Roland caught the greed in the burly man's stare and narrowed his eyes.

Before leaving for Pinewood Town, he had already heard plenty about the mercenaries and adventurers who gathered there.

Greedy. Ruthless. Fierce. Violent.

The descriptions varied, but every account agreed on one thing.

They bullied the weak and backed down from the strong.

Show the smallest sign of fear, and they would swarm in for blood. Roland had expected this, and he already knew how he meant to answer it.

"New here, kid? Let me tell you..."

The bald brute grinned and closed in, his scarred face twisting into something ugly.

Just as that rough hand reached for Roland's shoulder, Roland dipped his weight.

His right fist snapped out like a striking viper.

Bang!

The impact drove the brute's next words back down his throat. As Hayden folded over in pain, Roland's leg lashed out and caught the side of his knee with surgical precision.

Crack.

The brute lurched and dropped to one knee.

His neck was exposed.

Roland's right hand moved toward the dagger at his waist. Then heavy footsteps approached from farther down the street.

He released the weapon instead. His fingers pinched into a spear point and drove into Hayden's throat.

"Cough... guh..."

Before the onlookers could react, the brute's eyes bulged. He staggered back several steps, then crashed into the mud beside the tall man he had beaten earlier.

Muddy water splashed over them both, leaving the two battered figures even more wretched.

"All of you, stop!"

The shout rolled over the street like thunder.

A squad of armed guards advanced in tight order. The man at their head had short brown hair and a heavy build, his polished armor catching the dim light.

His hard gaze swept the mess, and he opened his mouth to reprimand them.

"Blue Scar Hayden! I warned you..."

His voice cut off.

The short-haired man's pupils tightened as he stared at the bald brute collapsed in the mud.

The infamous "Blue Scar," usually so arrogant and domineering, was curled up in agony. His hands scraped weakly at his throat, and his face had swollen into a frightening purple-red.

After several hoarse, choking coughs, the notorious mercenary's eyes rolled back. He passed out face-first in the muck.

The short-haired man's brow twitched.

Blue Scar Hayden.

One of Pinewood Town's worst bullies. He relied on his size and vicious methods to run roughshod over anyone weaker than himself. Between that habit and his animal brutality, he was easily one of the most troublesome bastards in town.

And now...

Armor scraped as the short-haired man's attention fixed on the only unfamiliar person still standing.

He stepped forward, and the shadow of his tall frame fell over Roland.

"I am Sheriff Whiteman."

His thumb rested against his sword guard, and his voice came out harder than steel.

"These two..."

The toe of his boot nudged the unconscious bald brute.

"Your work?"

After Whiteman introduced himself, Roland only lifted one eyebrow. Without a word, he raised the corner of his linen robe and revealed the dagger Darco had given him.

The silver sheath gleamed in the murk.

Whiteman went rigid. A heartbeat later, he lowered his gaze with visible respect.

"You..."

"I'm here to handle a private matter," Roland said.

"I was rude."

Whiteman bowed, his voice pressed low.

"Leave this place to me."

Then he straightened and barked at the guards behind him.

"What are you standing around for?"

His thick finger jabbed toward the two men in the mud.

"Throw these fools into the dungeon and give them time to reflect!"

"Yes!"

The guards obeyed at once and dragged the unconscious brute away.

Another commotion broke out in the distance.

Whiteman rubbed the space between his brows, then hesitated.

"Apologies, uh... my lord. May I ask how I should address you?"

"Roland."

Roland tied the reins to a wooden post.

"No honorifics needed."

"Understood, Mr. Roland."

Roland's easy manner let Whiteman breathe out.

"I still have official duties to handle. If you need assistance..."

He pointed to the northern side of town, where a tall watchtower rose above the roofs.

"You can find me there."

"Thank you, Mr. Whiteman."

"I wouldn't dare. I wouldn't dare..."

Whiteman waved both hands, bowed again, and led the guards toward the disturbance.

The clatter of armor was soon swallowed by the town's noise.

Whispers spread among the surrounding mercenaries.

"What's that kid's background? Even that mad dog Whiteman bowed to him..."

A scar-faced mercenary kept his voice low.

"Who cares about his status?"

The thin, tall companion beside him took a swallow of ale, his eyes sharp.

"Didn't you see him move? Hayden never even got a chance to fight back."

"Tsk. Looks polite and refined, but his hands are vicious..."

Roland ignored them.

