The caravan departed the village two days after Garrick's final surrender. Ethan rode in the second wagon with Mira and Elara pressed against him under a shared cloak, their hands discreetly exploring his body whenever the road bumped. Harlan, the caravan master, had accepted Ethan's "protection fee" — a share of the village's best ale and herbs — in exchange for three spots and silence about the women's true role.
Garrick had seen them off at the gate, eyes downcast, a new silver collar around his neck that Mira had fastened with a kiss. "Keep the inn profitable, love," she'd whispered. "Master will return for his tribute." Garrick had nodded, the conflict in his eyes now replaced by quiet acceptance.
The King's Road cut through rolling farmland before plunging into the ancient Whispering Forest — a thousand-mile stretch of towering oaks and hidden ruins that marked the border between human lands and the wilder territories. Travel was safe in daylight with armed guards, but bandits and monsters grew bolder each year.
Ethan used the journey to train.
Every morning, while the caravan rested, he practiced with his longsword against Harlan's veteran guards. His enhanced stats made him fast — too fast. He held back at first, letting blades graze him to test Elara's healing magic. She'd kneel beside him afterward, hands glowing soft green as wounds knit closed, her touch lingering into gentle caresses that often ended with her mouth around his cock behind a wagon wheel.
Mira scouted ahead on foot, her new loyalty granting subtle system buffs: heightened senses, quiet steps. She reported goblin signs — broken branches, foul droppings — but nothing immediate.
By the fourth day, the forest thickened. Sunlight filtered in shafts through the canopy, birdsong mixing with the creak of wagon wheels. The caravan consisted of eight heavy wagons, twenty merchants and guards, plus a dozen pack mules. Harlan rode point, Ethan beside him.
Conversation turned to the world.
"Eldoria's changed since the king's tax hikes," Harlan grunted, spitting tobacco juice. "Baron Vortigern squeezes coin for the border wars with the beastkin. Guild hall's booming — adventurers pouring in for dungeon contracts. Heard the Silverwood elves sent an envoy last month. Beautiful creature, they say. Married to some high lord back in the trees."
Ethan's interest sharpened. The system had already flagged potential targets in the city.
"Any big threats on this stretch?" he asked casually.
Harlan scratched his scarred cheek. "Goblins mostly. Pack of 'em hit a caravan last season — killed half, took the women. Deeper in, there's rumors of an old dungeon stirring. Lights in the ruins at night. If we make good time, we'll reach the waystation by dusk tomorrow."
Ethan nodded, mind mapping strategies. Combat would come soon — he could feel it.
It struck at midday.
The road narrowed between two moss-covered ridges. Birds went silent. Mira, scouting fifty paces ahead, sprinted back, face pale.
"Goblins! Twenty at least — archers on the ridges, warriors blocking the path. They've got a shaman!"
Harlan bellowed orders. "Circle! Shields up! Protect the wagons!"
Merchants scrambled into defensive ring, spears outward. Crossbowmen knelt behind shields. Ethan leaped down, sword drawn, Mira and Elara flanking him with daggers and healing runes ready.
The attack exploded.
Arrows rained from both ridges — crude but numerous. One guard screamed as a shaft pierced his thigh; Elara was on him instantly, green light sealing the wound. Another arrow thudded into a wagon shield inches from Ethan's head.
Goblins charged from the front — fifteen wiry greenskins with rusted axes and shields, led by a hulking hobgoblin in chain scraps. From the rear, warg riders — four massive wolves with goblin jockeys — circled to cut off retreat.
On the left ridge, a robed goblin shaman chanted, dark energy crackling around a bone staff.
Ethan assessed in a heartbeat. Battle Instinct skill activated — time slowed perceptibly, threats highlighted in his vision like glowing overlays.
"Harlan, hold the line here!" he shouted. "Mira, with me to the right ridge — take out archers. Elara, stay central, heal and support!"
He charged.
The first goblin warrior met him with an overhead axe swing. Ethan parried effortlessly, the impact jarring but absorbable. He riposted with a diagonal slash that opened the creature from shoulder to hip, black blood spraying. Another lunged low; Ethan sidestepped, blade thrusting through its throat with a wet crunch.
Two more closed in tandem — one high, one low. Ethan dropped into a crouch, sweeping the low attacker's legs while blocking the high strike. He rolled forward, hamstringing the standing goblin before rising to drive his sword through its back.
Blood slicked the road. Screams and clashes filled the air.
Mira moved like a shadow beside him, dagger flashing. She'd gained subtle agility from Ethan's imprint — leaping onto a wagon, she hurled her blade into an archer's eye on the ridge, then vaulted up the slope to engage another.
Ethan followed, scaling the ridge in bounds. Three goblin archers turned bows on him. He dove behind a boulder as arrows thunked into moss. Battle Instinct guided his counter — he burst out, closing distance in a sprint.
First archer nocked an arrow; Ethan's sword severed the bowstring and the hand holding it. The goblin howled; Ethan silenced it with a thrust to the chest.
Second archer dropped bow for knife. Ethan parried the wild stab, grabbed the creature's wrist, and twisted — bone snapped. A knee to the gut doubled it over, followed by a downward chop that ended it.
The third fled. Ethan hurled a rock with pinpoint accuracy — cracking the skull. It tumbled down the ridge.
From the opposite side, Harlan's crossbows thinned the main charge. But the hobgoblin leader smashed through shields, axe cleaving a merchant in half.
Ethan leaped from the ridge, landing in a roll that brought him behind the rear warg riders. One wolf snarled, lunging. Ethan ducked under jaws, blade slashing across the belly — entrails spilled as the beast collapsed. Its rider tumbled; Ethan's sword took his head mid-fall.
Another rider circled, spear thrusting. Ethan caught the shaft, yanked the goblin close, and drove his blade through armor into heart.
The shaman on the ridge finished its chant — a bolt of dark energy lanced toward the caravan center, exploding against a wagon in green flame.
Elara countered instinctively — hands raised, a barrier of healing light deflecting the worst. Wood charred but held.
Ethan sprinted up the left ridge now, Mira converging from the right. The shaman turned, staff glowing for another spell.
Ethan closed the gap first. The shaman swung the staff like a club; Ethan blocked, wood cracking against steel. He pressed the attack — feint left, strike right. The blade bit deep into the shaman's side, dark blood bubbling.
It screeched, unleashing a point-blank burst of shadow. Pain seared Ethan's arm — flesh burning — but Enhanced Vitality held. He roared through it, twisting the sword and ripping upward. The shaman's body split, collapsing in ruin.
Silence descended.
The remaining goblins broke, fleeing into the forest. Harlan's men loosed final bolts, dropping a few more.
Ethan stood atop the ridge, chest heaving, sword dripping. Minor wounds smoked but healed rapidly under Elara's distant glow.
The caravan cheered — hoarse, relieved voices hailing him as savior.
Harlan approached, clapping his shoulder. "Lad… that was mastery. We'd be dead without you."
Loot was gathered: crude weapons, a pouch of silver coins, mana crystals from the shaman's staff. Among the goblin gear, a chained prisoner cage — empty this time, but a reminder of darker threats.
To be continued...