Chapter 3: Tutorial Goblins and Other Workplace Hazards

The quest parchment smelled faintly of incense, old vellum, and attempted murder.

Milo Finch stood at the base of the cathedral steps in the bright Valorian morning, holding the curled document in both hands while the kingdom’s capital woke around him in a riot of bells, hoofbeats, and people shouting about bread. Sunlight spilled across the white stone streets like melted butter. Priests in gold-threaded robes drifted through the crowds with serene smiles and extremely sharp elbows. Merchants rolled up awnings. A man with a cage full of suspiciously intelligent chickens argued theology with a nun.

Above it all, the cathedral bells rang a cheerful tune that sounded, to Milo’s overworked modern ears, like an alarm clock with delusions of grandeur.

He read the quest again.

BEGINNER HERO EXERCISE: RESTORATION OF LOCAL INFRASTRUCTURE

Objective: Proceed to Mossbridge Road and ensure safe passage across the old river crossing.

Difficulty: Copper Rank.

Recommended Party: One novice adventurer or three moderately brave children.

Reward: 5 silver crowns, ceremonial commendation, one loaf of journey bread.

Note: Goblin activity reported in the area. Minimal threat.

Milo stared at the words minimal threat.

He had worked in corporate long enough to know that when a document used gentle language, someone was trying to bury a body under font size eleven.

“So,” he said, “this is definitely a trap.”

Sir Alric Dane, Knight of the Sable Boar, stood beside him in dented armor polished only where the dents allowed. He was a broad-shouldered man with a knightly jaw, knightly posture, and the anxious eyes of someone who owed money to people who considered thumbs negotiable. His tabard had once been white. It was currently a shade Milo’s brain filed under historical gravy.

Alric adjusted the sword at his hip. “Not a trap, exactly.”

“That’s a terrifying opening.”

“It is more of a… test.”

“Ah. A trap with paperwork.”

Alric winced. “The royal quest office issues many beginner assignments. Some are perfectly survivable.”

“That implies the existence of non-survivable beginner assignments.”

The knight looked across the square. Two palace guards were not watching them so aggressively that it became a form of watching. One leaned against a fountain with his helmet tucked under his arm. The other pretended to inspect a pastry stall while repeatedly glancing at Milo.

“Mossbridge Road has had problems,” Alric said quietly.

“Problems like potholes?”

“Goblins.”

“Right. The parchment mentioned goblins.”

“And sometimes bandits.”

“Didn’t mention those.”

“And once a troll.”

“Of course not.”

“But only briefly.”

Milo lowered the parchment. “How can there be a brief troll?”

“It fell through the bridge.”

Milo looked at him.

Alric cleared his throat. “Which is why the infrastructure component is technically accurate.”

Behind them, the cathedral doors groaned open. Warm golden light spilled from within, accompanied by chanting, sandalwood smoke, and the unmistakable sense that several important people were listening from behind pillars. Milo had spent enough time in conference rooms to recognize management’s favorite maneuver: assigning the impossible task, providing insufficient resources, then documenting the failure as proof of incompetence.

Only yesterday, he had accidentally upgraded holy water into what the priests now called Sanctified Repellent Solution and what Milo privately called “weaponized lemon-scented bleach.” A single drop had driven a gargoyle from the bell tower, stripped mildew off stone, and caused Archbishop Venantius to say three different prayers in three different languages while clutching the font.

Since then, the court had stopped laughing at his divine gift.

They had started smiling instead.

Milo hated the smiles more.

“I still don’t understand why you’re coming,” Milo said.

Alric’s expression became complicated. “The quest office assigned me as your provisional escort.”

“Because they care about my safety?”

“Because if you die before your official Heroic Investiture, the summoning expenses become difficult to justify.”

“That’s the most honest thing anyone has said to me since I got vending-machined into another universe.”

Alric blinked. “Vending… machined?”

