Chapter 264 Excuse Me... Is This Ash Valley Village?

A shrill, manic cry—so bizarre it sounded like the physical manifestation of raw desire—cut through the air like a bitter winter wind slipping down a collar, instantly silencing the conversation between Tom and Mike.

Bodies stiffening and eyes wide, they whipped their heads around. Pressing themselves deeper into the grassy mounds, they cast tense gazes into the distant darkness.

The late-night forest was a colossal, crawling beast, breathing slow and heavy. The dense air drawn into their lungs was cold and damp, thick with the scent of soil and wood.

The hoots of night owls and the chirps of unknown insects still echoed in the depths of the woods. It sounded no different than usual, yet in this moment, every noise struck the two men's ears with unnatural, razor-sharp clarity.

The recently sown wheat had already sprouted, its tender shoots swaying gently in the evening breeze.

Any other night, Tom might have turned to Uncle Mike and remarked on how well the crops were growing this year, perhaps predicting a bountiful harvest.

Right now, however, with his head ducked and his breathing shallow, his absolute focus was locked on the perimeter of the wheat field. There, at the edge of his vision, the towering trees stood in silence like shadows in deep water.

His heart hammered against his ribs. A profound, inexplicable unease lingered over him, making him feel as if something ominous was quietly brewing within those deep shadows.

At first, all Tom heard was the whimper of the night wind blowing through the treetops and the soft rustle of branches brushing together.

But as he strained his ears, a fainter, stranger noise crept in—a continuous rustling, like countless insects skittering beneath dead leaves.

Whoosh—

High in the sky, the dark clouds obscuring the silver moon parted. A sliver of cold, bright moonlight broke through, casting an eerie glow over the dark, foreboding woods.

It was like a beam of light suddenly illuminating a nest of cockroaches in a forgotten corner of a room.

Pairs of small, murky eyes, brimming with feral malice and undisguised greed, abruptly flared into view. They illuminated grotesque, emaciated little bodies.

Twenty? Thirty?

No!

That was at least forty goblins!

Boom—

Tom's mind went blank. The hot blood that had been simmering in his chest all night suddenly shot to his skull, washing away his thoughts and scattering his consciousness.

"Hooo!!!"

A high-pitched, resonant horn blast suddenly blared right beside him.

The noise made Tom violently jolt, snapping his dazed mind back into focus.

He turned his head to see that Uncle Mike had already picked up the Bone Horn used to warn the village.

The veins on the older man's neck and temples bulged, and his cheeks were flushed red and puffed out, as if he were pouring every ounce of his strength into the instrument.

Behind them, accompanied by alarmed shouts and the growing drum of approaching footsteps, the glow of torches began to rise in the corner of Tom's vision.

He unconsciously tightened his grip on his pitchfork, acutely aware of the sweat pooling in his palms.

Even knowing the villagers were rushing to back them up, Tom didn't glance over his shoulder even once.

Instead, he kept his tense gaze locked on the thick forest ahead.

The horn's blast worked both ways.

While it alerted the villagers, it also warned the vile, vicious monsters in the woods that they had been spotted.

But strangely, the goblins—who should have charged out of the treeline the moment the horn sounded—unexpectedly suppressed their feral instincts.

After a faint flurry of commotion, they fell silent in the depths of the darkness once again.

'Why?'

Tom unconsciously pondered the question as his eyes drifted toward the deepest, blackest part of the distance.

Then, he caught sight of a silhouette noticeably bulkier and far more muscular than a regular goblin...

"A hobgoblin! It's a hobgoblin!" Tom whispered, his voice trembling with indescribable fear.

That made sense. Only these elite goblins—creatures with intelligence rivaling that of most sentient races—had the ability to control these cruel, chaotic monsters like a military force.

"What do you mean, a hobgoblin?"

"What about the goblins? How many are there?"

Turning around, Tom saw the village men hurrying over with torches. Some hadn't even finished dressing, having simply thrown on thin shirts before sprinting to the front line.

Quite a few of them were still bleary-eyed from sleep.

But without exception, every man carried something—pitchforks, hoes, or even iron pots functioning as makeshift shields.

The one asking the questions was an old man standing at the front of the crowd. He looked to be in his fifties or sixties, but his body was still hale and hearty.

"Chief, I just took a glance. I'm afraid there are at least forty goblins this time!" Mike reported tensely, jumping down from the grassy mound.

"Forty? Good heavens! Didn't we say there would be seven or eight at most? How can there be so many!?"

"This doesn't make sense. I haven't seen any traces of large goblin movements in the woods lately. Where did they all come from?"

"We're doomed! Over forty goblins, and a hobgoblin leading them? How are we supposed to hold them off with just us!?"

