I Am Not Goblin Slayer

Chapter 401: The Marshland Orc Clan

The makeshift adventurers’ camp called "Black Tide" was always bustling with people coming and going.Some arrived from other regions, using this place as a springboard into that chaotic land full of danger and opportunity.

Others trudged back from the former Blackwater Town area, dusty and worn, carrying more or less supplies and mounts. Of course, not all who returned were alive—there were wrapped corpses among them.

When the adventurers who had yet to depart saw the bodies piled at the rear of the flat cart, their previously excited expressions immediately collapsed, as if they’d glimpsed their own possible fates.

This is the cruelty of adventuring: every day people die quietly and without fanfare.

People only sing the praises of the great adventurers who achieve fame and glory; these corpses don’t even merit a bard spending a line or two on them.

Even so, these dead were still lucky. Compared to those whose corpses were left to rot in the wild, torn apart and eaten by monsters, or who were tortured before death, being transported whole and having the chance for the body to be returned to family was a blessing.

There were specialized “retrievers” who prowled the wilds.

These wilderness retrievers were not philanthropists risking their lives to pay for and bring back corpses for free.

They had the right to scavenge spoils when they retrieved bodies.

Some might wonder: if you find a dead body in the wild you can already pillage unclaimed belongings on the spot, so why bother hauling the corpse back to town?

There was a reason. Many adventurers didn’t carry all their assets on them; funds were often stored in guild accounts or other places.

With the deceased’s body and identity badge, the retriever could claim a portion of the deceased’s inheritance according to rank. It might not be much, but retrievers didn’t mind taking a few extra corpses.

But scavenging corpses in the wild wasn’t easy.

Adventurers usually died in combat—whether against other adventurers or monsters—their bodies rarely remained intact. Traveling companions would immediately loot the scene and often destroy traces of the death to avoid information that could lead to theft or murder. Monsters were even worse; many ate people, or rather, they ate anything.

Moreover, the areas where adventurers died were typically dangerous. Entering them risked one’s life—sometimes collectors died trying to fetch a body.

So the high-profit trades around adventuring were never simple jobs. Everyone kept their head attached to their waist while they worked.

The more Gauss experienced, the clearer this became.

Adventuring was an extremely brutal business.

“Wow! So many dead.”

“Maybe they were careless?” A young swordsman swallowed and said to his childhood companion from the same village. “We must stay extra vigilant on this run, this place is dangerous.”

“Don’t worry. We know what we’re doing. We’ve traveled together for a long time, remember?” the young man beside him replied seriously, assuring him.

Gauss glanced at the group talking by the street, then quietly withdrew his gaze.

Just goodwill alone can’t avoid all dangers, he thought inwardly, then silently wished them bad luck on the outside.

On the shrouds, those faces frozen in death—many as old or older than them—had all once been living people. We had said similar words at that temporary camp with our companions.

No amount of mental preparation, no matter how complete, nor the strongest armor and weapons, guaranteed survival on an expedition.

After strolling around and gathering some information, Gauss returned to Tang Dongai’s camp.

Ivan hadn’t yet convened people to discuss purchase prices with the heads of a few merchant houses; he was busy hauling crates of goods inward.

Merchant houses didn’t usually offer low prices to adventuring guilds like the Red Dragon Guild.

On one hand, their spoils had a higher chance of containing valuable items compared to ordinary adventuring parties, and they had volume and consistency. On the other hand, an adventuring guild carried a reputation; merchants didn’t worry about being deceived.

Solo adventurers were different: even if a deal went through, they might vanish to another town the next time, so merchants wanted to maximize profit.

Thus merchants preferred stable, long-term cooperation with adventuring guilds.

When those merchant representatives noticed Guild Leader Gauss returning to camp, they put on ingratiating smiles, introduced themselves one by one, and then quickly left the site.

“Looks like you had a good haul. Good work,” Gauss praised, looking at Ivan and the others with smiles on their faces.

“Yes, the acquisition price was higher than expected,” Ivan nodded. “Also, Guild Leader, I bought a batch of Mana Clay. A certain adventuring guild found a nest where a bunch of Mud Statues were being produced.”

Ivan always kept an eye on acquiring Mana Clay.

