After who knew how long, the three noble attendants halted and signaled everyone to slow down. Exchanging a glance, they carefully parted the tall grass ahead.

Peering through, the group barely made out an overturned carriage, a horde of snarling green little creatures, and a squad of merchant guards locked in standoff. Dusk deepened; others saw only blurred outlines. But Fate saw everything with crystal clarity—and instantly recognized the "green little creatures" swarming the wagon.

Goblins??

Goblins lurking deep in these mountains?

That didn’t make sense.

Fate watched the farmers behind him. When they glimpsed the wreck, their faces showed pure confusion—clearly, they’d never seen goblins. Which meant the mountain-dwelling goblins had never raided their village.

But goblins survived by raiding villages, plundering supplies, abducting women. Why spare nearby settlements?

Was their lair too far? Even so—attacking an undefended village cost almost nothing. Why wait?

Fate’s gaze drifted silently to the noble attendants.

Just then, the attendants barked orders at the farmers.

"Listen up! No free lunch. Earn that reward—two silver coins await!"

"Don’t fear! See our guards right there?" Noticing the farmers’ hesitation, he pressed on.

"Once we push through, our guards charge. We flank them—they’ll scatter like leaves!"

"I know goblins cold," he declared smoothly. "Cowardly, selfish, weak as six-year-olds. Can’t learn cultivation techniques, lack magic bloodlines. All they’ve got is petty cunning—and they’ll ditch comrades the second trouble hits."

"Easiest foes alive. Stay sharp, and they won’t lay a finger on you."

"We’ve come this far. Victory’s in sight—don’t choke now."

The farmers exchanged glances. Sunk cost weighed heavy. Empty-handed retreat? Unthinkable.

The attendants kept belittling goblins—deliberately stoking false courage.

Spurred on, the farmers raised pitchforks and axes, pushed through the grass, and advanced toward the green-skinned creatures with visible tension.

They moved slowly, trying not to be noticed. But these were farmers—some had barely slaughtered a pig. Gripping crude weapons, nerves were inevitable.

Then—

*Snap!*

"Yaga?!"

The goblins spun around. Their pupil-less amber eyes glinted gold in the fading light.

Panic seized the farmers.

Worse—the goblins spotted the handcart behind them, stuffed full in white cloth bags. Greed ignited in every tiny eye.

Their focus snapped entirely to the farmers.

At that moment, the attendants shot a glance at the surrounded guards and noble lord. They understood.

But instead of charging, they swiftly gathered scattered goods, loaded the cart, and retreated under guard cover.

The farmers? Unlucky bait. The cunning goblins instantly judged soft target versus hard nut—and surged toward the farmers like an emerald-green tide, kicking up dust.

True, goblins had childlike strength. But their cunning surpassed adults. They saw pitchforks and axes versus full armor—and swarmed without hesitation.

The farmers froze. Legs turned to jelly, trembling violently. Some dropped weapons and fled; others couldn’t even move.

One farmer was pinned. A screeching goblin straddled his neck, axe raised high—ready to split his skull open.

Terror and regret flooded him. *If that falls… no life flashing before my eyes.*

At the last second—

A sword flashed. Clear as thunder’s ring.

Filthy black blood splattered his face. In his dazed horror, the goblin’s head vanished. Blood gushed. *Thud.* It slumped sideways.

"Get up."

A deep, steady voice—emotionless, yet radiating absolute safety.

"Let’s go."

Hauled to his feet, the farmer stared at the bloodstained sword, the blond man’s impassive face. Stunned, he scrambled away without a word.

Fate glanced at the pendant on his chest.

It mimicked his looks perfectly. Even his voice.

The farmers fled. The goblins didn’t chase.

Not mercy—their gaze locked solely on Fate.

Why? Why abandon the caravan, the fleeing farmers… for *him*?

Their eyes held the same greed as for the treasure—but something else. A hunger Fate couldn’t read.

As if they longed to pounce and devour him whole.

Looks could be faked. Voice mimicked.

But scent? Impossible to disguise.

Or rather—the pendant’s scent-masking was imperfect.