Goblins (4)–village....

  ---

  The ground was soaked in green blood.

  Dozens of goblin corpses lay twisted and broken around me—some dismembered, others flattened like sacks of flesh under a butcher’s hammer.

  Entrails hung from branches.

  Severed arms reached for nothing.

  A twisted ballet of violence, painted in gore and silence.

  I stood in the center of it all, still and calm.

  The warm stench of death filled my lungs as I took a long breath in.

  ‘Not really pleasant.’

  The iron-like tang of blood clung to my nostrils, making it feel like I was breathing rust.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Soon, these corpses would dissolve—fading into the Tower’s ever-churning system of self-cleaning.

  Once the next floor’s quest began, all remnants of this slaughter would vanish—erased like chalk on a board.

  [Would you like to go to the 3rd Floor?]

  Not yet.

  There was something I needed to do before leaving this hellish forest.

  ‘Let’s set this place as a coordinate location.’

  [Saving Location...]

  A soft blue light formed beneath my feet, marking the blood-soaked clearing with invisible lines.

  The Tower allowed players to mark up to three Coordinate Locations per floor—personal teleport points. Once a floor was cleared, I could return instantly to any of these locations rather than spawning at the usual administrator buildings.

  A perfect system for someone like me.

  ‘I already saved the rebel outpost as one. This makes two.’

  With that done, I looked around one final time.

  The carnage. The silence. The stillness of death.

  ‘No more use staying here.’

  [Would you like to go to the next floor?]

  ‘Yes.’

  Blue light began to swirl around me—rising in a spiral, wrapping my body in shimmering strands.

  The world began to dissolve, as if peeling away layer by layer.

  [Please do not move. You are being transferred to the next floor in a few seconds.]

  The scenery changed with a soft pulse.

  The blood, the forest, the corpses—all vanished.

  When my vision cleared, I stood in the middle of a bustling town.

  Not as crowded or lively as the second floor floor’s towns, but still functional.

  Dusty streets.

  Stone and wooden buildings.

  A faint haze of smoke from nearby chimneys.

  It had the scent of burnt wood and bread, laced with sweat and survival.

  I didn’t stop to admire it.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  My feet carried me through the cobbled streets and toward the town’s edge.

  Guards glanced at me, some with curiosity, others with fatigue in their eyes.

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  None spoke.

  The exit gate loomed ahead.

  Beyond it, a wide expanse of plain grass awaited.

  Bright sunlight reflected off dew-kissed blades, and the air felt cleaner—fresher.

  ‘Where is he?’

  I scanned the field, eyes moving sharply across the figures dotting the horizon.

  And then I saw them.

  A man in a long, tattered hood, standing near a boulder by the path.

  He tried to conceal his face, but his posture was stiff—nervous.

  Two others stood nearby:

  A thin, pale woman with dark circles under her eyes and arms full of rolled parchments.

  And a large man with a round belly and a club slung over his back—Greg and Joe.

  I approached.

  “So you all are here,” I said casually.

  The hooded man looked up. “Oh! You’re finally here. Let’s go.”

  He turned and began walking, expecting me to follow.

  I matched his pace. “By the way, what’s your name? I forgot to ask last time.”

  He glanced sideways, surprised. “Oh! It’s Hemel. And you?”

  I grinned. “Well, I’ve got many names. But you can call me Rago.”

  “Huh... Is that so?” he muttered, puzzled by my answer.

  We didn’t stop to explain.

  The dirt path ahead stretched forward, weaving into a dense woodland.

  As we followed it, the trees soon parted, revealing a village nestled within a cleared-out basin.

  A village—small, but fortified.

  Sharpened logs formed a defensive perimeter. Watchtowers made of stitched-together planks stood at the corners, manned by cautious players with makeshift bows and spears.

  The nearby trees had been chopped down to create a clear buffer, making it harder for monsters—or enemies—to ambush the settlement.

  Inside, it was a humble place.

  Huts and shacks made of wood, stone, and repurposed dungeon debris formed crooked rows.

  Most roofs were patched with cloth tarps and stitched leather.

  Fences were built from scavenged bones or twisted roots.

  The villagers moved slowly—exhausted, wary, underfed.

  A man dragged a cart of dried meat.

  A woman stirred a pot over an open fire, smoke curling into the sky.

  Children ran barefoot through mud puddles, their laughter faint but genuine.

  ‘They’re players too… just like us.’

  Players are basically divided into many categories.

  Outsiders are those who are born out of Tower.

  They have to enter through the tutorial.

  Insider are those who are born inside the tower.

  They are players since birth but can only use their skills and climb towers when they reach age of 10 and pass tutorial made specifically for them.

  Special monsters are monsters who have gained status of player through certain conditions.

  They also have have separate tutorials.

  Climbers are those players who climb the Tower.

  Settlers are those who settles down on a particular floor instead of climbing further.

  These were settlers—players who chose to stop climbing and instead build lives where they could.

  People tired of fighting.

  People broken by the Tower’s cruelty.

  People seeking peace—even if fragile.

  Hemel glanced at me as we passed a communal well. “Most of these people used to be climbers. Some failed too many quests. Some just… gave up.”

  I nodded silently.

  Even in the Tower, where power meant survival, not everyone wanted to fight.

  ‘But still… why didn’t they go to the Empire?’

  I looked again.

  Ripped clothes. Empty stalls. Weak guards. Poor defenses.

