Chapter 9: Goblins

The season was at its height, with crisp, clear autumn skies. Young Bowen sat in the carriage, gazing out the window, while the count beside him sat with closed eyes, lost in meditation. Though fragments of memories from a previous life lingered within him, his recollection had not fully awakened; as it was his first time leaving the castle, Bowen couldn’t help feeling a bit uneasy.

Seeing the count unmoved, Bowen gradually calmed himself, silently circulating his “qi.” The lingering heat of late summer still hung in the air, and as noon approached, the temperature slowly climbed. The distant fields were turning yellow, while a gentle breeze rippled through the wheat, like waves upon the sea.

The caravan headed west, intending to cut through the Norsef Forest and reach the kingdom’s highway, then turn north along the great road, crossing the Standing Stone Plains to finally arrive at the royal city of Seventon. At the edge of his vision, the castle’s silhouette was gradually obscured by dense woods; only the tip of a flag fluttering atop the tower remained faintly visible. Knights rode on either side of the caravan, vigilant, and with his grandfather—a high arcanist—nearby, Bowen had no reason to worry about safety.

In truth, the journey from the country castle to Seventon wasn’t far. The caravan would arrive within two or three days, and previously, the count had simply used magic to speed along, arriving in half a day. But with more people this time, they would travel at a normal pace.

As Bowen slipped into a meditative state, the count nodded in approval and began to instruct him on matters to heed upon arriving in Seventon.

The era of arcane magic was just dawning. Netheril was, for now, a small nation, with the Arcane Empire existing only in the backdrop of stories from Bowen’s former world—barely more than a distant legend. Yet Bowen knew Netheril would one day become a superpower, and that for millennia to come, the entire continent of Faerûn would live beneath the shadow of Netheril’s floating cities.

Yet the details of that future were shrouded in mist.

Yes—hazy.

It was as if some strange force was interfering with his recollection. As Bowen gained mastery over “arcane power,” he gradually came to understand this mysterious influence—perhaps Gaia, the will of the world itself? He couldn’t help but grumble inwardly: other transmigrators had systems, cheats, or at least the advantage of prophetic memories, but here even his foreknowledge was sealed away. How was he supposed to play this game?

Still, Bowen sensed that as his strength increased, the world’s suppression of his memories would steadily weaken, perhaps even vanish entirely.

For now, the most pressing task was to grow stronger. Thanks to the benefits of transmigration, he began with unusually high spiritual power, greatly enhancing the efficiency of his meditation. Yet he was well aware of his own circumstances; after awakening arcane power, he realized there was no system, and even his “golden finger” of spiritual strength was only temporary. How long could he maintain the facade of a prodigy?

As spellcasters aged, their spiritual power grew; over time, Bowen’s advantage would be gradually eroded, not to mention the existence of unique family secrets, magical techniques, and hidden arts. In this world, where half-elves were common and liches roamed, anything could happen.

Fortunately, this was Netheril’s early period. If he could seize this window, rise to the middle echelons, or even reach the heights like his father, he could enjoy the dividends of Netheril’s progress. Even after the empire’s fall, any magic or artifact originating from Netheril would still shake the world.

For now, he simply had to make the most of his spiritual advantage. Coupled with the vigor of youth, he’d enjoy enhanced memory, reasoning, and learning for at least the next fifteen years.

But this mental strength came with a price—his body was relatively frail.

Thus, he had to devote some effort to practicing breathing techniques, though the one he possessed was incomplete and its effectiveness waned with each repetition. He needed to find a complete monk’s legacy.

And he was deeply envious of the monk’s discipline! Reality was no story, nor a game. There were no system attributes; in a game, a blow to the head simply cost hit points. Here, even with armor, if the head was unprotected, a blow would kill you outright.

That made the monk’s “qi” all the more precious—a tangible enhancement to the body’s core constitution. In time, it could grant agelessness, immunity to poison, and even miraculous abilities bordering on the divine. For someone as wary of death as Bowen, it was supremely attractive.

