Goblin Heavy Dependence

Chapter 269 Bloodstained Blade, Cold and Fierce Killing Intent

Adventurers pursue danger, and danger itself is also the adventurer.

With short-term goals like "missions" and "bounties" as their objectives, they don't care whether you're a good person or a bad person, whether the farmland affected by the fighting is related to whether a family can survive the winter, or whether the water source contaminated by poison might affect hundreds of lives downstream.

Compared to money, fame, and power, that pitiful sense of justice and conscience is like a gambler's promise, only shamelessly uttered when there's a need to extract profit.

To some extent, for ordinary people in the area.

A group of weary adventurers from afar is even more unsettling than thieves and bandits who should be hanged.

At least the latter's behavior pattern is relatively fixed, and if you're lucky, you might even be able to achieve some fragile, negative balance with it, losing some property but not your life.

As for the former... no one knows what these powerful beings with inhuman abilities are planning to do.

Human nature is universal.

When an individual's power breaks through a critical point sufficient to achieve a qualitative change, desire will also increase exponentially.

In large towns where all sorts of people mingle and various forces are entangled, the power of order is manifested in the law and fear. People and adventurers are divided into ranks by strength, and together they maintain the unspoken rules that allow daily life to continue.

But when they arrive in those remote and impoverished villages, using their own strength as a source of power, driven by their inner desires, the ugliness of human nature will also swell.

When you snap a person's neck, it's as easy as crushing an ant.

And they knew perfectly well that even if they wiped out all the creatures in this small human settlement, there would be no consequences.

Good or bad, life or death, heaven or hell.

It all depends on the shallow bottom line in the heart of the one who controls the power, a choice made on a whim in a moment of thought.

"boom!"

The wooden door of the farmhouse suddenly burst open with a loud bang.

The calloused, thick hands gripped the door frame. Without much effort, cracks quickly appeared on the fingertips, where black dirt was embedded in the nails. It was as if with just a little force, the entire wall could be torn apart like sandpaper.

The culprit that caused the wooden door to shatter, a huge wooden stick inlaid with iron, landed heavily on the ground.

A thick, foul stench, a mixture of sweat and blood, emanating from someone who hadn't showered in a long time, peeked in from outside the door. A pale green head with bulging veins protruded.

Two protruding fangs were still covered in sticky saliva, and a pair of turbid eyes filled with bestial lust swept across the simple and ordinary room with a terrifying gaze that sent chills down one's spine.

He lingered briefly on the middle-aged man who was trembling and could barely stand, yet still shielded his wife behind him, but his gaze seemed to be fixed on a piece of rotten meat on a butcher's stall.
When he caught a glimpse of the woman's full, rounded sexual features behind the man, his beastly eyes, filled with desire, suddenly lit up, but then cooled slightly as he looked up and saw her face, no longer young, ravaged by the scorching sun and hard work.

It glared at them fiercely a couple more times before finally stopping in front of them, on the table of steaming dishes.

"Dong dong dong."

The heavy footsteps sounded like drumbeats.

His not-so-high IQ, coupled with the excitement of discovering a village unexpectedly during his adventure and the anticipation of unleashing his destructive and sadistic desires, prevented him from noticing the third set of cutlery on the table that had not yet been hidden.

Ignoring the scalding heat of the soup, the orc stepped forward, grabbed the iron pot in the center of the table—which looked like a tiny bowl compared to his large hands—and poured the soup into his throat.

Meanwhile, three other figures outside the door slowly walked in amidst complaints.

"Gorg, how many times have I told you to be careful and not break the door?"

"It's so badly damaged that it can't even keep out the wind. How can anyone live here?"

The speaker was a strong, slightly overweight, chubby mountain dwarf.

Having not been cleaned for a long time, the greasiness in his brown hair was clearly visible, and even the thick beard on his chin was tangled together.

To this, the orc Gorg, while drooling and haphazardly chewing his food, mumbled a reply:

"Village, wooden houses, lots of them!"

"Gorg, you broke the door, now you're sleeping alone!"

It was just a casual complaint stemming from his personality, and I didn't expect this mentally challenged, mixed-race idiot to take it to heart.

The short, stocky mountain dwarf "Stonebelly" slid into the inner room the moment he entered the house, squeezing past the orc's thick legs like a greasy rat.

