Chapter 17: Situation

“If I wanted to kill you, you wouldn't have had the chance to wake up. Rest assured, you are still useful to me. Until then, as long as you cooperate honestly, I guarantee I will spare your life.” As Gawain spoke, he picked the ropes off the goblin warlock's feet; as for the bound hands, he had no intention of addressing them for the time being.

The opponent was, after all, a warlock capable of casting third-level spells with a professional level of at least six; one had to remain somewhat cautious.

“Stay close to me. No funny business, and do not stray more than five paces away, or I cannot guarantee your safety.” Gawain had no intention of engaging in much conversation with this goblin warlock and turned to walk away.

“Yes, yes, yes!” The goblin warlock possessed not a shred of a spellcaster's dignity, following closely at Gawain's heels.

Whether it was his withered, tiny appearance or the dense scars of new and old wounds covering his body, everything indicated that his days in the Hobgoblin Warband had been far from easy.

His status as a warlock could not change the fact that he was a goblin; at most, he had merely transitioned from a low-level slave to a high-level slave, though his position was relatively low in the hierarchy.

A long life of slavery had worn away all his edges. Much like the many slaves Gawain had seen in his previous life, their behavioral patterns revolved around a single thing: survival.

Seeing through the goblin warlock did not mean Gawain would soften his heart and let him go; the creature was merely a new tool.

Leading the goblin warlock, Gawain ransacked Noteburg, scavenging all kinds of paper from every corner. He spared nothing, whether it was parchment or vellum, and finally, even unworked, writeable hides were not left behind.

It could not be helped; paper was a relatively scarce resource in Faerûn. It wasn't that papermaking technology didn't exist—the Elven papermaking technique was peerless in the world, producing paper as white as snow, as resilient as silk, and incredibly thin.

Their only flaw was their refusal to overproduce, as that would damage their beloved forests.

It was also difficult for other races to imitate, because any forest of significant scale was either inhabited by elves or guarded by druids or rangers, or even home to various fey or monsters. Large-scale logging would result in catastrophic consequences.

Initially, Gawain kept some of his energy focused on the goblin warlock, but he soon realized it was entirely unnecessary. The creature had been thoroughly conditioned by the hobgoblins and was brimming with servility.

When Gawain had just said he must not stray more than five paces, the goblin never once took a sixth.

Eventually, Gawain simply picked the ropes off the goblin's hands to help him carry the scavenged paper; after all, the creature's casting speed was not faster than Gawain's sword-drawing speed.

Despite his hunched posture and being less than half a man's height, the goblin's actual strength was certainly more than half, and he helped carry quite a lot of items.

Once Gawain felt he had collected a sufficient amount, he took the goblin warlock and ducked into the two-wheeled carriage Zarantda had assigned to him to continue his great work of translating books.

He didn't need to worry about the remaining matters; Zarantda would arrange for a driver to handle the carriage. As the first-in-line heir to the Note family, he possessed such privileges.

To advance his own plans, Gawain enjoyed this privilege with a clear conscience.

For the next day and night, aside from attending to personal needs, Gawain remained huddled in his two-wheeled carriage, writing feverishly. His progress was quite rapid.

During this process, he also conducted a new small experiment: merging self-hypnosis with the Elven trance.

At first, there were constant setbacks.

Sometimes Gawain would enter a trance state prematurely, but due to a low compatibility with the Weave, he would drift into a muddled dream state.

Other times, even when he entered a state of self-hypnosis, his body remained tense, failing to achieve the restorative purpose of the trance.

Through continuous trial and error, Gawain believed the possibility of success was very high. Especially as his mental consciousness continued to strengthen, this matter would likely come naturally. He did not attempt to force it at the moment.

The retreat was also plagued by minor issues.

Tethyr had been embroiled in warlord conflicts for many years, with local areas managed by various lords, resulting in uneven levels of governance.

The area within ten kilometers of Noteburg was relatively better; the Hobgoblin Warband that had previously besieged the fort had been thoroughly crushed by them, and their leadership had been wiped out. Forget about organizing pursuit and harassment teams—those fleeing soldiers ran faster than rabbits at the sight of their banners, fearing another round of hunting.

As for other scattered monsters, they had either fled after the arrival of the Hobgoblin Warband or had already been tossed into the pot to be stewed.

However, once outside this range, various monsters and bandit groups emerged.

If they merely watched from a distance, silently observing the military and civilians of Noteburg pass by, Zarantda would ignore them.

But for those who were short-sighted, Zarantda would not hesitate to deploy the Note cavalry to utterly crush them, sometimes even executing them all, even if they only lingered far behind. Once the carriages clearing the way were hung with the heads of various monsters and bandits, such unwise attempts decreased significantly.

By this time, their first destination, Kamy Village, was approaching.

At this point, the trajectory of history—at least Gawain's personal trajectory—had undergone a major deviation.

Without the hobgoblin pursuers, Roan and Osst had no opportunity to pull any tricks. Along the way, Gawain had not encountered them at all.

They, too, were huddled in their luxurious carriages, rarely showing their faces except to attend to personal physiological needs. Unsure of what schemes they were plotting, Gawain had no intention of worrying about them; regardless, he had decided to help Zarantda remove this stumbling block before he left.

"Master Gawain, Master Gawain! The Captain asked me to invite you over for a moment." The boy who had previously helped Gawain move his luggage ran quickly to the side of Gawain's carriage on a small pony.

This adolescent boy was named Darren, an orphan adopted by Zarantda into the militia.

The reason Gawain had deliberately inquired about the boy's name was that he had discovered the child possessed a willpower far beyond his imagination. Ever since Gawain had casually mentioned it, the boy had taken it to heart. Even on the retreat, he was never idle—either riding his pony back and forth to help, or finding time to practice swordsmanship and marksmanship. There were even times when he followed behind the cavalry, waving flags and shouting to boost morale.

His behavior had even motivated the other children in the Noteburg contingent; he was clearly the leader among them.

How much training he had received was a mere formality; with such passion and initiative, it would be difficult for him not to achieve something if he persisted. He was naturally worth Gawain's attention, as this child was likely to become one of Zarantda's most loyal core followers.

"Do you know what it is about?" Gawain stepped out to ask. He knew a significant problem must have arisen, as the convoy had been stationary for some time, and it was not mealtime.