Chapter 5: Goblins With Better Manners Than Nobles

The Briarwood had opinions about trespassers.

It expressed them through thorns.

Every bush seemed designed by a committee of malicious gardeners who had studied exposed ankles as an academic discipline. Brambles snagged Milo’s stolen royal cloak, clawed at his trousers, and caught the handle of the lunch basket so many times that he began to suspect the forest was trying to mug him for sandwiches.

Above, branches knit together into a ceiling of wet green shadow. Morning light dripped through in pale, broken shafts, turning the mist silver where it pooled between the roots. The air smelled of damp bark, crushed leaves, and something fungal that Milo’s exhausted brain kept trying to categorize as either “expensive cheese” or “health code violation.”

Somewhere nearby, a bird screamed like a man discovering taxes.

Milo stopped dead.

Celestia ran into his back with a muffled oof, then immediately tried to look as if she had meant to do that.

“What now?” she hissed, pulling her hood lower over her face. The hood did very little to hide the fact that she was unnaturally beautiful. Even smeared with road dust, her hair tucked up beneath a plain brown scarf, and her noble travel dress exchanged for a borrowed servant’s tunic, she looked like someone had disguised a stained-glass window as a laundress.

Milo held up one finger.

The scream came again.

Not a bird.

A human voice, cracking with panic.

“Help! Get it off! Get it off!”

Celestia’s hand went to the slim dagger at her waist. “That sounded like someone in danger.”

“Or someone discovering the local wildlife,” Milo whispered.

A second voice shouted, deeper and angrier. “Hold still, idiot!”

There was a wet thwack, a curse, and then several high-pitched chittering sounds that made the hair on Milo’s arms rise.

Celestia’s eyes sharpened. She moved before he could protest, slipping between the trees with the practiced grace of someone raised around palace assassins and therefore forced to learn how not to die at dinner.

Milo stared after her.

“Sure,” he muttered. “Lead with the face. Great plan.”

He followed because standing alone in a monster forest felt like choosing the “bad ending” on purpose.

The undergrowth thinned ahead, opening into a shallow ravine where moss-covered stones jutted like broken teeth from the earth. A narrow game trail twisted between them, muddy from last night’s rain. In the middle of the trail stood three human adventurers.

At least, Milo assumed they were adventurers. They had the look: mismatched armor, too many belts, weapons displayed at angles carefully chosen to say I am dangerous while making walking difficult. One was a broad-shouldered man in dented mail with a sword nearly as wide as Milo’s thigh. Another was a lanky fellow with a crossbow, a red nose, and the wounded dignity of a man who had recently been embarrassed by nature. The third wore a robe with scorch marks around the sleeves and an expression of permanent superiority.

The source of the commotion hung from the crossbowman’s head.

It was a creature roughly the size of a loaf of bread, all legs, teeth, and indignation. It had latched onto his hair and was chewing with the furious dedication of a tax auditor.

“Burn it!” the crossbowman shrieked, spinning in circles.

“With your head attached?” the robed man snapped. “Tempting, but messy.”

The swordsman grabbed the creature by two legs and yanked. The thing popped free with a sound like a cork leaving a bottle, taking a fistful of hair with it.

The crossbowman fell to his knees. “My fringe!”

The swordsman hurled the creature into the brush. It landed, shook itself, and scuttled away muttering what sounded suspiciously like profanity.

Milo crouched behind a fallen log beside Celestia.

“Dire squirrel?” he whispered.

“Briar tick,” Celestia whispered back.

“That was a tick?”

“A young one.”

Milo slowly looked at the forest around them. “I would like to uninstall outside.”

Celestia’s mouth twitched despite herself.

The adventurers, meanwhile, were not alone.

At the far end of the ravine, half-hidden behind a crude fence of sharpened branches, clustered a dozen goblins.

Milo had seen game goblins before. Green skin, pointy ears, disposable tutorial enemies designed to teach players which button made numbers happen. These goblins were smaller than humans, most only reaching Milo’s chest, with wide amber eyes, flat noses, and ears that flicked constantly toward every sound. They wore patched tunics, bark armor, and necklaces made from carved bone, polished seeds, and bits of colored glass. Several clutched tools rather than weapons: a rake, a fishing spear, a mallet, a wicker basket held like a shield.