“Never mind.” Milo rolled the quest parchment and tucked it into the belt pouch he had been given by the church. The pouch was embroidered with a sunburst and contained one flint, one lump of chalk, three copper coins, and a folded prayer card titled So You Have Been Summoned: A Beginner’s Guide to Purposeful Sacrifice.

He missed his phone with a pain that was almost physical.

A small blue window blinked into existence at the edge of his vision.

UNIVERSAL OPTIMIZATION

Passive Analysis Available.

Target: Quest Document

Status: Intentionally Ambiguous

Efficiency Score: 41%

Hidden Modifier Detected: “Plausible Deniability”

Milo sighed. “Even the magical pop-ups are throwing shade.”

“Are you receiving divine guidance?” Alric asked, suddenly attentive.

“Sort of. It says the quest is bad at being honest.”

Alric nodded gravely, as if this were a respected field of theology. “A common failing among royal documents.”

They left the cathedral square through the eastern gate, walking beneath an arch carved with winged saints trampling horned demons. The demons had very expressive faces. Milo sympathized with them.

Beyond the capital walls, Valoria rolled out in impossible color. Fields of barley rippled gold beneath a sky too blue to be believable. Windmills turned lazily on green hills. Wildflowers clustered along the road in red, purple, and electric blue shades that seemed to hum if stared at too long. Somewhere distant, a creature bellowed in three-part harmony.

The road itself was pale packed clay, wide enough for two carts and edged by drainage ditches full of frogs the size of dinner plates. Alric walked with one hand near his sword. Milo walked with the uncertain gait of a man who had spent most of his adult life between a desk chair and a microwave.

He had been given “hero’s traveling clothes,” which apparently meant boots that hated him, trousers that laced in places trousers had no business lacing, and a light leather jerkin that squeaked whenever he breathed. A short sword hung at his hip. It was the first sword Milo had ever owned, unless one counted the decorative katana his college roommate bought at a mall and used to open pizza boxes.

The Valorian countryside smelled of grass, sun-warmed dust, horse dung, and fresh bread from farmhouses they passed. Birds flashed through hedgerows like tossed jewels. Occasionally Alric named things.

“That’s a blushfin heron. Don’t stare at its eyes.”

“Why?”

“They steal secrets.”

“How does a bird steal secrets?”

“Politely.”

“I have follow-up questions.”

“Best not.”

A farmer in a straw hat waved as they passed. Then he noticed Milo’s sunburst pouch, went pale, and shoved his children behind a hay cart.

“Do heroes have a reputation problem?” Milo asked.

“Heroes have a casualty radius.”

“That is not comforting.”

“The last summoned hero fought a wyvern in the market district.”

“Did he win?”

“Technically.”

“Meaning?”

“The wyvern died.”

“And the market?”

Alric looked at the horizon. “Also technically.”

Milo rubbed his temples. “Great. I’m a walking natural disaster with clerical powers.”

“Universal Optimization is not clerical,” Alric said. “It sounds very sophisticated.”

“Yesterday the archbishop called it ‘a tidy little blessing.’”

“The archbishop fears tidy things. His desk once killed a deacon.”

The road dipped into woodland around midday. Trees leaned over the path, their leaves broad and glossy, filtering the sunlight into shifting coins. The air cooled. Moss climbed the stones. The smells changed: damp bark, mushrooms, river water somewhere ahead.

Milo’s stomach growled.

Alric produced a wrapped loaf from his pack and broke it in half. Journey bread was dense, brown, and roughly the weight of a brick. Milo bit into it and discovered it had the flavor profile of sawdust that had heard rumors of salt.

A blue window appeared.

Target: Journey Bread

Base Attributes:

Nutrition: 62

Portability: 88

Moisture: 7

Flavor: 3

Weapon Potential: 31

Optimization Available.

Milo nearly choked. “Why does my lunch have weapon potential?”

Alric glanced at the bread. “Standard issue.”

