Morning arrived in Goblin's Grove, cool and quiet. There was no sun—just a faint light filtering through the gray sky, forever cloaked in mist. That ever-present fog lingered at the edges of the dungeon, like a soft wall separating this place from something much bigger… or perhaps more dangerous.
I stood in front of the land I had claimed. Not much—just about 500 square meters. Most of it was covered in short trees and thick underbrush. A small forest, wild and untouched.
"This is it. Our first battlefield," I muttered.
Godon stood beside me, gripping the old iron hoe I brought from the market yesterday. He barked a sharp command in goblin tongue, and the other nine goblins snapped to attention.
I pointed toward the trees.
"First, cut down everything. The trees, the roots, all of it. Clear out the bushes and stones too."
The goblins rushed forward with surprising energy. Some used hoes, others used sticks or even bare hands. They were small and weak, but their determination made up for it. They dug, pulled, and bit through the roots with sheer stubbornness.
For half a day, the sound of iron striking wood and dirt echoed through the dungeon. Little by little, the wild grove began to disappear, replaced by raw, open earth.
By afternoon, the goblins slumped down in exhaustion. Their green skin was covered in mud, scratches, and sweat. I sat on a nearby rock and opened my bag, pulling out a cheap pack of dry bread I'd bought from a discount store.
"Here. Eat."
I tossed the pieces of bread toward the goblins one by one.
They sniffed the hard, flavorless chunks, then devoured them like they were the finest feast they had ever seen. Even Godon held his bread with both hands, chewing with wide eyes. Simple food, but genuine joy.
He turned to me and gave a slow, serious nod.
They were happy.
The next morning, the mist still clung to the dungeon's boundary like a ghostly curtain, marking the edge of this tiny world.
Today's task: plowing the land.
I split the goblins into two teams—one to till the earth with the hoes, the other to remove leftover rocks and roots.
Blisters formed on their hands. Their legs trembled. But none of them complained. Every swing of their hoe, every clump of dirt turned over, was a small step toward something greater.
We were building more than a farm. We were building a future.
"Let's make this place ours," I whispered. "This isn't just a dungeon anymore. This is home."