The night was alive with the hum of voices— the soft clinks of glasses, and the occasional low whistle of a passing train as it slid down its iron tracks.
Downtown Grekok felt as if it were trapped in a perpetual twilight, where the shops never closed and the streets never slept. Lanterns hung high on wrought iron posts— casting a warm amber light over cobblestone streets that glistened faintly in the night air, polished by countless footsteps. In the distance, the sound of gentle music floated from a nearby café that mingled with the low murmurs of the crowd. It gave the entire place a strange, comforting ambiance— cozy, yet not without the faint undercurrent of tension that came with city life, especially how late at night it was.
Massive, fortress-like walls surrounded the horizon where the towering fifty meters stood high— their surfaces embedded with brass pipes that vented occasional puffs of steam into the cool night air. Above, on the rooftops and along battlements built into the walls, sentries stood vigilant— musket-bearing soldiers with tall hats and archers with sleek, silver bows.
Their figures were silhouetted by the gaslight flickering from reinforced watchtowers. Every now and then, the glow of their lanterns would reveal enormous artillery cannons stationed at intervals— humming faintly with mechanical energy, their gleaming barrels pointed out over the horizon.
On the streets below, people of all kinds bustled about— some haggling with vendors, others lingering near the doors of pubs and shops, their conversations merging into a steady background hum. Pedestrians in fine coats, wide hats, and intricate gowns moved beside laborers hauling crates and goods. The wares on display in the windows were strange and intricate: brass telescopes, copper-lined devices with endless gears, and other contraptions that twinkled in the lamplight, hinting at their mysterious and complex functions.
The place felt almost magical— like stepping into a dream of both the future and the past.
In the midst of this scene, Lizard Priest, Dwarf Shaman, and High Elf Archer sat waiting on an iron bench— tucked beneath a wide arch near the grand entrance to the train station. The station itself rose high above the courtyard, with its towering staircases lined with brass railings and shimmering glass, and illuminated by clockwork chandeliers that hung from massive chains overhead. And as the train departed, the sound of its metal wheels rolling down the tracks blended into the background noise.
Lizard Priest's eyes moved slowly over the pages of the atlas Goblin Slayer had left with him— his long fingers turning the pages with delicate care. Beside him, Dwarf Shaman leaned back lazily on the bench— his legs barely reaching the ground, a half-empty wine flask resting on his rounded belly.
The dwarf's cheeks were slightly flushed from drink, and he gave a contented sigh, with his gaze wandering across the busy courtyard. The faint strains of a piano drifted over from a nearby tavern, where a pianist plinked out a cheerful tune— creating a strange contrast to the faint tension in the air.
High Elf Archer, however, was far from relaxed.
She sat at the edge of the bench, her green eyes trained hungrily on a food vendor stationed near the grand staircase— specifically, on the enormous turkey legs sizzling on the vendor's grill. She could almost taste the smoky, savory flavor, with her mouth watering as she leaned forward slightly, and her thoughts utterly consumed by the sight and smell of the roasting meat.
Suddenly, she blinked— snapping back to reality. Her stomach growled, and with a groan, she glanced up at the large mechanical clock hanging above the nearest shop. The hands slowly ticked toward midnight, with the minute hand creeping closer to the number twelve.
"Where is… Uh… You know…?" She mumbled, running a hand through her silver hair. "That guy… Goblin-Slasher, or something like that…?"
Dwarf Shaman let out a low chuckle, sipping from his flask before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Beard Cutter," he corrected, the words rolling off his tongue in his thick, dwarven accent. "That's his name, lass."
High Elf Archer blinked, turning to the dwarf with a look of confusion and mild disbelief. ""Beard Cutter?" That wasn't his name, is it?!"
"Aye, it is." Dwarf Shaman grinned smugly, settling deeper into the bench— clearly enjoying the bewilderment on her face. "In Dwarvish, "Goblin Slayer" translates to "Beard Cutter." It's what we call a knife we use for slicing goblins' throats. Very famous among our kind, ye see."
The elf stared at him, mouth slightly agape— trying to process what he was saying. "That's… That's the most esoteric bullcrap I've ever heard," she finally retorted, while shaking her head. Her eyes narrowed slightly in disbelief as she leaned back on the bench, while crossing her arms over her flat chest.
