Rookies

The moment Red claimed the twelve goblin quests, the guild hall went silent.

No one dared question him.

No one needed to.

He stood before the board like a statue of iron, unreadable and still. His armor was still smeared with blood from the last battle. His eyes, calm, but in their quiet stillness, something burned. A cold, calculating fire.

The receptionist took a breath as he returned to her desk. She glanced at the stack.

Sophia: "All twelve goblin quests for Silver rank and below."

"Twelve in total," Sophia said, scanning each slip. "Most of these are minor infestations. Eastward spread, villages, farms, outposts. They're meant for Silver-ranked groups, At most Bronze. You could finish them in your sleep."

"I'm putting them under my name," he said calmly.

She hesitated. "That's a lot of ground to cover. Are you planning to finish them all in one trip?"

Red: "Two days."

She blinked, then sighed as she began stamping the assignments. "You'll burn out at this pace eventually."

Red: "No."

She gave a faint whistle. "You planning to die in the forest?"

He didn't respond.

Sophia just shook her head and handed him the stack of completed slips. "Fine. But if you collapse in a ditch somewhere, don't expect me to send a search party."

Red nodded once, turned, and left the hall.

He moved through the night market like a shadow, choosing only what he needed and never lingering long at any stall. Dried meat. Root vegetables. Rice packs. Filtered water canisters. Cook-ready trail spices. A few bundles of field tea for the quiet hours between bloodshed.

This time, he bought it in bulk.

Enough food for two full days of riding and fighting.

And something else.

Tucked discreetly beneath his travel bag: wrapped bundles of dried loaves, jerky, and basic healing potions, enough to feed thirty people.

He didn't write names. Didn't leave notes. He never wanted thanks.

He simply prepared, because someone had to.

Once everything was packed, he returned to the eastern stables.

The stablemaster recognized him instantly.

"That gray Kokoroko's still recovering," he said, pointing to the stall where Red's previous mount lay resting, feathers ruffled and eyes drooping.

Red nodded. "I'll take a new one."

The man considered for a moment, then whistled toward the inner yard.

A moment later, a sleek black Kokoroko trotted forward, larger than the last, with sharper talons and alert eyes.

"She's younger. Faster. Strong stride. Name's yours to give."

Red approached, touched its side gently, and checked the saddle gear himself. It barely twitched beneath his hand.

Good.

He mounted. The creature adjusted smoothly beneath him, awaiting command.

Before he left, he checked every strap, every bag, every potion holster. Double-secured, tightly wrapped, balanced.

Preparation wasn't a habit. It was a principle.

But he didn't head straight out.

Not yet.

Just past the city's east gate, hidden behind a crooked row of abandoned stone homes, lay the slums. Not a district so much as a forgotten scar on Silverhaven's outer skin. No lanterns. No patrols. Just silence, smoke, and the smell of cheap burnwood and worn lives.

Red slowed his mount as he neared a half-toppled wall. He dismounted without a word and walked the last few meters on foot.

He reached an old, splintered crate behind what had once been a tanner's shop.

No one was there.

No one ever was.

He opened his bag, pulled out the bundles, dried food sealed in wrap-leaf, tightly corked red potions, and one rare orange. Enough for children, wounded men, and women with cracked hands and empty stomachs.

He placed them inside carefully. No noise. No trace. No gesture.

Then turned.

He didn't see the boy watching.

Hidden in the shadow of a crooked chimney, a young figure crouched silently. Dirt-smudged face.

Thin arms hugging his knees. Eyes sharp and unblinking, locked on the armored man walking away.

He would remember that cloak.

That quiet kindness wrapped in silence.

But Red never looked back.

The Kokoroko's claws struck stone and dirt as Red mounted again, the city lights fading behind him.

Ahead lay twelve locations.

Each one plagued by goblins. Each one marked with names of people who might already be dead, or worse.

He would reach them before that happened.

That was the difference between his rank and the rest.

He didn't hunt glory.

He hunted for certainty.

The wind picked up as he rode deeper into the wild east, the stars blinking between drifting clouds above him.

The forest whispered again, as it always did.

But Red didn't flinch.

He had a mission.

And no goblin would survive his passing.