Chapter 110: The Plan Failed?

E-rank dungeon,

Open Chamber,

A goblin rose with the first dim light that threaded the chamber, as uncomplicated as any other morning in the settlement. It padded out, joints creaking, nose twitching at the familiar damp air. The path to the pond was routine—water first, then a hunt for wild hogs with the patrol.

But halfway there a sharp, foul scent struck him. He froze.

Keihhk…?

The stench thickened as he crept forward, the hairs along his neck rising. Something lay by the path—shapes that did not belong. He loped closer on quick feet and found a body. A goblin corpse. Smell washed over him: the pungent tang of another tribe.

He staggered back as recognition hit—the crude necklace, the boar tusk carved with a white-marked symbol. This body wore the mark of the other camp. And worse: the face beneath the torn skin was small, young—the chief’s child.

The goblin’s frantic screech echoed through the camp as it tore into the chief’s hut.

For a moment, the sound of muffled growls came from inside—then CRASH!

The same goblin was hurled out, tumbling across the dirt like a rag doll. Its body hit the ground hard, rolling before it scrambled weakly to its knees.

From the shadow of the hut, a massive figure emerged. A green-skinned brute, muscles bulging like knotted ropes, scars clawing across his face, and eyes burning with raw fury. He stepped forward, each stride like a hammerfall.

The scarred goblin threw back his head and bellowed, a guttural roar that shook the camp.

“Kehekkkkk!!!”

Every goblin in the X-flag tribe froze—then answered with shrieks of their own, dropping everything to gather around their leader. The war cry had been given. Weapons and crude tools rose high as they stampeded out of the village, rage carrying them toward the Circle-flag tribe.

—

At the other side of the open chamber, the same grim script played out. A Circle-flag goblin patrolled toward the pond, sniffed the air, discovered the other corpse placed for that path, and recognized the symbol. The shriek flew like lightning back to his leader—a chest-scarred goblin who answered with a thunder of rage. The Circle tribe gathered and charged.

—

The two tribes met in a rolling collision of snarls and crude steel. Claws tore, spears thrust, and the chamber filled with wild sounds—keihhk, kehhh, the clatter of bone on bone. Leaders crashed together in brutal, red-eyed fury while lesser goblins scattered, shoved, and tore at one another.

From the tall grass near the pond, Drevin and Col watched it unfold like a grim theater. The scene was both terrible and precise—the plan was doing exactly what it was meant to do.

Col’s breath hitched, then exhaled into a short laugh. “Yes!” he hissed under his breath. “It worked.”

Drevin’s expression didn’t change much; his eyes stayed sharp and calculating. He gave a curt nod. “Good. Now move—get the rest of them here, quietly.” His voice was a whisper of steel.

Col turned and ran into gateway, running with the practiced silence of a scout who knew how to vanish from sight.

They had ignited the spark. Now they had to bring the —the rest of Class Caelis—so the hunt could begin.

Drevin crouched low in the tall grass, eyes following the brutal clash of the two goblin tribes. Green bodies tore into one another, leaders locked in a furious grapple, snarls echoing through the chamber. The plan was working—until a sound cut through the chaos.

“KEHHHHHHHK!!!”

The screech was different. Deeper. Older. Authority poured from it like venom.

Drevin’s head snapped toward the noise. “What the—?”

From the far side of the chamber, a figure limped forward. Not like the others—its back was hunched, skin dark and leathery, a crooked staff clutched in its clawed hand. Its eyes burned with pale green fire. With each step it took, the fighting goblins froze, their snarls dying in their throats. Even the scar-faced and chest-scarred leaders turned stiff, glaring but not daring to move.

“KeHHHHHHK!! KeHeKKKKK!!!”

The cry was sharp and commanding, more than animal—it was words, power threaded through guttural sound.

Drevin’s chest tightened as every goblin head slowly turned… toward him. Toward the tall grass where he hid.

“Oh… shit.” His whisper was a blade of dread. “The plan failed. That thing’s a mutation—a goblin mage…”

The words had barely left his mouth when movement flickered at the gateway. Col slipped back in, the rest of Class Caelis following stealthily under Maera’s lead. Relief surged in Drevin—then curdled into alarm.

His voice cut through the chamber in a desperate shout.

“THE PLAN FAILED! THEY KNOW YOU’RE HERE!!!”

