Goblin Dependency

"Abel!"

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

But those strong legs that had long tread the paths between fields and wheat barely took a step before the hand that had incapacitated her husband with a single blow had already locked onto her neck from behind.

An almost suffocating stench gushed upon her face from the expanding nostrils.

The hideous head with protruding fangs silently leaned in; its murky eyes now filled with a desire for food and reproduction fixed upon this not entirely satisfactory prey, intent on making her a "starter" before massacring the entire village.

"Get out, stop being an eyesore here."

Before any further action could be taken, a mud-splattered boot viciously struck the half orc's lower back.

The powerful force contained within made his legs, rooted like pillars of flesh on the floor, stumble slightly.

Strangely, the half orc Gorg did not show the slightest displeasure at this.

He merely scratched his head with a stupid grin and carried the woman briskly toward the door.

Marcus, the leader of the Blood Blade Squad.

A robust man whose appearance alone could have the words "ferocious and evil" etched upon him.

A terrifying scar runs from his brow to his lips, and his nearly shaved head adds a touch of ferocity, with eyes like a ferocious beast, wild and filled with aggression.

Beneath the solid iron armor hang two scimitars with graceful curves, incongruous with his own demeanor.

Believing "strength is truth," with a Professional Level of 3, he controls the squad with savage brutality, making even the lust-driven half orc mutts dare not defy his orders.

He certainly had no pity for the middle-aged woman, and the reason he shouted to stop was merely knowing that the woman's character would never allow her to live.

Every time it ended in a bloody mess, leaving carnage everywhere.

Though he didn't mind, the thought of innards and guts sticking to himself was disgusting enough that he ordered her to go outside and not be an eyesore in the house.

The last to enter the wooden house, the tall, graceful figure in form-fitted attire, now stood silently like the evening wind in the night in the corner of the room.

The large purple-brown wooden bow strung behind her revealed her identity as a human professional shooter.

She was unfazed by the struggling and crying of the farmer's wife in the half orc's hands, even wearing a cold smile at the corner of her mouth, quietly observing the scene of abuse before her.

They made no effort to conceal their actions.

As Gorg carried the woman out of the wooden house, the open space around was already packed with villagers who had heard the noise and rushed over.

Some even clutched simple weapons like grass forks.

But these were just farmers living off the land. The tragic events that had occurred in the village and the generational tales of fear regarding adventurers.

The imposing, vicious aura of the half orc Gorg turning his head slightly, and some of the less mentally strong farmers were already scared into dropping their weapons.

"Hahaha, cowards, insects!"

His face bore a fierce and mocking expression; his deep, teasing laugh echoed around.

Just as the atmosphere reached a standstill, the situation tilting drastically, a commotion erupted from the crowd.

The village chief Clapam squeezed out from the crowd, sweat dripping from his forehead, panting, followed by Tom.

Seeing the middle-aged man passed out on the ground from a slap, Tom's face immediately revealed a hint of urgency.

"Brother Abel!"

Without concern for the half orc Gorg not far ahead, he hurried forward to check on Abel's injuries.

Seeing such audacious behavior, Gorg only saw it as a provocation, snorting heavily as his muscular arms gently lifted, preparing to deliver a lesson that would never be forgotten.

Clapam suddenly shouted out loudly:

"Stop! Adventurer, please stop!"

"I am the village chief, Clapam." An old man with rich experience, facing such a situation, still maintained basic composure, though his voice trembled slightly.

"Dear sirs, we... we are just simple villagers. Whatever you may fancy in the village, you can take it."

"Please spare this family. Whatever you demand, we... we will do our utmost to fulfill it!"

Clapam deliberately amplified his voice while speaking, ensuring that even those inside the house could hear clearly.

But the only response came from the burly half-orc in front of him.

Upon hearing the village chief's words, Gorg's eyes gleamed sharply. He casually tossed aside the woman he hadn't yet indulged, throwing her into the crowd, and charged forward excitedly.

With a foul gale swirling around him, the two tusks nearly poked into Clapam's face.

In a coarse voice filled with undisguised malice, the half-orc leaned close:

"Food! Drink! Gold! And…"

The primal, naked desire in his beastly eyes swept over a few farmer's wives in the crowd, seemingly searching for something.

"Young and beautiful women!"

"If you don't give them, Gorg will uproot your village! Kill everyone, and grind every bone to dust!"

Clapam's body trembled, the thick scent of blood mixing with the rampant murderous intent, almost consuming his consciousness entirely.

If it weren't for the "village chief" identity still supporting him, he feared he'd not even be able to stand.

What should be done?

Should he really meet their demands?

Not to mention if they truly followed the half-orc's requirements by giving him a young and beautiful girl from the village. How would the villagers then view him as the "village chief"?

Based on Clapam's understanding of such adventurers, this was surely only the beginning.

From charming young girls, to the villagers' belongings, and then the winter food supply... Once everything was squeezed dry, the only thing of value left would be their lives.

So should he refuse?

Gazing at the beastly eyes filled with greedy aggression, Clapam's thoughts froze.

He had no doubt that the moment he uttered refusal, his fifty-year-thinking brain would be eaten in an instant.

And closely following would be the total destruction of Grey Valley Village.

No... there might still be a chance!

Recalling the silently fading silhouette behind him, his previously wavering heart steadied somewhat.

Just as he opened his mouth to say some unrelated things to the half-orc, trying to delay.

A sharp female scream suddenly came from the wooden hut ahead.

There, the Mountain Dwarf who'd entered the house earlier, gathering belongings at an uncanny pace,

Now stood gleefully in front of a broken wooden wall.

A slender eighteen or nineteen-year-old girl tucked her head, curled like a quail, hiding at the corner of a supposedly secret emergency hideaway, now uncovered by the dwarf.

"Roar!"

The long-repressed desire in the half-orc Gorg erupted at the sight, unable to contain it any longer; like a beast, he roared with excitement.

His bulky body turned into a greenish blur, enveloped by a fierce wind, charging directly toward the girl.

And at that very moment, unexpectedly to all on the scene.

The improbable event unfolded.

A few moments before, Marcus, the Blood Blade Squad leader, who let Gorg ravage the woman and audaciously made excessive demands to the village chief, sat aside as if watching a play.

Now, inexplicably, reached out to stop Gorg passing by him.

"Captain?"

The half-orc's eyes turned red in his restless heart, but in awe of Marcus' authority in the squad, and his severe, tyrannical methods, Gorg managed to retain a sliver of reason, pausing to look at him.

If it were usual, Marcus might seriously explain his reasoning and allow the half-orc to indulge in destruction by their affliction.

But now, he didn't even glance at him.

Almost as if a reflex, he sprang up from his seat.

His solemn gaze swept repeatedly through the crowd, searching for that piercingly intense murderous intent that flared like a needle-pricking icicle a moment ago.