He raised a hand and stroked Blackwind's forehead. With the [Animal Friend] trait, he murmured a few words by the warhorse's ear.

Blackwind snorted and rubbed against his palm.

Once his mount was settled, Roland straightened his clothes and entered the Adventurer's Guild under a dozen measuring stares.

Noise rolled over him at once.

The sour smell of ale mingled with sweat and stale smoke. Greasy torches threw uneven light across the hall. Rusted armor and battered weapons lay piled in the corners, while scraps of food littered several worm-eaten wooden tables.

It looked less like an Adventurer's Guild and more like a tavern that had given up pretending.

Behind the counter, a broad bartender with a fleshy face wiped a filthy wooden cup. Several drunk adventurers snored across the tables, while more figures waited in the shadows.

Some sharpened daggers. Some counted coins. Every gaze pinned Roland the instant he stepped inside, then shifted away when he looked back.

The sight of Hayden's defeat had clearly made its way in ahead of him.

"New here?"

The bartender lifted his eyes, gave Roland a lazy once-over, and pointed at the wall covered with commissions.

"Look for yourself. If you see one you like, bring it over and register."

His rough fingers left a wet smear on the dirty cup.

Roland nodded and walked to the dark oak wall.

Yellowed papers covered in dried ale stains had been nailed across it in dense rows. Roland's fingers passed over the lower right corners and found red dots marked in cinnabar ink.

Difficulty markers, most likely.

Each commission also listed a time limit, the required number of people, the location, and other details.

There were fewer monster-subjugation commissions than he had expected. Roland had to read them one by one.

"Escort a merchant caravan to Dawnlight Territory. Commission time limit: twenty days. Reward: sixty copper coins. Difficulty: one..."

"Recover stolen property. Commission time limit: three days. Reward: thirty copper coins. Difficulty: one..."

"Need five complete deer hides. Commission time limit: five days. Reward: fifty copper coins. Difficulty: one..."

After searching for a while, Roland finally found what he needed.

"Subdue a goblin camp. Commission time limit: fifteen days. Reward depends on number of goblins. Difficulty: three..."

"Subdue a kobold lair. Commission time limit: fifteen days. Reward depends on number of kobolds. Difficulty: three..."

"Investigate monster movements around Pinewood Town. Commission time limit: thirty days. Reward: two silver and fifteen copper. Difficulty: five..."

The last notice had curled edges. Five bright red dots stood out on it, and the ink looked fresher than the rest.

"Monster movements to the southeast?"

Roland filed the detail away, then read the first two commissions more carefully.

Neither mentioned scaled kobolds or goblins with skin other than green. After weighing the danger against his own strength and confirming the time limits were manageable, he removed the first two notices from the wall.

He returned to the counter and placed the parchment in front of the yawning bartender.

The bartender squinted at the papers, then studied Roland. His forehead creased.

"Two commissions? Just you?"

His fingers tapped the counter in a steady rhythm.

Roland nodded.

"Another green fool chasing money..."

The bartender muttered under his breath, but his hands copied the commission details with practiced efficiency.

As ink spread across the paper, he spoke without looking up.

"Listen, kid. If you exceed the time limit, you pay a breach penalty... assuming you come back alive."

He pushed the copied contract and ink pad toward Roland.

"Sign your name, press your fingerprint, and the jobs are yours."

"Thank you."

Roland picked up the pen and left clean, elegant handwriting on the parchment.

He folded one copy, tucked it into his chest, and turned for the door.

Just as he was about to leave, a figure in a wide black robe entered against the light.

The newcomer was thin, with only a pair of deep blue eyes exposed. Beneath the face covering, Roland glimpsed pale skin.

They brushed past each other.

The stench of blood washed over him.

It was so thick it seemed ready to cling to the air, and Roland's mouth tightened.

"It's the Executioner! Why did that madman come back now?"

"Damn it, bad luck. Go, go!"

The guild hall fell silent. Then the adventurers scrambled for the door, overturning tables and chairs in their rush to leave.

In a handful of breaths, the large hall held only Roland and the mysterious person called the Executioner.

"The Executioner..."

Roland repeated the name in his mind, but he did not stay.

He pushed open the door and went to Blackwind, who was eating fodder.

After untying the reins, he led the warhorse through town and chose a reasonably clean inn for the night.

At dawn the next day, before the morning fog had dispersed, Roland was already riding toward the location named in the commission.

