Gray Mountain Range.
Somewhere in the northern mid-mountain forests.
Eric rode his War Sheep, leading his team on a patrol.
"Previously, a sentry reported seeing Goblin traces here," said a Dwarf.
Hearing this, Eric couldn't muster any enthusiasm, and said irritably and helplessly, "It's too boring, those Goblins, they're too weak.
There's no meaning in fighting, it's just slaughter, sigh.
Forget it, let's go in and clean up first. When we return, I have to find someone to take my place, I'm about to be sick of killing these Goblins."
No one among the surrounding Dwarves refuted Eric's complaints; instead, they all nodded in agreement.
They couldn't help it; they shared the same feelings.
Killing Goblins always ended in screams and fleeing Goblins. And the Goblins' counterattacks were so feeble, they couldn't feel any fighting passion, not even any emotional fluctuation.