His guild leader Gauss mastered a special clay magic. Acquiring that kind of clay might not boost mid-to-high end combat power, but it could add a bunch of tireless, obedient laborers to the Red Dragon Guild.

“That’s good news. See if we can contact that adventuring guild and ask if they have more stock,” Gauss approved.

“No problem. I’ve sent people to contact them. It’s a pity we can’t learn clay magic ourselves to help you, Guild Leader,” Ivan said with a hint of regret.

Gauss had once bought a blank spellbook intending to record his clay magic and related techniques, but for some reason it failed—no one could master Gauss’s clay magic.

Gauss wore a complicated expression.

He suspected his clay magic couldn’t be taught, possibly because it was a spell directly rewarded by the Adventurer’s Manual and thus closely bound to him.

Those spellbooks and skill books on the market weren’t complicated in principle: a professional who knew related skills would buy a special magic item, a blank skill book of the corresponding level, and expend energy to “copy” the skill.

During that process, aside from the blank book’s value, the copier lost a portion of their own experience with that skill, and might not be able to fully recover it later.

After all, skillbooks require more than text and pictures; they contain the caster’s deep understanding and personal labor on that skill.

That’s why spellbooks and skillbooks were expensive.

A rising professional might not want to spend their experience copying a skillbook even if they could relearn it later, because relearning requires extensive time.

Only those who had plateaued and lacked ambition would copy skills for money.

And you couldn’t copy too many in a short time, or you might permanently lose the skill.

Because skillbooks were scarce, higher-level spellbooks were fewer and costlier. The more common the spell, the cheaper it was; the rarer the spell, the more expensive.

Gauss actually wanted to teach his clay magic to loyal subordinates, so the team could gain plenty of free labor.

But as Ivan said, he had tried and failed.

The clay magic written in a blank skillbook became nothing more than a scrap of paper, useless for learning.

He analyzed that spells directly rewarded by the Adventurer’s Manual might be tightly bound to the recipient and therefore non-transferable.

For spells he’d learned through his own effort, he tried copying one lesser cantrip as a test. It was difficult, but it barely worked.

After that test he never bothered to imprint more spells. He felt a vague, intangible harm from frequently spending proficiency to copy spells.

He wasn’t short of money—no need to lose the big for the sake of the small. He needed to focus on strengthening himself.

“No problem. I’m enough,” Gauss waved his hand, indicating Ivan needn’t be too regretful.

Clay magic required consuming some energy; the more clay creatures he made, the heavier the burden.

But he wasn’t ordinary—his Intelligence was high enough to shoulder the mental strain from many clay creatures.

Gauss’s Red Dragon Guild rested at the Black Tide temporary camp for two days.

Soon, after resupplying, they set out again to punish the third Marshland Orc Clan.

“Run!”

A four-person team dashed through the muddy wetland, occasionally glancing back and firing off a bolt.

Behind them, a pack of upright, bestial figures trailed like ghosts.

They were the Marshland Orcs.

This adventuring team had clearly run into a large force of marsh orcs along the way.

Although most of the orcs weren’t exceptionally powerful, they knew there had to be dangerous individuals among them comparable to professionals.

Besides, the entire wetland seemed roused by the commotion the group had caused.

“Don’t get cocky!”

Meva fixed her gaze on a nearby marsh orc, quickly aimed, and pulled the trigger. The crossbow bolt sliced through the air and lodged precisely in the ugly beast’s eye, whose skin hung like rotten rags.

Meva turned and cut down one orc, but there was no joy in her heart. She furrowed her brow and shared a discovery with her teammates.

“More and more orcs are gathering!”

On hearing that, everyone increased their pace.

They knew all too well that once surrounded, they would be in serious trouble.

Fortunately, the four-person team were all professionals.

Professionals had superior physical traits, and even in the muddy wetland they could maintain considerable mobility. They’d entered the marsh only to scout, so they hadn’t dared go in too deep.

A few minutes later,

they had successfully left the marsh perimeter and returned to solid yellow earth.

Unfortunately, when they reached the old tree where their mounts had been tied, they only found severed ropes.

The horses were gone.

“This is bad.” Levin, the team captain, crouched down and touched the ground. After a deep breath he said,

They had only been gone a short while, and the ropes had been cut.

