The forest closed around Osric with quiet indifference.
The sounds of Ashbrook faded quickly—boots on stone replaced by soft earth beneath his feet, voices by the rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds. Light filtered unevenly through the canopy above, breaking into scattered patches that shifted with the wind.
Osric moved carefully.
Not slowly—but deliberately.
He kept to the edges of paths rather than the center, eyes scanning the ground as much as the space ahead. Broken twigs. Pressed grass. Mud disturbed in ways that didn't belong to deer or boar. He marked them without stopping, letting each detail settle into a larger picture.
This wasn't hunting.
It was listening.
His body still carried the echoes of the past days—ribs tight, leg not quite willing to forget—but the forest demanded attention more than strength. Every step was chosen. Every pause intentional.
Somewhere ahead, a hobgoblin had been seen.
Not confirmed.
Not confronted.
Just… present.
Osric adjusted his grip on the sword's hilt—not drawing it, just reminding himself it was there—and continued forward, letting the city fall fully behind him as the mission truly began.
The forest answered his presence slowly.
Not with sound, but with absence. A stretch where birds should have been louder. A patch of ground where the undergrowth thinned too evenly, as if something heavier than a deer had passed through more than once. Osric slowed, not stopping, letting his breathing fall into rhythm with his steps. He shifted his weight without thinking, easing strain from his leg before it could protest.
The signs weren't fresh enough to rush—and not old enough to dismiss.
He stepped off the path entirely, circling wide around a cluster of roots slick with moss. The air carried a faint, sour edge beneath the damp earth and leaves. Not blood. Not yet. Osric marked the direction in his mind and adjusted his course, angling toward higher ground. If the hobgoblin was ahead, he would rather see it first.
And if it wasn't alone—
Osric tightened his grip just enough to feel the leather bite back and kept moving, letting the forest decide when the hunt would truly begin.
Osric found the watchtower just before midday.
What remained of it, at least.
The structure leaned at an unnatural angle, one side half-swallowed by creeping vines and rot. The upper levels had long since collapsed, leaving jagged stone and splintered beams scattered across the forest floor. Moss clung to everything. Silence hung heavy around it.
Too heavy.
Osric slowed further as he approached, every sense tightening.
Then he saw it.
A deer lay sprawled near the base of the tower, its throat torn open, one hind leg missing entirely. Flies buzzed lazily around the exposed flesh, but the blood was still dark and wet where it soaked into the dirt.
Fresh.
Osric crouched and studied the ground.
The tracks were unmistakable now—large, heavy impressions pressed deep into the soil. Not boots. Not claws alone. Something that walked upright, weight distributed like a man's, but heavier. More deliberate.
Hobgoblin.
His pulse ticked faster, but his expression didn't change.
He stepped away from the corpse and moved to a muddy patch near a shallow puddle, scooping thick earth into his hands. He smeared it along his forearms, neck, and the exposed skin of his face, dulling scent and color alike. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing.
Hobgoblins hunted with more than their eyes.
Their sense of smell wasn't as sharp as a wolf's—but close enough.
As he worked, Osric's thoughts stayed calm.
Hobgoblins were usually classified as D-rank monsters.
Usually.
Ranking monsters was never exact. Two creatures of the same species could differ wildly in strength, intelligence, and experience—especially as the rank climbed. A goblin could be a nuisance. A hobgoblin could be a commander, a killer, or something far worse.
And Osric knew one thing with absolute certainty.
'If it sees me and decides to fight… I die.'
There was no calculation that changed that outcome.
Sword or not.
System or not.
So he followed the tracks.
Slowly.
Carefully.
For nearly an hour, he moved like a shadow between trees, never stepping where leaves lay too evenly, never snapping a branch unless he could mask the sound. His breathing stayed shallow. His leg ached, but he adjusted before it could betray him.
Then he heard it.
A low, wet sound.
Not speech.
Not footsteps.
Something… playful.
Osric froze.
He lowered himself inch by inch, angling around a cluster of ferns until the ground dipped slightly ahead. From there, he parted the leaves just enough to see.
The hobgoblin stood in a small clearing.
It was taller than a normal goblin by far—nearly the height of a grown man, its frame packed with dense, refined muscle. Green skin stretched tight over powerful limbs. Long, sharp nails flexed idly at the ends of its fingers.
In its hand was a shortsword.
Not crude.
Human-made.
Stained dark.
At its feet lay a goblin's corpse.
The smaller creature had been torn open, limbs twisted at wrong angles, its face frozen in something between fear and rage. The hobgoblin nudged it with one foot, then stabbed it again—not to kill, but to watch it move.
Osric's eyes narrowed slightly.
So it wasn't hunting.
It was playing.
The sight unsettled him more than the strength ever could.
Goblins and hobgoblins didn't share loyalty the way men did. They followed strength. Fear. Opportunity. If there was no clear leader, camaraderie meant nothing.
The dead goblin might have been a subordinate.
Or a rival.
Or simply entertainment.
Osric didn't linger.
He had what he came for.
Location. Confirmation. Threat level.
He eased back, one careful step at a time, turning his body just enough to retreat without sound.
That was when something shifted behind him.
A soft scrape.
Too close.
Osric turned—
And found himself staring into wide, yellow eyes.
A normal goblin stood barely three paces away, hunched low, crude dagger clutched in its hand. Its mouth hung open in surprise, ears twitching as it took in the mud-smeared human standing right in front of it.
For a single heartbeat, neither moved.
Then the goblin's lips pulled back.
And it sucked in a breath to scream.