  At the very least, the Empire could’ve given them better conditions.

  Food. Shelter. Structure.

  But they chose the Rebels instead.

  ‘It seems these rebels… and these settlers… all have some story.’

  I pondered as we reached a small wooden stall near the center of the village.

  Its vendor, an elderly man with scars on his neck and thick goggles over his eyes, nodded at us but didn’t speak.

  Wooden signs offered dried herbs, arrows, hand-carved traps, and makeshift maps of local monster nests.

  The village was poor, yes—but alive.

  And in the Tower, that meant something.

  I stood silently, letting the atmosphere soak in.

  There were stories here—hidden in every weathered face, every makeshift building, every scar.

  And soon… I’d uncover them all.

  ---

  "Please purchase our apple. It's really tasty!"

  A small, enthusiastic voice rang out from the side of the narrow village path.

  A boy no older than seven stood beside a rickety wooden stall.

  His clothes were a bit oversized and patched at the knees, his brown hair sticking out in messy tufts.

  Yet, his wide smile sparkled with energy as he raised a red apple high like it was a treasure.

  His mother, a pale woman with tired eyes but a kind face, stood behind him, arranging a small basket of slightly bruised apples.

  She looked up at me, a little surprised but hopeful.

  "Hey, what's your name?" I asked, crouching slightly to meet the boy's eyes.

  “It’s Sam, sir!” he answered eagerly, standing straighter with pride.

  "So Sam, how much for an apple?"

  “Just ten points for three apples!” he declared, his voice rising in excitement.

  “Okay then, sell me ten apples.”

  His eyes widened, and his smile stretched even further.

  “On it, sir!” he chirped, quickly fumbling to pack the apples into a worn but clean cloth pouch.

  I pulled a small 1 silver coin from my pouch and handed it over.

  His mother blinked, startled.

  “Keep the change,” I said casually.

  She quickly bowed. “Thank you, sir. Blessings to you…”

  I smiled gently, storing the apples in my inventory.

  Most players wouldn’t have bothered with these stalls.

  After all, Tower Points were precious.

  But I had more than enough.

  As I continued through the village, I stopped at each stall, talking with the locals.

  A man selling handmade daggers.

  A girl crafting bracelets with colored threads.

  An old lady with herbal remedies.

  Each of them shared a bit of their story—where they were from before entering the Tower, how long they'd been here, and what little they hoped for.

  They smiled at me, surprised by my questions and even more by my generosity.

  ‘Now the atmosphere feels a little different…’ I thought, taking out an apple from the inventory.

  I bit into it—crisp, sweet, and juicy.

  It was fresher and more flavorful than anything I remembered from Earth.

  “You’re a better person than I thought,” Hemel said behind me.

  Greg nodded in agreement, while Joe softened her usual stiff expression.

  “You bought from everyone,” Greg added.

  “Gave them more than the items were worth. That was… kind of cool.”

  “You really are a nice person,” Joe muttered, as if surprised by her own words.

  “It’s nothing,” I replied, biting into the apple again. “I just have a lot of Tower Points. Might as well put them to use.”

  Soon, we arrived before a building that stood out among the shabby houses.

  Made of stone with a roof of bark-layered tiles, it bore a wooden symbol—a cracked sword and a flame—painted crudely above the entrance.

  “This is the rebel branch base for the 3rd floor,” Hemel explained.

  But just as we were about to enter, a voice called out sharply.

  “Hemel! Where have you been?”

  It was a boy’s voice—youthful, but confident. Commanding.

  I turned and was momentarily caught off guard.

  A boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, stood with arms crossed, glaring at us.

  His black hair fell in soft waves over his forehead, contrasting with his piercing red eyes.

  He wore a dark cloak, slightly oversized for his thin frame, but his posture was unshakably proud.

  His boots were polished.

  His chin tilted slightly upward like he was always addressing someone below him.

  Despite his age, he had the presence of a general.

  Or at least, someone who desperately wanted to be seen as one.

  ‘Who’s this chuunibyou-looking brat?’ I mused inwardly, trying to suppress a smirk.

  The boy's sharp gaze shifted to me.

  “And who is this person you brought with you?” he asked Hemel with a frown, the corners of his mouth turned down as if my mere presence annoyed him.

  Hemel opened his mouth to reply, but I stepped forward calmly.

  “Well, my name is Rago,” I said with a light smile. “I can help you destroy the Empire. Would you mind hearing me out?”

  The boy narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to gauge my seriousness.

  “I heard about you,” he said, voice laced with suspicion. “But how can you help us when you're just one person?”

  “I’m not asking you to trust me completely,” I replied smoothly.

  "I only ask you to give it a try. There’s no harm, right? Especially since I’ve already made a mana oath.”

  He clicked his tongue slightly, then looked away, considering.

  A few moments passed before he finally spoke again.

  “Hmm… fine. I’ll talk to the leader.”

  “Good.” I nodded. “But for now, can you provide me a team of players? They don’t need to be strong.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why do you suddenly need a team?”

  I grinned.

  “I’m thinking about going on a little goblin hunt.”

  He raised an eyebrow, puzzled for a moment.

  Then he crossed his arms again and tilted his head with a mocking half-smile.

  “Hmph. Goblins, huh? Alright, let's see what you can do”

  His words were sharp, but there was a flicker of interest in his eyes—curiosity, maybe even challenge.