“Do people eat this or build fortifications out of it?”

“Both in emergencies.”

Milo focused on the floating interface. It had no obvious buttons, but yesterday he had learned that intent worked if he pictured sliders hard enough. He nudged Moisture from 7 to 24 and Flavor from 3 to 18, borrowing points from Weapon Potential because he hoped not to bludgeon anyone with lunch.

The bread warmed in his hand. The crust softened. A faint smell of oats and honey rose from it.

Optimization Complete.

Journey Bread has become: Acceptable Field Loaf.

Side Effect: Reduced effectiveness against small armored targets.

Alric stared.

Milo handed him a piece. “Here.”

The knight took a cautious bite. His eyes widened with something like grief. “By the saints.”

“Better?”

“My mother baked bread like this before my father gambled away the mill.”

“That escalated emotionally.”

Alric finished the rest in three reverent bites. “You could make a fortune in rations.”

“I was hoping to not die first, but sure, let’s put that on the roadmap.”

They continued through the trees. The path grew narrower. Wheel ruts deepened in mud. Broken branches lay scattered. A crow watched them from a low bough, then croaked, “Idiot,” in a voice disturbingly like Milo’s old department manager.

Milo pointed. “Did that bird—”

“Mimic crow,” Alric said. “Ignore it.”

“Idiot,” said the crow.

“I feel personally attacked by the local wildlife.”

The sound of water strengthened until it became a constant rush. The trees opened, and Mossbridge revealed itself.

The bridge did not inspire confidence.

It had once been a sturdy crossing of timber beams laid over stone supports above a fast, shallow river. Now half the planks were missing, the railings sagged, and one central span drooped like a tired hammock. The river below foamed around boulders. On the far side, the road continued toward blue hills and whatever poor villages depended on this deathtrap.

On the near side of the bridge stood a barricade made of sharpened stakes, stolen wagon wheels, old doors, and at least one headboard painted with crude letters.

STOP. PAY TOL. OR GET STAB.

The second L had been added above the line in smaller letters.

Behind the barricade, goblins watched them.

There were eight visible at first, though Milo suspected more lurked in the brush. They were shorter than he expected, waist-high to Alric, with green-gray skin, long ears, narrow yellow eyes, and noses built for sniffing out trouble. Their clothes were a patchwork of burlap, leather scraps, and stolen human garments cut down badly. One wore a child’s formal jacket as a vest. Another had a saucepan for a helmet. Their weapons included spears, knives, a rusty cleaver, and one rake held with great seriousness.

A larger goblin climbed onto an overturned barrel. He had a red scarf tied around his head and a necklace made of copper coins. He pointed a jagged sword at Milo.

“TOLL!” he shouted.

Several goblins behind him echoed, “Toll! Toll! Toll!”

Alric drew his sword with a clean metallic hiss.

The goblins flinched. Milo flinched harder.

“Wait,” Milo said.

“Stand behind me,” Alric ordered.

“That’s a lot of stabbing energy for a conversation that started with one word.”

“Goblins are dangerous in groups.”

“So are auditors.” Milo raised both hands and stepped slightly forward. “Hello! We are travelers seeking passage.”

The red-scarf goblin narrowed his eyes. “Pay toll.”

“Yes, I gathered that from the sign.”

“Sign good,” said a goblin with the saucepan helmet.

“Sign scary,” said another.

“Sign spelled wrong,” muttered a third, who was immediately elbowed by the rake goblin.

Milo kept his hands visible. “How much is the toll?”

The red-scarf goblin froze.

He glanced at the others.

The others glanced back.

A small goblin at the rear whispered, “Boss?”

Red Scarf puffed his chest. “All.”

Milo blinked. “All?”

“All shiny. All food. All boots.”

“Boots?” Milo looked down at his blister-generating footwear. “Honestly, tempting.”

Alric lifted his sword. “Milo.”

“I’m handling it.”