Judging by the smooth break, the arrow embedded in the trunk, and the fresh blood stains not yet dried on the ground, someone had shot the rope from a distance. The mounts, spooked by injury, had fled.

“Someone tampered with them. They want to kill us here!” Meva said.

The others recalled the strange events in the marsh and frowned.

They had been unusually careful while moving through the marsh, yet a suddenly enraged group of marsh orcs had locked onto them. Forced to defend themselves, they had fled toward the marsh edge.

During the escape, more and more orcs were converging.

They had planned that once they left the marsh and mounted the horses, they could quickly leave the trouble behind.

They hadn’t expected the mounts to be tampered with during their brief absence.

Trained mounts often returned to their owners after being startled, but they didn’t have that time now—the orcs would surround the area.

“Run! Run as far as you can in the opposite direction,” Levin ordered, short of time.

They had no mounts; they had to run.

“Could it be them?”

Meva asked, angry.

Like most adventuring teams, Night Owl Squad sometimes encountered other teams due to the nature of commissions. Some encounters were friendly, others became hostile.

The team Meva suspected was a gang they had bumped into at the camp a few days earlier—an all-rogue party.

Levin had purchased an old-looking map from a stall, and the rogues had wanted it too. Levin had offered a price thirty percent above the seller’s price, but the rogues wanted to buy it for the original price. The negotiation ended poorly and both sides parted unhappily.

The next day, Levin found the map missing from an inner pocket.

They suspected that rogue party of theft; rogues were skilled thieves.

By the time they looked for them in camp, the rogues had already hurried away.

Recently, the Night Owl Squad had only had conflicts with that one rogue team, so Meva reasonably focused suspicion on them.

“Run!” Levin panted heavily.

He bore the shield, and running dragged on him the most.

“Why are the orcs so obsessed with us? It’s like they’re insane,” the female warrior Sasha said, baffled.

They hadn’t attacked the orcs first, and they were now outside the marsh’s main area. These clan monsters sometimes left their habitat for hunting or raiding, but rarely for no reason.

From the moment these orcs met them it was like the orcs had had their family slaughtered—they pursued relentlessly.

Despite the team’s maximum speed, two legs couldn’t outrun four.

Soon orcs on horseback caught up.

“Take out the mounted ones first! Kill and run! Don’t stop!” Levin had no choice but to organize a fight.

Rogue Meva kept firing bolts, thinning the pursuing orcs.

Shield bearer Levin and warrior Sasha dealt with enemies who closed in.

Priest Elvin swung his wooden staff occasionally, casting healing spells to quickly mend his teammates’ wounds.

As they fought while retreating, Meva and the others felt like they were sinking into a quagmire; their retreat slowed more and more.

And the ghostly silhouettes in the distance kept swelling in number.

There were too many—they couldn’t kill them all!

“Meva, you take off with the others. I’ll stay to deal with the mounted ones and we’ll regroup later!” Levin shouted as he slashed a marsh orc’s head off.

“Don’t be stupid. Retreat together.” Meva knew he planned to sacrifice himself to buy time. She fired a bolt that pierced the neck of an orc leaping from the side; blood spattered her leather armor.

But would leaving behind a rear guard really alleviate the situation?

With so many monsters pouring in, stopping would be suicide.

Their situation wouldn’t improve much either.

As Night Owl Squad fought desperately, a familiar yet strange voice spoke as clearly as if whispering in their ears.

“It seems you need help, Levin, Meva.”

“???”

“Who’s there?”

No one answered.

A sapphire-blue light suddenly flared in front of them.

Thud!

The light sphere tore through the air and struck the mass of orcs behind them like a shell.

The powerful magical shock ripped flesh from orc hides, leaving a cratered mark on the ground,

and that was only the beginning.

A second, a third, a fourth—

Magic Missiles rained down as if with eyes, each bending and veering into the orc ranks.

Explosions and the orcs’ agonized cries filled the air as they fell in droves.

There were too many of them!

The dazzling light from the innumerable Magic Missiles made Levin unable to see ahead. He instinctively covered his eyes as the gusts from the whistling missiles stung his cheek.

Thankfully, his professional composure kept him steady. He squinted and, along with the equally bewildered Meva, watched warily in the direction the missiles came from.

Among that glittering halo like stars, a blurred figure slowly drifted out.