A pair of bright, greedy eyes, quite unlike the stereotypical image of dwarves as forthright and generous.

Short, radish-like fingers displayed a dexterity far exceeding that of the average wanderer, meticulously searching wardrobes, wooden crates, dressing tables…anywhere valuables might be hidden.

Even the dull, old copper hairpin at the end of the woman's hair was casually torn off and stuffed into her waist pouch.

"This, this... Your Excellencies, please..."

The middle-aged man's voice trembled as he knelt before the group in an almost pleading manner.

Before he could finish speaking, a pair of large, pale green hands, like palm fans, swung towards his face.

"Oh!"

The middle-aged man, whose body was still quite strong, was thrown backwards from the broken door frame, his face covered in blood, lying on the muddy ground, his life hanging in the balance.

"Abel!"

The woman, who had been protected by the middle-aged man, instinctively let out a heart-wrenching scream and cry when she saw her husband suffer such a severe injury.

But just as those powerful legs, which had been traversing the ridges and wheat fields for years, took a single step, the hand that had severely injured and rendered unconscious by a single blow had already locked her neck from behind.

An almost dizzying stench gushed from the expanding nostrils and onto the face.

The ugly head with protruding fangs quietly approached. Having just filled its stomach with a little hunger, its turbid eyes, filled with reproductive desire, had already set their sights on this not-so-satisfactory prey, intending to use it as an "appetizer" before slaughtering the entire village.

"Get out of here, don't get in my way."

Before he could make any further move, a mud-covered leather boot was already slammed into the orc's lower back.

The powerful force contained within caused his two long legs, which were firmly rooted to the floor like fleshy pillars, to stagger.

Strangely, the orc Gorg did not show the slightest dissatisfaction.

He just chuckled and scratched his head, then grabbed the woman and strode toward the door.

Marcus, the captain of the Bloodblade Squad.

A burly man whose very appearance screams “fierce and menacing.”

A menacing scar ran from his brow bone to the corner of his mouth, and his short, almost shaved head added to his fierce appearance. His gaze was like that of a ferocious beast, wild and aggressive.

Beneath the sturdy iron armor hung two beautifully curved scimitars, one on each side, quite different from his own demeanor.

Believing in "might makes right," and being the strongest member of the team at level 3, he controlled the squad with brutal and ruthless methods, so much so that even the lustful orc hybrid dared not disobey his orders. He certainly didn't have any pity for the middle-aged woman; he only spoke up to stop her because he knew that, given the man's character, he would never let her live.

Each time, the wounds were bloody and mangled, leaving a mess on the ground.

Although he didn't care about these things, it was still disgusting to have internal organs and intestines stuck to his body, so he told the other person to get out of the house and not get in the way.

The last person to enter the cabin, a tall, slender figure dressed in a form-fitting outfit, stood silently in the corner of the room, like the evening breeze in the night.

The massive purplish-brown wooden bow she carried on her back identified her as a human female professional ranged archer.

She showed no emotional fluctuation at all because of the peasant woman's struggles and cries in the hands of the orc; in fact, a cold smile even lingered on her lips as she quietly watched the scene of torture before her.

The group made no attempt to conceal their movements.

When Gorger carried the woman out of the wooden house, the surrounding open space was already filled with villagers who had heard the noise and rushed over.

Some of them were even carrying simple weapons such as pitchforks.

But after all, they were just farmers making a living in the fields, and they had a history of tragic experiences in the village, as well as a fear of adventurers passed down through generations.

The burly, fierce-looking orc Gorg merely turned his head and swept his gaze around, and some of the farmers with weaker mental fortitude were so frightened that they dropped their weapons.

"Hahaha, coward, you insect!"

His face was contorted with a ferocious and mocking expression, and his low, frivolous laughter echoed throughout the arena.

Just as the atmosphere on the field was deathly silent and the situation was rapidly tilting to one side, a commotion suddenly arose from the crowd.

The village chief, Clapham, was sweating profusely and panting as he squeezed through the crowd, followed by Tom, who had come with him.

Upon seeing the middle-aged man lying on the ground unconscious after being slapped, Tom's face immediately showed a look of anxiety.

"Brother Abel!"