The warning came a heartbeat too late.

A hail of arrows screamed from the goblin ranks, cutting through the air in a deadly rain. Students cried out, caught off guard—

But a flash of silver and green surged ahead.

Lia stepped forward, her new blade gleaming white like moonlight. The single-edged sword thrummed with a fresh aura, its steel wreathed in a razor wind.

“Wind Butterfly: Elegant Speed!”

Her form blurred, a streak of fluttering wind, her blade slashing faster than eyes could follow. Each arrow shattered or deflected, fragments raining harmlessly around the students.

The class stared in shock, wide-eyed at her impossible speed.

From the field, Drevin’s voice rang out again. “They’ve got a goblin mage! All of them fear it—that’s why they weren’t fighting before. It wasn’t the water source… it was because that thing forbade it!”

Maera’s eyes widened, a curse slipping from her lips.

“Damn it…!”

The battlefield had just changed.

The goblins roared as one, their guttural cries echoing through the clearing, and like a wave of green bodies, they surged toward the students. Three broke off instantly, charging straight for Drevin, their jagged blades raised high.

“Formation!” Maera’s voice cut through the chaos.

In an instant, they moved—trained, drilled, and ready. The fighters closed ranks, steel and will forming a wall. Maera herself stepped forward, red metal gauntlets gleaming under the flickering light of the campfires. Yellow veins of enchantment pulsed faintly through the metal as her claws extended with a metallic snap. She dropped into stance, eyes narrowing, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike.

Beside her, Lia raised her white sword, blade humming faintly with mana as her stance sharpened, calm but deadly. Ron gripped the black spear he had claimed from the Reliquary, lowering it into position, the weapon almost seeming to drink in the surrounding light.

Selene remained just behind, staff braced, crystal tip glowing faintly as arcane runes spun to life around her fingers. Her lips moved silently, a spell already forming.

And then, at the back, Jax twirled his twin guns with a flourish, stopping with both muzzles aimed forward. He grinned.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Maximum effort.”

He crossed his arms wide, then lowered them in a dramatic, sweeping motion—his stance looking more like a stage performance than a battlefield. Yet the mana that began to gather around him silenced any doubts.

The twin barrels thrummed, faint red light spilling from their edges.

One second.

Two.

By the fifth, both tips burned bright crimson.

“Spellshooter’s Arsenal: Incinerate.”

A small fiery-red magic circle flared to life at each muzzle. From them, two bead-sized bullets of mana shot outward—then twisted, pulled together midair, fusing into a single blazing orb.

“Here comes the sun, goblins,” Jax smirked.

The orb swelled rapidly, until it burned like a miniature star. When it struck the first goblin, the creature didn’t even have time to scream before it was consumed in fire. The explosion followed a heartbeat later—BOOM!—a fiery blast carving a crater into the earth. Several more goblins were flung aside, charred and writhing.

For a moment, smoke and flame masked the battlefield.

But when it cleared… more goblins still came. Dozens, screeching, bloodlust unshaken. Their glowing red eyes fixed on the students, trampling over their fallen kin as though nothing had happened.

While the main formation held strong, Drevin stood a little apart, his back near the edge of the hut’s shadow. His breathing was steady, eyes sharp. But three goblins had broken from the horde, rushing straight toward him with jagged blades raised high.

He exhaled slowly and raised his obsidian bow. Its surface gleamed with an eerie dark luster, the shadows around it seeming to ripple unnaturally. In one smooth motion, he nocked not one but three arrows at once, the black shafts humming with energy.

“Nightstalk Arrow—Umbra Volley.”

The release was soundless. Three streaks of darkness shot out, slicing through the air like fangs of shadow. But halfway to their targets, each arrow splintered—fragmenting into a storm of smaller projectiles. They twisted mid-flight, their trajectories chaotic, impossible to follow.

The goblins screeched, raising their crude weapons, but the storm was already upon them. Dozens of shadow-tipped bolts tore into their bodies, ripping holes through flesh and muscle. One goblin staggered, collapsed face-first. Another had its arm shredded clean off. The third, pierced from every angle, crumpled to the ground in silence.

The fragments dissolved into wisps of darkness, leaving nothing but the mutilated corpses behind.

Drevin lowered his bow, eyes scanning the battlefield again. Calm. Cold. Already seeking his next target.

The battle had just begun.

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