They looked terrified.

Not snarling. Not drooling. Not charging in waves to be efficiently farmed for copper coins.

Terrified.

An elderly goblin with white whiskers braided beneath his chin stood in front of the others. His back was bent, but he held himself with the fragile dignity of someone trying to be a wall for people who had no other wall to hide behind.

The swordsman turned on him. “That’s the third time your village traps have interfered with licensed adventuring business.”

The old goblin bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the mud. “Great-sir Ironbadge, most sorrowful apologies. Briar tick traps for keeping younglings from being eaten. Not meant for shiny warrior heads.”

The crossbowman clutched his ruined hair. “My head is not shiny.”

The robed adventurer gave him a sidelong look. “It will be soon.”

“Enough,” the swordsman barked. He stepped closer to the fence. The goblins flinched as one. “You know the arrangement. We keep this stretch of road free of monsters. You pay the road warding fee.”

The elder wrung his long fingers together. “We paid two moons ago.”

“That was the spring monster suppression tax.”

“And before that, winter anti-bandit kindness gift.”

“Different category.”

“And festival sword-polishing tribute.”

The crossbowman lifted his chin. “Our swords were very dull.”

The elder’s ears drooped. “Village has little left. Mushrooms not yet grown. Root cellars small. Younglings hungry.”

The swordsman’s smile had no warmth in it. “Then you should have thought of that before setting traps on the king’s road.”

Celestia’s fingers tightened around the dagger hilt. Her knuckles went white.

Milo felt something sour and familiar settle in his stomach. It was the same feeling he used to get reading support emails from players who had spent money they could not afford because some publisher executive wanted “more engagement hooks.” The same feeling he had felt in the capital while nobles discussed his holy destiny as if he were a sharp object they’d found and meant to point at someone.

“They’re extorting them,” Celestia breathed.

“Yeah,” Milo said.

He expected her to rise in righteous fury, declare her noble name, and start a swordfight she was probably better trained for than her disguise suggested.

Instead, she glanced at him.

“We cannot let this continue.”

There it was. The word we. Dangerous syllable. Historically responsible for quests.

Milo looked at the adventurers. Three armed humans. Then at himself. One sleep-deprived developer with stolen boots, a lunch basket, and an App Store that had recently tried to sell him “Premium Compass Plus” after guiding him into a thorn marsh.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “When you say we—”

The robed adventurer raised his hand. A small flame bloomed above his palm, orange and hungry.

The goblin children whimpered.

“Payment,” the mage said, “or we remove an illegal monster settlement from crown territory.”

Milo was standing before he remembered deciding to do it.

“Hi,” he called.

Everyone turned.

Celestia made a tiny strangled sound that might have been his name or a prayer.

Milo stepped out from behind the log with both hands raised and the deeply unnatural smile of a man who had worked customer support. “Sorry to interrupt. Quick question. Is this, uh, an official collection?”

The swordsman stared at him. “Who in the abyss are you?”

“Traveler,” Milo said. “Concerned passerby. Amateur auditor.”

“Auditor?” The crossbowman immediately looked nervous.

The mage narrowed his eyes. “There are no royal auditors this deep in Briarwood.”

“Exactly what an unaudited person would say.”

Celestia emerged from the brush behind him, face half-hidden. Her eyes flicked over the adventurers’ gear, their positions, the mud underfoot. Milo had the sudden impression that she was counting distances in corpses.

The swordsman noticed her and straightened. “This is licensed adventurer business. Move along.”

Milo looked at the goblin elder. “Did they provide a receipt?”

The elder blinked. “A… ree-seat?”

“Written confirmation of payment. Itemized. With fee categories.”

The goblins murmured among themselves. One small child repeated “ree-seat” in awe, as if it were a spell.

The swordsman’s expression darkened. “You mocking us?”

“Mostly the business model.”