Were it not for knowing that Faerûn would one day belong to the arcanists, Bowen would have already run off to seek the monks’ teachings. The rural castle had no useful information; he had long since searched the library, but found no clue. After all, it was a tiny place, so he set his sights on the count’s manor in the royal city—if not there, then surely somewhere else within Seventon.

In games, multiclassing incurred penalties, but reality had no such constraints—there were no experience points from slaying monsters, only mastery honed through relentless practice. Many wizards dabbled as warriors, picking up a skill or two from other professions if they met the requirements.

High-tier professionals marked a watershed. If the lower and intermediate ranks still counted as “ordinary humans,” then advanced ones stood apart from humanity entirely.

Upon advancing to high rank, one’s body and talents underwent dramatic transformation. Many warriors, at this stage, broke through the boundaries of spellcasting and awakened to magical gifts—often switching to the arcane path.

Thus, it was not uncommon to hear of old wizards, after exhausting their spell slots in battle, felling their foes with their staffs instead.

Toril was a world of many races. Netheril was not yet the arcane empire that would one day inspire awe. For the first time, Bowen saw a humanoid subrace—a goblin—trailing the caravan, clad in ragged leather, its skin a lurid orange-red.

The goblin’s face was broad, its nose flat, ears sharply pointed, mouth wide and filled with needle-like fangs. Its brow sloped backward, and its eyes, dull and shifting between red and yellow, glimmered with malice. They walked upright, their long arms dangling to their knees.

Bowen knew goblins of the same tribe usually shared the same skin color. They lived in tribal groups, led by the largest, strongest, or sometimes the cleverest among them—often a bugbear or hobgoblin.

“It seems they see us as prey,” the count remarked beside him. “Usually, they’d target those unable to defend themselves. It looks like a goblin tribe has migrated nearby. Goblins are innately cowardly and only attack if they outnumber their foes or have a leader; without a bugbear or hobgoblin, they rarely dare strike at an armed caravan.”

Such lessons would be part of Bowen’s education in Seventon, but nothing matched learning from experience.

As the count explained, Bowen’s understanding of goblins deepened.

Goblins survived through theft and pillage. Under cover of darkness, they would sneak into lairs, villages, even cities, taking anything they desired. Ambushing travelers along the road, they stripped victims of all possessions—sometimes even their clothes. Occasionally, they captured other creatures for slave labor and, in times of famine, would simply eat them.

They made their homes anywhere habitable: damp caves, shadowy ruins, lacking any notion of privacy. Hordes of goblins ate and slept in the same space, and their lairs were notoriously filthy, reeking with stench. They often settled near civilized lands to plunder food, livestock, tools, weapons, and supplies. Once an area was picked clean, they quickly packed up and moved on.

Sometimes, a tribe would produce a bugbear or hobgoblin to command them; some even allied with worgs, riding them into battle.

As a chaotic race, goblins had many names in the magical world: fiends, monsters, big-eared beasts—goblins.

In games and novels, they were little more than fodder, but their actual combat prowess was not to be underestimated.

A fragment of memory flickered in Bowen’s mind: establish Unity Town as a base to resist goblin incursions!

Since the Elf Crown Wars, Faerûn had seen few major disasters; divine interventions were rare, and events notable enough to be recorded on the timeline were even rarer.

Bowen breathed a silent sigh of relief. Just then, the goblins ahead began to screech, and hundreds emerged from the surroundings. One among them stood out, burly and wild—a true commander, its thick arms easily capable of crushing a child.

Ordinary goblins were only slightly weaker than a common man; a trained soldier could take on five at once. But a bugbear was the equal of a seasoned warrior.

Goblins, like weeds, bred with astonishing speed, outpacing even rats. After the elves’ civil wars decimated their own and other races’ numbers, vast lands were left vacant, and goblins entered their golden age—a single litter yielded several offspring, maturing within a year or two and ready to breed again. Their numbers grew geometrically.

In a world of the extraordinary, sometimes sheer numbers became a force of their own. Among so many, some inevitably broke through the limits of their kind: bugbears, hobgoblins, even—goblin kings.

If a remote corner like Netheril could harbor such a horde, the rest of the world must be overrun.

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