The moment Mike finished speaking, panic rippled through the crowd.

Clearly, while the residents of Ash Valley Village had known they might need to fight off a goblin raid, they never expected the enemy's numbers to be so vast. It was far beyond anything they could handle.

Tom, however, didn't care about any of that.

The instant he spotted the hobgoblin, his entire mental state had shifted.

Uncle Mike's instructions from just a few minutes ago kept echoing in his mind like some sort of hallucination.

"If there are more than thirty... take your wife and kids and run. Don't look back... They can't carry everything away..."

As a husband and a father, Tom desperately wanted to sprint home right now, grab his family, and flee to safety.

But just before that deep-seated need to protect his loved ones could command his legs to take that first step backward...

He looked at the faces in the crowd.

Uncle Harold. When Tom's father died, Tom had still been young, exhausting himself just trying to plow the fields. It was thanks to Harold's help that he had survived that most difficult period.

Brother Abel. Knowing Tom's family wasn't well off, Abel had gone out of his way to bring over large chunks of salted venison when Janice was pregnant—and had supposedly suffered his wife's scolding for days because of it.

'And Leon, this brat... Damn it, why isn't he hiding safely in the rear? What the hell is he doing up front!?'

Tom's eyes went wide. Grabbing the half-grown boy by the collar, he practically dragged him out of the crowd.

"Who told you to come here? If something happens to you, what will your sister do?" he growled at the boy, his spit flying into Leon's face.

As his wife Janice's only younger brother and her last living blood relative, Tom had always treated the boy like his own brother.

Seeing him quietly tag along with the rest of the men to the vanguard caused Tom's anger to instantly flare.

"Listen to me. I want you to go home—right this instant!"

"Stay with your sister."

"You've always been clever. If things look bad, grab Lily and Leo, and run northeast with your sister. Don't wait for me."

"Do you understand me!?"

Tom gripped his pitchfork tightly. The urge to retreat that had previously filled his heart had long since been replaced by a much deeper, more resolute emotion.

He wouldn't step back.

Even if he could hold out for just one more second, it might give another villager a chance to survive.

"From now on, you are the pillar of the house. You have to protect your sister, do you hear me?" Tom instructed rapidly, the words tumbling out of him.

But the boy standing before him didn't say a word. He just kept his chin held high, staring back at his brother-in-law with silent, steadfast determination.

From start to finish, he never once lowered the rusty iron shovel gripped tightly in his hands, its blade still coated in hardened dirt.

"Fuck, did you fucking hear me!?"

"This isn't the time to be stubborn, do you understand!?"

"..."

"Quiet!" shouted the burly old man—the chief of Ash Valley Village—just as the crowd grew increasingly restless and verged on chaos.

Bandits, blizzards, famine... having led the villagers through disaster after disaster, this old man named Clapham had built up absolute authority in the village.

With just that single word, the panicking crowd regained its order.

The men stopped arguing and fretting. They simply looked in silence at the old man standing at the front, placing their hopes in him once again.

Clapham's mind raced, his thoughts flying at breakneck speed.

The enemy was a large goblin pack of more than forty, led by a hobgoblin.

With Ash Valley Village's current defensive strength—even factoring in the crude traps they had set in advance—they were absolutely no match for them.

So... should he order the villagers to abandon their defenses and scatter into the forest?

No! That would never work!

The dark forest was the goblins' home turf. If the people scattered, they would lose the power of collective cooperation—effectively throwing away their greatest advantage as humans.

If things went poorly, it wasn't impossible that Ash Valley Village would become history tonight.

But if they stayed here and held the line against such a massive goblin swarm, how long could they possibly last?

Every adult man in the village would likely die right here!

Clapham's expression shifted, his jaw clenched tight.

In just a few seconds, illuminated by the firelight, his eyes grew bloodshot.

A flash of absolute resolve crossed his face.

He grabbed the stubborn-looking boy clutching the iron shovel and spoke with absolute resolution: "Leon, head back to the village immediately. Tell everyone to flee northeast... We'll meet up on the main road!"

Right now, only a few minutes had passed since the two men guarding the wheat field had spotted the goblins, blown the horn, and gathered the villagers.

Under normal circumstances, these green-skinned rats would have long since yielded to their murderous urges, shrieking and waving their clubs as they swarmed the village.

But today, under the hobgoblin's forceful command, they had fanned out slightly, looming around the edge of the wheat field like a massive jaw preparing to snap shut.

Those few minutes slipped by quickly. By the time the villagers had gathered and made their desperate choice, the green-skins had finished their formation.

