Ethan up and down. "First proper gear, eh? You're not looking for fancy, I can tell."
"Practical. Durable. Nothing that'll slow me down," Ethan replied without hesitation.
The man grunted in approval. "Follow me."
Piece by piece, Ethan tested the options—flexing his arm in a steel bracer to check its weight, twisting in a leather chest plate to see if it pinched, crouching in greaves to test mobility. He rejected anything that squeaked, rattled, or felt even a fraction too heavy.
When he settled on his loadout, it was exactly what he wanted:
A sturdy metal arm plate for his left forearm, paired with a matching shoulder guard on his sword arm. A fitted light armor chest piece of hardened leather, reinforced with steel strips, hugging his torso without restricting movement. Beneath it, layered protection guarded his ribs and lower abdomen, while reinforced greaves shielded his legs without slowing him down.
He added a sleek pair of finely balanced daggers for quick kills and crystal extraction. Finally, a well-made travel bag for appearance's sake—though everything important would go into his inventory.
The blacksmith gave him a final look-over and smirked. "You'll live longer than most."
"That's the plan," Ethan said simply, tossing a pouch onto the counter. The man counted the coins—1 gold, 33 silver—and nodded in satisfaction.
An hour later, Ethan stepped out of the shop into the sunlight, looking like a proper adventurer for the first time. The gear wasn't flashy, but it was efficient—just like him.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of his new armor. The raid was coming… and he was ready.
Ethan made his way through the busy streets, the weight of his new gear sitting comfortably on his body. His destination wasn't the hunting grounds today—it was the Adventurer's Guild. No missions, no rushing into danger. Just information gathering.
The moment he stepped through the guild's heavy wooden doors, the change in atmosphere was immediate.
The bustling chatter dulled. Mugs stopped mid-air. Eyes turned.
Conversations died into low murmurs and sidelong glances.
Some watched him with mild curiosity, others with thinly veiled irritation. A few simply sighed, shaking their heads in helpless resignation.
Whispers began to ripple through the hall:
"Oi… the Goblin Slayer."
"Tsk… this guy again."
"Let's see if he sweeps the quest board today too."
"I heard a bunch of new adventurers came in yesterday."
"Hah… wonder if a fight will break out. This could be interesting."
A quiet chuckle rolled through one corner of the room.
"Hehe… now this I wanna see."
Ethan didn't react. His expression stayed neutral, eyes scanning the hall as if the stares and whispers didn't exist. In truth, he noticed everything—every look, every smirk, every set of eyes lingering a fraction too long.
If they're expecting a show… they're going to be disappointed, he thought, heading toward the counter with calm, measured steps.
Just as Ethan was making his way to the receptionist, something in the corner of his vision caught his attention—a glimmer of color that didn't belong to the usual brown, black, and dusty blonde heads in the guild.
Silvery-blue hair.
It wasn't just the color—it was the way it shimmered faintly under the sunlight spilling through the high windows, strands catching the light like threads of frost and moonlight woven together. Her hair was tied loosely behind her head, a few rebellious strands framing a face that was equal parts sharp and delicate—high cheekbones, pale skin with a faint healthy glow, and eyes the color of deep glacial lakes, calm yet impossibly alert.
She wore fitted adventurer's gear that balanced protection and mobility: a dark, close-fitting leather tunic reinforced with pale steel plates along the shoulders and waist, a belt lined with throwing knives, and tall, weather-worn boots. A short cloak of midnight blue hung from one shoulder, pinned with a silver clasp in the shape of a crescent moon.
Their gazes met.
It wasn't the brief flicker of acknowledgment you give a stranger in passing—it lingered. Just a fraction too long to be casual, a faint thread of curiosity—or recognition—stretching between them before either of them could name it.
Then a voice cut in, loud enough to cut through the hum of the hall—and dripping with the kind of arrogance that begged for someone to break his teeth.
"Well, well… what do we have here? Some wet-behind-the-ears nobody thinking he can eye my woman like he's worth her time? You got a death wish, rookie, or is your brain just as empty as your coin pouch?"
The words weren't just meant for Ethan—they were meant for the crowd.
And judging from the low snickers that followed, they'd hit their mark.
Ethan recognized it instantly. He'd heard it before—a day ago, while he was training Magic Arrow. Back then, he hadn't cared to put a face to it.
But this time, he wasn't paying attention to the voice at all.
Because at that exact moment, the system interface in his mind flickered to life—displaying something completely unexpected.