The Forest Tracker Squadron, led by Goff, was the sharpest blade of Blackwood Fortress—and its quietest shadow.
While the Spring Hunt moved with noise and force, the trackers dissolved into the forest.
They split into small teams of three, seven units in total, slipping between trees like drifting ghosts. Their feet pressed into thick layers of rotting pine needles, making no more sound than falling dust. Communication came only through soft bird calls or brief hand signals. To any outsider, it would seem as if the forest had swallowed them whole.
At the front, Goff moved like an aging Night Wolf.
Every step he took landed on firm ground. Every glance swept across the smallest detail—the sway of treetops, the scatter of leaves, the faintest scent carried by the wind. Nothing escaped him.
The Deer-folk and Fox-folk followed like spirits of the woods themselves. Light, swift, and silent, they flowed across tangled roots and uneven ground as if the terrain welcomed them.
Guided by the crude map, they soon entered the mountainous region marked with the strange "crossed tools."
At first, nothing seemed out of place.
The forest here was older—deeper. Towering ancient trees choked out the sky, leaving only broken shards of sunlight to reach the ground. Thick moss covered everything, soft beneath their feet like a damp carpet.
Signs of human activity appeared—but all of it was old.
A Fox-folk scout uncovered a rotted trap beneath an oak, its iron spring reduced to flakes of red dust. Not far ahead, they found the remains of a collapsed shack, consumed by vines and time.
"It's been abandoned for decades," Anna whispered.
Goff crouched, scooping a handful of soil. He sniffed it, then shook his head.
"Not abandoned," he rasped. "Those who came… likely never left."
A chill passed through the group.
As they pressed deeper, the forest began to change.
The trees twisted unnaturally. The clean scent of pine faded, replaced by something colder… something wrong.
Then they reached the stream.
Goff froze.
His hand lifted—a signal.
Every member vanished into cover instantly. Bows were drawn. Breath slowed.
He pointed.
In the damp mud beside the water lay a footprint.
Small.
Three-toed.
Clawed.
Ugly.
"Goblins…" a Deer-folk warrior muttered, disgust thick in his voice.
From that moment, everything shifted.
The deeper they went, the more signs they found.
Crude stone tools discarded carelessly. Mining marks gouged into rock faces. Shattered stone mixed with chunks of dull red ore—iron, but of poor quality, cast aside without care.
And then—
The smell.
Rot.
Filth.
Excrement.
Blood.
A sickening, sweet stench clung to the air so heavily it felt like breathing through decay itself.
"They're close," Goff said quietly. "And there are many."
When they crested a ridge, the wind carried sound.
High-pitched.
Chaotic.
Cruel.
Shrill voices, the crack of whips, and something screaming in pain.
The squad dropped low, concealed by brush.
Goff turned to the Fox-folk girl beside him.
"Laila. Scout ahead."
She nodded once.
Then she was gone.
She moved like a streak of wind, crossing the distance in seconds before scaling a towering spruce with effortless speed. In moments, she vanished into the canopy.
The forest held its breath.
Minutes passed.
Then she returned—silent as falling ash.
Her face was pale.
"Well?" Goff asked.
She swallowed.
"There's a mine," she whispered. "A massive one. Right beneath the cliff."
Her voice trembled slightly.
"And outside… it's a goblin city."
No one spoke.
"Hundreds of them," she continued. "Shacks everywhere. At least a dozen guards at the entrance. Spears. Shields. More inside… hauling ore like ants."
"Iron?" someone asked.
She nodded.
"Red in the sun. Definitely iron."
Hope flickered—
Then died.
"They're using slaves," she added quietly. "Kobolds. Beating them. Forcing them to mine."
Her voice dropped further.
"There are bones everywhere… filth… they're eating anything they can tear apart."
Silence settled like a weight.
"The mine is occupied," Goff said at last.
A single sentence.
A final verdict.
At the same time, far from the trackers, Colin's Spring Hunt pressed deeper into another part of the forest.
And found nothing.
The land was barren.
Snowmelt had turned the ground into a frozen mire of mud and ice. Trees stood bare, offering no cover. Life itself seemed scarce—stripped away by winter's cruelty.
Hours passed.
The result?
A handful of starving rabbits.
One half-dead fox.
"That's it?" Barton growled, tossing another thin carcass into his pack. "Not even enough to fill my teeth."
No one laughed.
The mood darkened.
Colin's voice cut through it.
"We push deeper. There's water ahead—there will be prey."
They moved.
By afternoon, they found tracks.
Deer.
A small herd.
Colin acted immediately, splitting the force into three groups. Hask and Barton flanked from both sides while Colin blocked the valley exit.
The trap closed perfectly.
The hunt was flawless.
Spears flew. Bodies fell.
Victory.
But it was hollow.
The deer were thin—starved, weak, barely alive. Their ribs showed through dull fur.
Twenty carcasses… worth no more than five in better times.
"Not enough," Colin said quietly.
Not even close.
He stood, eyes turning toward the deeper valley.
Decision made.
"Hask. Barton. Twenty men with me."
They left the others behind.
This time—they hunted something bigger.
The deeper forest felt different.
The air thickened.
A heavy, musky scent lingered.
Claw marks gouged deep into tree trunks.
Then—
A cave.
Black.
Silent.
Bones scattered at its mouth.
And the unmistakable scent of a predator.
"This is it," Colin said.
Positions were set.
Boar-folk at the front—shields raised.
Wolf-kin hidden on the flanks.
Colin above, bow drawn.
A stone rolled into the darkness.
Silence.
Then—
A roar.
It exploded from the cave like thunder.
A massive brown bear charged out, a living avalanche of muscle and fury.
"Hold!" Barton roared.
The impact came like a falling mountain.
The bear's paw slammed into his shield, driving him and two others backward, carving trenches into the earth.
"Now!" Colin shouted.
The flanks struck.
Spears pierced flesh. Blood sprayed.
The bear turned—raging.
A single swipe sent a warrior flying, shield shattered like glass.
The battle erupted.
Raw.
Brutal.
Steel against claw.
Flesh against fury.
Then—
An opening.
For a fraction of a second, the beast faltered.
Colin moved.
The bowstring sang.
The arrow flew.
A black streak—
Straight into the eye.
Silence.
The giant collapsed.
Still.
[Killed Brown Bear: Gained 10 Kill Points]
The fight was over.
But there was no celebration.
Colin looked at the massive corpse.
This… might buy them time.
Ten days.
Maybe fifteen.
Not enough.
Never enough.
Then a scout approached.
"Tracks," he said.
Colin followed.
And saw them.
Three-toed.
Ugly.
Goblins.
His expression darkened.
Thirty li away from the mine… and they were already here.
Hunting.
Spreading.
Driving beasts away.
In that moment, everything connected.
The empty forest.
The starving animals.
The occupied mine.
One problem.
One enemy.
Colin slowly rose, eyes cold.
"If we want to survive this spring…"
His gaze turned toward the distant mountains.
"…they have to go."
At dusk, both forces began their return.
One carried hope tainted by danger.
The other carried food shadowed by a greater threat.
Above Blackwood Fortress, the fading light stretched long across the land.
And with it came something heavier than night—
The certainty of war.