Celestia closed her eyes briefly. The look said, Why are you like this?

Milo agreed with the question.

The mage extinguished the flame and took a step forward. “Listen, traveler. These goblins are classified lesser monsters under the Concord of Seven Crowns. Their continued presence is tolerated only because the guild lacks spare men to clean them out. We provide protection. They compensate us. It’s civilized.”

Behind the fence, a goblin woman holding a baby stared at the scorch marks on the mage’s sleeves and clutched the infant closer.

Milo’s smile faded. “That’s a very polished way to say you threaten people smaller than you for groceries.”

The crossbowman lifted his weapon. “Bold words for a man in stolen boots.”

Milo glanced down.

The royal crest on the boots’ buckles gleamed beneath mud.

“They’re borrowed.”

“From the king?”

“He wasn’t using them personally.”

The swordsman drew his blade halfway from its sheath. Metal whispered against leather. “Last warning.”

Celestia moved, just a fraction. Her dagger appeared in her hand as if reality had edited it there. The air tightened.

Milo’s pulse hammered in his throat.

He did not want a fight. He especially did not want a fight involving sharp objects, fire, and his soft organs. But the old goblin’s bowed head stayed in his vision. So did the children peering between fence posts with huge, frightened eyes.

There had to be an app for this.

The thought opened the invisible interface behind his eyes with a soft chime.

Interdimensional App Store

Welcome back, Milo Park!

Current Rating: ★☆☆☆☆ (1.2)

Pending Reviews: 0

Available Balance: 37 Satisfaction Points

Recommended for Current Scenario:

• Basic Fireball (Trial Version) — 50 SP

• Intimidating Aura for Beginners — 45 SP

• Legalese Generator: Petty Tyrant Edition — 12 SP

• Basic Construction Kit — 30 SP

• Emergency Kazoo — 1 SP

Milo nearly choked.

Why is Emergency Kazoo always in stock?

The swordsman pulled his blade another inch free. “You deaf?”

Milo focused on the glowing option.

Basic Construction Kit. Description.

Basic Construction Kit

Build simple wooden structures from nearby materials. Includes: fences, barricades, ramps, platforms, sheds, outhouses, and suspiciously stable ladders.

Auto-Blueprint Mode available for users with no practical construction experience.

Warning: Does not include zoning permits, tasteful design sense, or liability insurance.

Cost: 30 Satisfaction Points

Milo had built base-building systems before. Badly, under deadline, while fueled by vending machine coffee and spite. He knew what happened when physics engines were asked to care about wood.

Still, compared to being stabbed, carpentry felt approachable.

Purchase.

Purchase Complete!

Basic Construction Kit installed.

New Active Skill: Snap-Build Lv. 1

Tutorial enabled.

Remember: Measure twice, monetize once!

The world changed.

Not physically. Not yet. But translucent lines spread across Milo’s vision, overlaying the ravine in neat grids. Trees lit with hovering labels: Harvestable: Birch-like Object. Fallen logs glowed blue. Rocks became anchor points. The goblin fence flashed red with helpful critique: Structural Integrity: Embarrassing.

Milo lifted both hands higher. “Okay. Nobody stab anybody. I have a proposal.”

The mage laughed. “You have five seconds.”

“You say you’re protecting the road. The goblins say you keep charging random fees. So let’s solve the root issue.”

“And what issue is that?” the swordsman growled.

Milo pointed at the crude fence. “Bad infrastructure.”

Silence fell.

Even the forest seemed to pause.

The crossbowman squinted. “What?”

“Look at this place.” Milo gestured, gaining speed because terror and product demos lived in the same part of his brain. “No perimeter control. No choke points. Trap placement intersecting travel routes. No signage. No defensive layering. Frankly, everyone here is lucky only hair was lost.”

The goblin elder’s ears lifted a little. “We have signs.”

Milo looked. A crooked plank near the trail bore several scratchy symbols and a painted skull.

Celestia murmured, “It says, ‘Please do not step. Biting dirt.’”

“That is excellent communication,” Milo said. “But maybe not multilingual.”