“You are negotiating footwear with goblins.”

“It’s called stakeholder engagement.”

Red Scarf bared sharp teeth. “Pay or stab.”

A blue window flickered over him.

Target: Goblin Ambush Group

Classification: Improvised Bandit Cell

Threat Level: Moderate if Provoked / Embarrassing if Organized

Operational Efficiency: 12%

Morale: 38%

Inventory Accuracy: -6%

Leadership Structure: Loudest Goblin

Revenue Model: Unclear

Optimization Available.

Milo’s mouth went dry.

He had seen plenty of horrifying things since arriving in Valoria. A stained-glass saint had winked at him. A bishop had tried to bless his spleen. Holy water had screamed softly while becoming cleaning solvent.

But nothing chilled him quite like the phrase Revenue Model: Unclear.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

Alric did not take his eyes off the goblins. “What?”

“They don’t have pricing.”

“They have spears.”

“Yes, but no pricing.”

“I feel you may be prioritizing strangely.”

The goblins began to chant again. “Toll! Toll! Toll!”

Red Scarf hopped from one foot to the other, getting excited by his own authority. “Give shiny! Give sword! Give tall metal man hat!”

“No one is taking my helm,” Alric snapped.

Saucepan Helmet pointed at Alric’s head. “Better pot.”

“It is not a pot.”

“Shiny pot.”

Milo took a slow breath. He could let Alric charge. The knight would probably win, though perhaps with several stab wounds and a story that ended in tetanus. The goblins would die or scatter. The bridge would remain broken. The quest office would mark the objective complete enough to send him into another trap.

Or…

He looked at the barricade. The goblins had built it well enough to stop carts but badly enough to block their own retreat. He saw crates piled under a tarp, a sack of onions spilling into the mud, three mismatched boots hanging from a spear, and a small heap of copper coins beside a cracked mug. One goblin was chewing on a strip of leather while guarding what appeared to be a ledger made from bark sheets tied with string.

They weren’t raiders.

They were a failing roadside operation with weapons.

Milo lowered his hands slightly. “Who’s in charge?”

Red Scarf thumped his chest. “Grib.”

“Great. Grib. I’m Milo.”

“Milo pay toll.”

“Maybe. But first, can I ask how many travelers pay before you stab them?”

Grib frowned. “What?”

“Conversion rate,” Milo said automatically.

The goblins murmured.

“Con… ver…” Saucepan Helmet sounded it out like a curse.

“How many people come to the bridge,” Milo clarified, “and how many give you things?”

Grib scratched under his scarf. “Carts run away.”

“How many?”

“Many.”

“Okay. And how many pay?”

Grib looked at the coin necklace around his own neck as if it might answer. “Some.”

The small goblin in the back raised a hand timidly. “Two last moon.”

Grib spun. “Shut, Nib!”

“One was lost,” Nib added. “He ask for directions.”

“Nib!”

Milo felt the strange calm that came over him in the face of catastrophic incompetence. It was the same calm he had felt when a vice president once asked why the quarterly report couldn’t be sorted by “profit vibes.” His fear did not vanish; it simply put on a tie and opened a spreadsheet.

“Right,” he said. “I see the problem.”

Alric stared at him in horror. “You see the problem?”

“Their toll structure is punitive and unpredictable. It discourages repeat traffic.”

“They are goblins.”

“Yes, and they’re leaving money on the table.”

“The table is a murder bridge.”

Milo ignored him and pointed at the sign. “Grib, if people think you’ll take everything, they won’t stop. They’ll avoid the road or hire adventurers.”

At the word adventurers, several goblins hissed and made warding gestures.

“Shiny murder hobos,” muttered Saucepan Helmet.

“Exactly,” Milo said. “Bad for business.”

Grib lowered his jagged sword a fraction. “Business?”

“Business. You control a bridge. That’s valuable. But right now, your process is…” Milo glanced at the hovering interface. “…suboptimal.”

