Chương 93: 93：The Butcher Comes Knocking

On the surface of the ring, a dark purple gemstone pulsed with the rhythm of a heartbeat, radiating concentric ripples of chilling magic.

"Chief! We can't wait any longer! Throw it away! We have to throw it out of Lone Peak right now!" A goblin technician tumbled and scrambled his way into the center of the hall. A few days ago, a goblin salvage crew had scrounged this very ring from a pile of mangled orc corpses at the edge of the swamp, far from Lone Peak. Initially, greed had clouded their judgment; they assumed it was just an ordinary piece of magical jewelry.

But after the goblin technician inspected it, the camp's entire leadership felt their blood run cold. [Spatial Storage Ring]. An artifact of legendary tier across the entire continent! The fatal catch, however, was the tyrannical mental seal branded onto it. No matter how much they wracked their brains, they couldn't breach it to see what earth-shattering treasures lay hidden inside. What drove them to absolute despair was the unerasable [Tracking Mark] embedded in the ring's surface.

For the past three days, that faint magical pulse had been actively broadcasting their coordinates!

"Chief!" The goblin technician held up the ring with a pair of iron tongs.

"I've exhausted every alchemical material we have! There's not even a sliver of hope to block this signal!"

"This thing is broadcasting our location! In the entirety of the Misty Swamp, who else could possibly wield an artifact of this caliber besides Warchief Blackstone and his hundred-thousand-strong army in Bloodfang Fortress?!" The technician shrieked hysterically.

"The Vice Chief is right! Warchief Blackstone's elite trackers must already be on their way!"

"If they find this thing in your lair, the hundred-plus lives on Lone Peak won't even be enough to pick the meat out of the orcs' teeth! We'll be wiped out to the last scrap!" The technician's words were a bucket of ice water, completely snuffing out the last flickering embers of greed in the hearts of every goblin present. He was right. An unopenable vault was just scrap metal. And clinging to a piece of scrap metal that broadcasted their location would only invite the butcher's blade.

The hall instantly erupted into an uproar. The voices demanding they immediately send someone to chuck the spatial ring into a distant muck-pit gained the absolute upper hand. Luger sat upon his throne crafted from a massive shield, his expression dark and volatile. His fists clenched and unclenched, over and over. Tossing a top-tier artifact into a bottomless quagmire... even with a hobgoblin's pragmatism, the very thought made his heart physically ache.

Just as the goblin technician hoisted the box, ready to sprint out of the hall, and while Luger was still locked in his final mental struggle...

"Report!!!" A goblin guard responsible for the outer fog-watch at the foot of the mountain came barreling into the hall. He had run so frantically that he'd lost one of his straw sandals along the way, tumbling and crashing right at Luger's feet.

"Outside... down below!" The guard stammered incoherently.

"What is the meaning of this display?! Take a deep breath and speak!" Luger roared, his voice booming with authority. The guard looked up, his eyes wide as if he had just seen a ghost.

"Outside the poison-vine defense line at the bottom of the mountain... a human has arrived!"

"He's wearing a full set of heavy black iron armor. No warhorse. It's just him alone."

"He... he demanded to see Chief Luger by name! He said... he said he is the Lord of Greywater Village, Soren!" Boom! The moment that name dropped, the hall—which had just been bickering over how to dispose of the ring—plunged into a dead silence. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Every single goblin, including the technician holding the iron tongs, bugged their eyes out as cold sweat instantly soaked their backs.

Not even a moment ago, a scout had just finished reporting the horrifying details of Gul's decapitation. And now, the very butcher who had single-handedly wiped out two hundred orcs was standing right outside their front door?

"How many men did he bring?! Is there an army hiding at the foot of the mountain?!" Luger shot to his feet, his massive frame exuding an overwhelming pressure.

"N-No, Chief! We scouted a one-mile radius! It really is just him!" Alone. A top-tier human commander capable of obliterating an entire orc warcamp had walked right up to a goblin stronghold wearing nothing but heavy black iron armor, casually demanding an audience! What kind of terrifying audacity was this?! A complex array of emotions flickered in Luger's eyes. Wariness, fear, and... an involuntary trace of respect.