Blackwind's hooves crossed the dew-wet mud, leaving a neat string of prints behind.

In the dense forest northeast of Pinewood Town, sunlight filtered through layered leaves and broke across the rotting ground below.

Crack!

A dead branch snapped. A squad of goblins waved rusty weapons as they shoved through the bushes in their path.

They chattered noisily, their hoarse, piercing voices full of excitement. If not for their ferocious faces and the wet blood on their weapons, their cheerful mood might have made them look like travelers on an outing.

The lead goblin was waving its arms and babbling about something when a bright slash swept out from the bushes behind it.

Whoosh!

The ugly grin froze on its face. A thin red line opened across its blue-gray neck.

The next second, its head thudded to the ground, and blood sprayed over the fallen leaves.

"Gagga guh!"

Before the other goblins could react, several more silver cuts passed through the air.

Their terrified screams died in their throats and became frothing blood instead.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Corpses dropped one after another. Roland flicked the blood from his longsword, then frowned.

"They seemed to be saying something just now... moving?"

Unlike the silent, frenzied goblins he had encountered while hunting with Darco, these goblins had no strange red markings on their bodies. Their behavior was far more normal.

Because of that, Roland had hidden in the shadows and used the [Animal Friend] trait to listen carefully to their conversation.

Unfortunately, goblin intelligence was limited.

Their speech was chaotic, broken, and full of fragments. Roland had spent considerable effort just catching the word "moving" from the mess.

That made him think of Joe, the red squirrel in the forest.

Since changing occupation to Hunter and awakening the [Animal Friend] trait, Joe remained the most intelligent non-human creature he had met.

Roland shook off the thought and dragged the green-skinned little monsters into the nearby bushes.

After confirming they carried nothing valuable, he drew the dagger at his waist, cut off their ears one by one, and placed them in his pouch.

"This is already the fifth patrol..."

Roland checked the surroundings. Once he confirmed it was safe, he exhaled lightly and took the wrinkled commission notice from his chest.

Sunlight slipped through the leaves and landed across the messy lines on the parchment.

"Subdue a goblin camp..."

Roland's expression tightened.

"Patrols this frequent, defenses this tight. Is this really only a camp?"

He checked the coordinates again and confirmed he was in the location designated by the commission. Then he folded the parchment, put it away, lowered his body, and continued through the forest.

With his current strength, facing several dozen goblins at once should be well within his ability.

Overconfidence got people killed. He would not relax just because the difference between the two sides seemed large.

As he moved deeper, he encountered two more goblin patrols.

Thanks to the bonus from [Adaptive Training], Roland's Agility had already risen to 7, almost matching his Strength.

He moved through the dense woods like a ghost, every strike precise and fatal.

Steel flashed. Before the two patrols could send out a warning, they were already dead.

"Twenty-nine..."

Roland counted in silence.

Based on goblin patrols of three to five per group, he had wiped out seven small squads on the way in.

The kill requirement for changing occupation to Warrior had advanced from zero to twenty-nine.

With the support of the [Theory and Practice] trait, his Lion Swordsmanship experience had also increased by nearly seventy points.

Compared with the progress he usually made through training under the [Combat Readiness] trait, this pace was astonishing.

Farther ahead, noise drifted through the trees.

Roland crouched, lightened his steps, and crept forward. His boots pressed into soft rotting leaves without a sound.

He stopped before a dense bush, eased the branches aside with his fingers, and looked through.

A crude clearing had been hacked out of the forest.

Seventeen or eighteen huts made of branches and mud crowded together at crooked angles. Several gnawed corpses lay piled at the edge. Judging from the damaged clothing, they had likely been merchants passing through, or mercenaries and adventurers who had come to subdue the goblins.

Dozens of goblins scurried through the camp like ants moving house.

Some shoved stolen utensils into baskets, breaking pottery in a constant series of sharp cracks. Others fought over a piece of moldy dried meat, biting each other until blood ran down their mouths.

From above, the entire camp had a diseased energy, maggots writhing in rotten wood.

At the center of the camp, a goblin wearing a bone necklace shrieked orders. Its body was no larger than the others, but cunning swam in its muddy yellow eyes.

Whenever a goblin carried things too sluggishly, it sprang up and smashed the offender's head with a bone staff.

"They really are moving... but where is this group heading? The Black Fir Forest?"

While he considered it, Roland counted them.

"One, two, three... thirty-one goblins..."

His mind worked quickly.