The elder looked deeply wounded. “We used best skull.”

“Beautiful skull. Very clear skull. Five stars for skull intent.”

The mage’s patience snapped. “Enough.”

He thrust his hand forward, flame bursting to life.

Milo panicked and activated the skill.

The nearest fallen log launched itself sideways.

It did not roll. It did not slide. It snapped into motion with the cheerful violence of a game asset obeying a placement command. Branches sheared off in sprays of leaves. Mud exploded. The log slammed upright between Milo and the mage, sharpened itself at both ends in midair, and drove into the ground with a deep THUNK.

Everyone froze.

A second log flew from the brush.

Then a third.

Then six more.

They hammered into place around the goblin fence, each impact shaking droplets from the leaves overhead. Vines whipped free from trees and braided themselves into bindings. Stones rolled into neat foundations. Branches trimmed themselves, spun like oversized pencils, and became spikes.

Milo staggered as a strange tug pulled through his arms, not painful but deeply unnerving, like invisible puppet strings had been tied from his fingers to every piece of loose timber in the ravine.

Blue gridlines flashed. A glowing prompt appeared.

Auto-Blueprint Suggestion: Defensive Barricade (Small Settlement)

Materials available: 87%

Estimated completion: 00:00:42

Proceed?

Milo swallowed. “Proceed?”

The forest answered with carpentry.

Wood shrieked. Rope-vines snapped taut. The goblin fence vanished behind a rising wall of sharpened stakes, crossbeams, and angled braces. A gate assembled itself with two stout posts and a bar thicker than Milo’s waist. A watch platform unfolded against a tree, complete with ladder and little roof. A trench carved itself into the mud before the wall, politely depositing the dirt into a raised berm.

The crossbowman yelped and leaped back as a signpost erupted between his boots.

Upon it, glowing letters burned themselves into the wood in three languages.

PRIVATE VILLAGE ROAD. PLEASE KNOCK. BITING DIRT AHEAD.

The old goblin gasped. “It kept skull intent.”

Milo tried to look like this had been his plan.

Inside, several goblin children began clapping.

Celestia stared at the barricade, then at Milo, her expression a complicated mixture of awe, suspicion, and the dawning horror of a person realizing the idiot beside her could alter local geopolitics with home improvement.

The mage’s face went pale, then red. “Illegal fortification.”

Milo blinked. “Is that a thing?”

“Monsters cannot erect defensive structures within crown lands without charter.”

“Good news,” Milo said, because his mouth had apparently chosen death, “I don’t think they erected it.”

The swordsman pointed his blade at Milo. “You did.”

“Temporary safety installation. Very different.”

“Tear it down.”

The goblins recoiled.

The elder’s trembling hands clenched around his staff. He stepped forward until the new gate separated him from the adventurers. For the first time, his bow was not quite as deep.

“Great-sirs,” he said, voice thin but steady, “village thanks for past… protectings. But new wood-wall is very nice. Perhaps road warding fee not needed now.”

The crossbowman sputtered. “Not needed?”

A murmur spread among the goblins.

“Wood-wall nice.”

“Gate has no holes.”

“Sign speaks Common.”

“Ladder looks climb-safe.”

“No splinters!”

The swordsman’s jaw flexed. He looked from the goblins to Milo, then to Celestia. He lingered too long on her hidden face, perhaps catching some hint of noble bearing beneath the servant clothes. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes.

Bullies hated uncertainty. Milo had learned that in school, in online forums, and in publisher meetings. They preferred clear power gradients. They preferred targets who stayed targets.

The mage recovered first. “You think a fence changes anything? We are registered members of the Silver Antler Guild. If these creatures refuse payment, we file a purge request.”

Celestia’s voice sliced through the ravine. “On what grounds?”

The mage turned to her. “Harboring traps. Obstructing travel. Threatening licensed adventurers.”

“The trap was marked,” Celestia said. “You left the road. The village elder apologized. You demanded payment under invented categories with no receipts and threatened children with fire.”

The crossbowman shifted. “We didn’t threaten children specifically.”