Goblin Dependency

Adventurers chase after danger and are dangers themselves.

With short-term objectives like "missions," "bounties" as their purpose for action, they don't care if you are good or bad, don't care if the farmland affected by battle determines whether a family survives the winter, nor whether poisoned water might endanger hundreds of lives downstream.

Compared to money, fame, strength, that pitiful sense of justice and conscience is like the promise from a gambler's lips, shamelessly flaunted only when it can be used to extract benefits.

In a certain sense, to the ordinary local people.

A group of dusty, foreign adventurers may even be more unsettling than those thieves and bandits who should be on the gallows.

At least the latter's behavioral patterns are relatively fixed, and with some luck, a fragile, passive balance can be achieved, losing some possessions without losing lives.

But the former... no one knows what these powerful beings with non-human abilities truly wish to do.

Human nature is universal.

When an individual's mighty power breaks through a critical point capable of leading to qualitative change, desire will also grow exponentially.

In a large town filled with mixed elements and intertwined forces, it's better, as the power of order is reflected in law and fear, people and adventurers are stratified by strength, jointly maintaining the unspoken rules that allow daily life to continue.

But in those remote, impoverished villages, using their own force as a source of strength, driven by inner desire, the ugliness of human nature will also expand.

When you snap someone's neck as easily as crushing an ant.

And clearly understand that even if you kill every creature in this small human settlement, there will be no consequences.

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

Are merely determined by the shallow line in the heart of the one in control of power, a spontaneous choice made in a moment.

"Boom!"

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

A thick calloused hand grasped the door frame, not needing much force, cracks naturally appeared around the fingertips filled with black dirt, as if a little more effort could rip apart the whole wall like sandpaper.

The culprit behind the door's explosion, a massive iron-clad wooden club came crashing to the ground.

Carrying the thick stench of unbathed sweat and blood, a veiny, pale green head peeked in from outside.

Two protruding tusks still smeared with sticky drool, a pair of lust-filled murky eyes scanned the simple ordinary room with a creepy, terrifying stare.

Briefly stopping on a middle-aged man shaking so much he could barely stand, yet still protecting his wife behind him, eyes looking at him like a scrappy piece of meat on a butcher's counter;

When he glimpsed the woman's full and round features behind the man, the beastly eyes momentarily gleamed with desire, but cooled slightly upon seeing her weathered face from the sun and labor.

The eyes finally landed on the steaming dishes in front of the couple.

"Boom boom boom."

Heavy footsteps sounded like a drumbeat.

The not-so-high intelligence, and the excitement from accidentally discovering the village during the adventure, oblivious to the third set of tableware hastily hidden on the dining table.

Without caring about the boiling soup, the half orc stepped forward, grabbing the tiny pot in the table's center with one hand, pouring the broth down his throat with gulps.

Meanwhile, three other figures outside, grumbling, wandered in slowly.

"Gorg, how many times have I told you, be careful, don't break the door."

"Look at this, the wind can't even be blocked, how can people live?"

The speaker was a stout and somewhat pudgy mountain dwarf resembling a meatball.

Long uncleaned, his brown hair dripping with grease, even his thick beard tangled together.

To this, the half orc, Gorg, only muttered indifferently while cheekily chewing the food in his mouth:

"Village, wooden house, many!"

"Gorg, break door, sleep self!"

A complaint born more from habit than expectation, not hoping the dim-witted hybrid fool would take it to heart.

The short and stout mountain dwarf "Stone Belly" slipped past the half orc's thick legs like a greasy quick mouse, darting towards the inner room.

A pair of eyes that starkly contrasted the stereotype of dwarves being straightforward and bold, blinking with greedy light.

His fingers, stubby like rough carrots, moved with a fluid nimbleness outstripping most wanderers, thoroughly rummaging through wardrobes, wooden boxes, vanities... anywhere valuables might be hidden.

Even the woman's dull old copper hairpin was plucked from her hair and pocketed.

"This, this... gentlemen, please..."

The middle-aged man's voice trembled, kneeling in front of them with a pleading posture.

Before he could finish, a fan-like pale green hand swung towards his face.

"Bang!"

The middle-aged man's burly body flew out from the broken door frame, his face covered in blood, lying on the muddy ground, life or death unknown.