The word landed like magic.

A faint hum moved through the air.

Grib’s ears twitched. Nib gasped. Even Alric’s sword dipped slightly.

The blue window expanded.

Universal Optimization Engaged.

Target Scope Expanded: Goblin Ambush Group + Mossbridge Crossing

Warning: Complex Social-Economic System Detected.

Proceed with caution.

Milo should have stopped there.

He absolutely knew he should have stopped there.

Unfortunately, somewhere deep in his soul, a burned-out analyst who had spent six years begging departments to label files consistently saw an inventory pile guarded by illiterate goblins and made a terrible noise.

It was the noise of a man about to create a dashboard.

“Show me your records,” Milo said.

Grib blinked. “Records?”

Nib held up the bark ledger.

Grib slapped his forehead. “Nib!”

“He ask,” Nib said.

Milo walked toward the barricade.

Alric grabbed his shoulder. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s fine.”

“You are approaching armed goblins to inspect their bookkeeping.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Where?”

“Procurement.”

Alric looked as though he wanted to ask and feared the answer.

Milo stopped a few paces from the barricade. The goblins leaned forward, sniffing. Up close they smelled of smoke, river mud, onions, and nervous sweat. Their weapons looked sharp in the way broken glass looked sharp—accidental but effective.

Nib squeezed through a gap in the barricade and handed over the bark ledger with both hands. He was smaller than the others, with oversized ears and ink stains on his fingers. A pair of cracked spectacles sat crooked on his nose, though one lens was just clear resin.

Milo took the ledger carefully.

Inside, jagged marks covered the bark in columns. Some were numbers. Some were drawings of carts, chickens, boots, and what might have been a screaming man. There were tally marks, crossed-out tally marks, stains, bite marks, and a large section labeled with a skull.

“What’s this column?” Milo asked.

Nib brightened. “Things got.”

“And this?”

“Things lost.”

“This?”

Nib hesitated. “Things maybe eaten.”

“Important category.”

Grib pushed closer. “Nib good scratcher. Too much thinking, but good scratcher.”

“He is good,” Milo said, and Nib stood a little straighter.

The interface shimmered over the ledger.

Target: Goblin Bark Ledger

Legibility: 22%

Accuracy: 14%

Fraud Vulnerability: 91%

Emotional Attachment: High

Optimization Available.

“Fraud vulnerability ninety-one percent,” Milo murmured.

Nib’s ears flattened. “Is bad?”

“It means people can steal from you.”

Every goblin turned to look at every other goblin.

There was a long silence.

Then three fights almost broke out at once.

“Krak take onion!”

“Mog hide boot!”

“Grib wear toll money on neck!”

Grib clutched his coin necklace. “Boss privilege!”

Alric stepped closer to Milo. “This is about to become a bloodbath.”

“No, this is change management.”

“That sounds worse.”

Milo held up the ledger. “Everyone stop!”

To his surprise, they did. Perhaps because he used the same voice he had once used when the sales team overwrote a master file five minutes before the board meeting.

“You have a bridge,” Milo said. “You have traffic. You have labor. You have a brand.”

Grib squinted. “Brand?”

“The stabbing.”

The goblins nodded. This made sense.

“But your brand is too aggressive. People don’t trust that they can pay and pass safely. So instead, they avoid you or attack you. That lowers revenue and increases injury costs.”

Nib’s mouth fell open. “Injury costs.”

“Bandages. Lost work time. Replacement spears. Funeral mushrooms.”

At the last phrase, the goblins made solemn signs over their chests.

“Good mushrooms,” Saucepan Helmet whispered.

Milo pointed to the bridge. “What if, instead of robbing people, you charged a predictable toll to help maintain the bridge and guarantee safe passage?”

The goblins stared.

The river rushed below.

A dragonfly zipped past, glowing blue.

Grib’s face twisted in suspicion. “No stab?”