In this chaotic world where strength reigned supreme, a human warlord who could slay a Son of Titan and slaughter his nemesis Gul overnight had dared to come alone. As a chieftain with a recognized name in this swamp, if Luger cowered and refused to see him, the backbone of his goblin clan would become an absolute joke. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Put your weapons away and raise the stone gates! Invite the Lord inside." Luger then turned and shot a vicious glare at the goblin technician.

"And take that hot potato of a ring and lock it in the cellar's lead room!" A short while later. Amidst the harsh grinding of chains and gears, the steady rhythm of footsteps echoed across the wooden walkway. Step. Step. Step. A figure in black appeared at the entrance of the hall. Soren wasn't wearing a helmet. His black hair hung slightly damp in the humid underground air.

Although his standard-issue human black iron armor had been wiped down, the crevices of the plating were still deeply stained with the un-washable, dried blood of orcs. Subconsciously, the hundred-plus goblins in the hall shrank back, automatically parting to clear a wide path. Soren's gaze was placid, his strides purposeful and devoid of hesitation. As his eyes—forged in blood and fire—swept the room, his piercing stare seemed capable of flaying flesh from bone.

Not a single goblin along the path dared to meet his gaze. He came to a halt exactly five paces from Luger's shield throne.

"I am Soren, Lord of Greywater Village." His voice resonated, buzzing through the grand hall. Luger narrowed his eyes slightly. The hobgoblin did not rise, choosing to stare down at his guest from his elevated perch.

"I am Luger, Master of Lone Peak."

"The newly risen butcher-general of the Misty Swamp. You dare trespass into my territory without even bringing a bow or crossbow. Aren't you afraid that with a single word from me, a hundred envenomed blowdarts will turn you into a paralyzed hedgehog?" Soren didn't even blink.

"Did you just call me a butcher?" He raised his arm, clad in a black iron gauntlet, and waved it casually in the air.

"Save the probing, Luger. If I hadn't come with sincerity, this peak would have already become a second Withered Bone Heights."

"I'll be blunt. I came up this mountain alone to make your acquaintance."

"Greywater Village requires a supply of specialized materials. I've observed your people and confirmed that you are different from those savage wandering orcs."

"We can establish an alliance!" No flowery words. He stated his intentions directly. Hearing the word "alliance," the surrounding goblins exchanged uncertain glances. Luger scoffed. Leaning back against the backrest of his shield throne, he shook his head.

"Make our acquaintance? Lord Soren, you think far too highly of us."

"This is the Misty Swamp. The nobles of the Silvermoon Kingdom don't treat us as people, and the Blackstone Orcs only view us as disposable fodder."

"Over the centuries, we've seen enough of the mutual slaughter between the various races."

"A so-called 'alliance' just means becoming high-grade cannon fodder when Warchief Blackstone's hundred-thousand-strong army rolls over us." Luger tapped his armrest, his tone turning frosty.

"I led my kin to hide in this Lone Peak surrounded by poison swamps. We do not participate in the strife between humans and orcs, nor do we wade into the muddy waters of the mire. We only seek to survive."

"Please leave, human. Goblins do not have the stomach to deal with you." Soren had anticipated this response. Having dealt with numerous warlords in his previous life, he knew exactly what made neutral factions cower the most. Staring coldly at Luger, Soren held up a single, slender finger.

"First, in this godforsaken swamp, the small, neutral factions are always the ones who die the most agonizing deaths."

"Because you isolate yourselves from every power structure, the moment you face famine, a shortage of iron, or a natural disaster, absolutely no one will lend you a hand."

"This Lone Peak you take so much pride in is nothing more than a tomb meant to starve you to death!" Luger's expression faltered. He knew all too well that without a supply line, their iron tools and weapons were already battered beyond repair. Without pausing, Soren raised a second finger.

"Second, do not compare me to the fat, brainless nobles of the Silvermoon Kingdom." Soren unhooked a heavy leather pouch from his waist and casually tossed it onto the ground. Clang. Several newly polished, standard-issue black iron armor plates and a masterfully crafted spearhead scattered across the stone floor. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the metal exceptionally hard.

"In my territory, there is a fair system built entirely on merit and military contribution."

"As long as you work for me and put in the effort, whether you're a crippled human, a widow, or a goblin working the bellows in my forge, I, Soren, will guarantee your livelihood! You will have food to eat, water to drink, and a roof over your heads!"

"The value of the effort you put in equates exactly to the grain and refined iron you receive! Fairness is the very foundation upon which I built Greywater Village."