"Scree!" A scrawny goblin, its brittle, jagged bones wrapped in paper-thin dark green skin, became the first to lose control of its desires. It leapt out from the forest shadows and charged straight at the crowd.

Tearing his gaze away from the retreating back of the boy—who was yelling as he sprinted into the village—Tom turned around, separated from the threat only by a crude, spike-studded fence.

He stared at the vicious goblin sprinting wildly along the field ridge, and at the horde of green-skins behind it that was about to wash over them like a tidal wave.

His grip on the pitchfork's wooden handle tightened further, his breathing unconsciously growing rapid.

Beside him stood Village Chief Clapham, Uncle Harold, Brother Abel... On those weather-beaten faces etched with the marks of time, there was fear and panic. Some were even trembling and whimpering.

But not a single one of them chose to step back.

His focus reached an unprecedented peak. For some reason, what flashed through Tom's mind in this moment wasn't the impending slaughter, the struggle, or death. Instead, it was the vow he had made while standing before his father's grave.

To give his family a good life... it looked like he wasn't going to be able to do it.

Leo was still so young. Leon was smart enough; Tom had originally wanted to send the boy to a town outside the valley to learn a trade, but now...

Awooo—

Suddenly, a long, echoing wolf howl erupted from some unknown origin, resounding through the night and snapping Tom's consciousness back to reality.

'A wild wolf? No, that sound...' he thought, unconsciously pondering the source of the noise.

But immediately after, a sudden commotion from the distant forest interrupted his thoughts.

Tom had no idea what was happening.

It was more than just a single wolf howl. It was a fierce wind abruptly surging through the trees, a strange, subtle tremor in the ground beneath their feet, and the shrill, agonizing screams that were suddenly cut short amidst the roaring howl.

Deeper and darker than the night itself, a massive, twisted black shadow revealed its fleeting, ferocious silhouette under the faint moonlight.

Trees were snapped in half, raining down leaves and splintered branches. The sickening crunch of metal tearing through flesh and bone overlapped, merging into a terrifying roar that made every hair on their bodies stand on end.

The evening wind blew past, carrying a waft of fresh blood from the distance straight into their nostrils.

That first goblin, the one that had leapt out of the woods, was still sprinting along the field ridge.

Its crimson eyes were entirely consumed by the desire for human flesh. It didn't harbor the slightest shred of doubt as to why its companions hadn't followed;

Thick saliva dripped from its mouth as it ran, its nostrils flaring. The scent of blood and meat had long since filled its tiny brain, causing it to completely ignore the agonizing screams dying out behind it.

It raised its filthy, rust-iron-studded wooden club high—but then, its body suddenly lurched forward at an unnatural speed.

It was as if someone had delivered a massive kick to its back. Its upper body lost balance, and it crashed headfirst into the spike-covered fence.

"What... is going on?"

Tom unconsciously loosened his fingers, which had turned white from gripping his weapon so hard.

He stared blankly at the goblin impaled on the wooden stakes, only to see a cold, moonlit, iron-gray blade protruding straight through the center of the green-skin's chest.

The blade was violently yanked back.

As the corpse slumped to the ground, a black-haired young man stepped out of the shadows, carrying a faint scent of blood.

Behind the young man crouched a massive shadow wolf. It looked as if it were draped in the night itself, and its frame was even larger than a common plow ox.

Its cold, spectral eyes locked onto them, leaving absolutely no doubt that with a single word from the young man, it could effortlessly tear everyone present to pieces.

Deathly silence.

A death-like stillness spread across the edge of the wheat field.

The slightly chill night wind rustled through the treetops and leaves once again, bringing out a soft, skittering sound.

Everyone, including Village Chief Clapham, held their breath. They stared blankly ahead at the mysterious young man who looked as though he had just walked out of a myth.

Even the most dim-witted among them could tell that the rest of the goblins in the woods had absolutely been slaughtered by this person.

Even without seeing it with their own eyes, simply recalling the brief, bloody commotion in the forest a moment ago was enough to send shivers down their spines.

Was he... human?

Or was he some sort of monster—something even more terrifying and evil than the goblins—disguised in a human shape?

Thud—

Suddenly, the young man casually tossed an ugly head—one a full size larger than a normal human's—over the fence. It rolled to a stop at the villagers' feet.

That was... the hobgoblin's head!

Everyone swallowed hard, their bodies trembling faintly from extreme tension.

The young man casually flicked his iron-gray sword, shaking a few drops of blood from the blade, before sliding it into the scabbard at his waist.

Looking at the group of wary, terrified villagers before him, the young man coughed lightly. Putting on what he thought was an amiable smile, he asked, "Um, excuse me... is this Ash Valley Village?"