Ignoring the orc Gorg not far ahead, he hurriedly stepped forward to check on the other's injuries.

Seeing the guy's outrageous actions, Gorger felt it was a provocation. He snorted loudly, raised his muscular arm slightly, and was about to give the other a lesson he would never forget.

Klapam suddenly shouted:
"Stop! Adventurer, please stop!"

"I am the village chief here, Klapam." The old man was experienced and maintained basic composure in the face of such a scene, though his voice sounded a little trembling.

"Sirs, we...we are just some poor villagers. If there is anything in the village that you find pleasing, you may take it."

"Please, have mercy on this family! Whatever your request, we...we will do our utmost to fulfill it!"

Klapam deliberately raised his voice when he spoke, so that even people inside the room could hear him clearly.

But the only response he received was from the burly orc in front of him.

Upon hearing the village chief's words, Gorge's eyes lit up. He casually tossed the woman, whom he hadn't yet had a chance to enjoy, into the crowd and rushed forward excitedly.

A strong wind carrying a foul stench blew, and two fangs almost poked Krapham's face.

With a deep, guttural growl and undisguised malice, the orc lunged closer:

"Food! Drink! Gold! And..."

His beastly eyes, gleaming with primal and naked desire, swept over several peasant women in the crowd, seemingly searching for something.
"A young and beautiful woman!"

“If you don’t give it to us, Gorger will uproot your entire village! He’ll kill everyone, and chew the bones to pieces!”

Klapam trembled, the intense, bloody stench and frenzied killing intent nearly consuming his consciousness.

If it weren't for his identity as the "village chief" still supporting him, he probably wouldn't even be able to stand up straight.

What should I do?
Do we really need to satisfy the other person?

Putting aside the question of how the villagers would view him as the "village chief" if he were to hand over a young and beautiful girl from the village to the other party, as the orc demanded, then he would be a different story.

Based on Klapam's understanding of these types of adventurers, this is probably just the beginning.

From young and beautiful girls to the villagers' property, and then to the village's winter food... after everything has been squeezed dry, the only thing of value left is their lives.

So should we refuse?
Krapam's mind froze as his eyes stared into the savage, greedy gaze of the beast ahead.

He had no doubt that the moment the words of refusal left his lips, his mind, which had been thinking for over fifty years, would be swallowed whole by the other party.

What followed was the complete annihilation of Ash Valley Village.

No... there is still a chance!
As if recalling the figure that had silently disappeared behind him, his previously turbulent heart calmed down slightly.

He opened his mouth, intending to say something trivial to the orc in front of him to buy himself some time.

Suddenly, a high-pitched female scream came from the wooden house ahead.

The mountain dwarf, who had been collecting valuables from the hut with remarkable skill since entering it, was now seen doing so.

He was standing in front of a broken wooden wall with a look of surprise on his face.

A slender girl, who looked to be about eighteen or nineteen years old, was huddled up like a quail, her body curled up in the corner of the emergency hiding place that should have been completely hidden, but which had been found by the dwarves.

"Roar!"

The orc Gorg, who had been suppressing his desires for so long, could no longer contain himself upon seeing this scene. He roared like a wild beast, and his burly body transformed into a pale green phantom, carrying a gust of wind as he charged straight toward the girl.

And at that moment, something unexpected happened to everyone on the field.

That scene, which shouldn't have happened at this moment, has occurred.

Just minutes before, Bloodblade Squad leader Marcus had voluntarily let Gorg out to harass women, allowing him to make excessive demands on the village chief. Throughout the entire ordeal, Marcus simply sat by, seemingly watching a show.

But then, out of nowhere, he reached out and stopped Gorger from passing by.

"team leader?"

The orc's restless heart made his eyes turn bloodshot, but due to Marcus's prestige in the group and his extremely harsh and violent methods, he still retained the last bit of rationality and stopped to look at the other party.

In the past, Marcus might have seriously given his reasons for doing so, and provided the orc with some compensation by indulging in his destructive and sadistic behavior.

But right now, he didn't even glance at the other person.

As if in some kind of stress response, I suddenly jumped up from my seat.

His solemn gaze swept across the crowd again and again, searching for the chilling killing intent that had been so intensely concentrated just moments before, like needles piercing ice.

(End of this chapter)