"At this scale, if the kobold lair has a similar number of monsters, then completing these two commissions should satisfy the kill requirement for changing occupation to Warrior..."

Excitement stirred in him. His right hand moved to the shortbow at his waist.

This bow had been made under Hawk's guidance before he set out, and it suited Roland's habits perfectly.

The dark brown mulberry bow had been polished smooth and left undecorated except for several loops of leather cord wrapped around the grip.

It looked plain, but compared with the shortbows he had borrowed from John and Darco, this one felt made for his hand.

His only regret was that, perhaps because he had not practiced long enough, he still had not awakened any woodworking-related skill.

Roland bent the bow and nocked an arrow. The string drew back into a full arc in his hand.

Thump!

The bowstring snapped. The arrow tore through the air.

With max-level [Basic Archery], hitting a stationary target was as natural as breathing.

The next instant, the goblin leader with the bone necklace let out a shrill cry and staggered back.

The arrow had pierced its eye socket and buried itself deep in the skull. Blood poured out.

The leader that had been chattering orders moments ago twitched only a few times before falling still.

Before the remaining goblins recovered from the shock, sharp whistles cut through the air one after another.

Arrow after arrow followed without pause.

Screams rose across the clearing. The goblins' confusion turned to terror, then broke entirely as they fled in every direction.

Once the green-skinned little monsters could no longer organize any resistance, Roland left his hiding place.

He drew the iron sword at his waist and sprang from the bushes, cutting into the fleeing mob. The blade carved bright arcs beneath the sun.

In only a few minutes, all thirty-one goblins lay in pools of blood.

Roland whipped the blood from his sword and scanned the corpses. After confirming none had escaped, he sheathed the blade.

"Easier than expected."

He crouched and rummaged through the scattered spoils.

Crude wooden clubs with sharp stone shards tied to them. A few rusty short blades. Several spears ground from animal bone.

The rough weapons were not worth even a single copper coin, and Roland's forehead creased.

"Sure enough, I can't count on poor monsters..."

He muttered under his breath and was about to stand when he noticed an old wooden chest beside the goblin leader's corpse.

Half-buried in mud and covered in scratches, it looked to have been dragged around for a long time.

Roland lifted the lid with the tip of his sword. Several copper coins rolled from the gap with a string of tinny clinks.

His eyes brightened. He bent to examine it and found several silver coins, a small handful of copper, and...

"These things..."

He laughed.

The chest was stuffed with glittering but worthless odds and ends.

Polished shells, colored glass beads, even half of a broken mirror.

These "treasures" had been carefully wrapped in rags and mixed in with the coins. At the very bottom sat several packets of nails almost eaten through by rust.

"Truly goblin taste."

Roland shook his head and put the silver and copper coins into his waist pouch.

"Three silver and seventy-two copper. Add the reward for the goblin ears, and this is a sizable income."

"No wonder those mercenaries and adventurers keep coming despite the danger."

After confirming there was no more money hidden away, Roland cut off each goblin's left ear and placed them into a special leather pouch.

Then he retrieved the arrows he had shot, wiped them clean one by one, and returned them to the quiver on his back.

Once he had checked the battlefield and found nothing else worth taking, he retraced his route.

He tossed the bulging spoils bag onto the horse's back, mounted neatly, and took the yellowed parchment map from his chest. In the afterglow of sunset, he studied the route.

After confirming the direction of the kobold lair, he squeezed the horse's belly and galloped toward his next destination.

Two days later, Roland entered another stretch of dense forest.

Unlike the goblin camp, this dense forest showed no sign of kobold patrols.

The unexpected ease of the journey brought Roland quickly to the location marked by the commission.

When he pushed aside the thick bushes before him and looked toward the deep cave, he froze.

The open ground outside the cave was a mess, littered with utensils and daily items that had been left behind.

Inside the cave, aside from scattered footprints, there was not a single creature. Only the central fire pit still gave off wisps of green smoke, proof that something had lived here not long ago.

Roland bent and held his hand above the fire pit.

The [Furnace Heart] trait made his sense for flame temperature exceptionally sharp.

"Still a little warm. Looks like they left not long ago."

He withdrew from the cave and began scouting the area.

After a careful search, he found messy strings of kobold footprints in the muddy ground to the southeast, leading deeper into the forest.

Roland stood and frowned.

If he remembered correctly, that direction...

Perfectly matched the monster movement area mentioned in the Adventurer's Guild's newest commission.