Dwarf Shaman let out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing off the cobblestones. "Ah, ye just don't understand the subtleties of Dwarvish, lass!" He leaned in closer, grinning from ear to ear. "From now on, I'm callin' him Beard Cutter. That's final."
High Elf Archer groaned, rolling her eyes. "Neither of us even speak Dwarvish! That's like if I called him Orcblog!" Her tone was sharp, but there was a hint of amusement as she threw the word out— knowing full well it wouldn't make sense to the dwarf.
Dwarf Shaman's laughter slowed, and he raised an eyebrow. "Orcblog? And what does that mean?"
"It's Elvish for "Goblin Slayer"," she retorted, smirking. "At least it makes sense to call him that! It doesn't require you to know an inside joke, just to understand it in a different language!"
Lizard Priest, who had been quietly following the exchange, lifted his head from the atlas and closed the book with a thoughtful hum. "An interesting debate," he said in his slow, measured voice. "But does anyone here know his true name?"
His question hung in the air for a moment— creating a pause in the conversation. High Elf Archer's smug expression faded as she frowned, with her thinking hard. The crowd around them seemed to drift by unnoticed as each of them considered the question. Dwarf Shaman rubbed his beard thoughtfully, and even Lizard Priest looked inward, as if searching for an answer.
After a moment, Lizard Priest spoke again, his tone taking on a poetic quality. "Are we not all strangers, even among friends? Perhaps names, like faces, are things we should share— by dinner time, at least."
High Elf Archer scoffed, arms still crossed. "If he ever shows up to pay for dinner, like how he said he would," she muttered, glancing back at the clock. It was nearing half-past eleven, and her patience was wearing thin. "For all we know, he's getting tortured by inquisitors as we speak."
Dwarf Shaman shot her a disapproving look, shaking his head. "Now, don't ye go saying things like that. It's bad luck."
She opened her mouth to fire back, but the dwarf's stern tone made her hesitate. She bit her lip— her earlier bravado shrinking away as she glanced around nervously. "W-Whatever," she mumbled, though the thought of inquisitors lurking in the shadows made her shudder.
For a moment, they sat in silence— each lost in their thoughts. The cozy music continued to play, mixing with the sounds of the bustling city, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere. But just as the tension began to settle, High Elf Archer's ears twitched. She perked up, her eyes locking onto the crowd emerging from the Eastern Gate tunnel.
"There he is," she announced under her breath, while leaning forward as she pointed. Her voice, once laced with frustration, now carried a note of relief.
Dwarf Shaman followed her gaze and grinned widely. "Aye, there's Beard Cutter now!" He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Oi! Beard Cutter! Over here!"
High Elf Archer shot him a look, but couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips. "Orcblog!" She called, waving her arms enthusiastically. "This way!"
Lizard Priest stood, raising one hand in a calm, measured greeting. "It seems our friend has returned," he said, his voice barely carrying over the noise.
Goblin Slayer emerged from the dense crowd spilling out of the Eastern Gate tunnel, his presence barely noticeable at first among the stream of people, but as he pushed forward, his movements sharp and deliberate, it was clear that something was off. The usual calm in his gait was replaced by an almost mechanical stiffness.
The others noticed it immediately.
"There he is— it's him," High Elf Archer said, half relieved, half annoyed. She even got up off the bench to preemptively speak to him, but her attempt at a cheerful greeting was met with nothing.
He didn't even glance in her direction.
Goblin Slayer came to a halt in front of them with his posture tense beneath his stitched leather armor. His visor tilted slightly downward, his tone curt, almost as though every syllable grated on his nerves. "Chosen a place?" He asked without preamble— his words clipped, cold.
High Elf Archer's arm dropped, her initial wave turning into a frustrated huff. "Nice to see you too— you little asshole," she muttered, sarcasm heavy in her voice, but thenteen's attention was already elsewhere.
Dwarf Shaman, still seated, sighed as he leaned in and whispered, "Give the lad a break. He's not in the mood for yer sass."
Goblin Slayer stood motionless, the tension in his body palpable. The weight of his nearly two-hour interrogation still lingered over him like a dark cloud; his jaw clenched beneath the helmet as he stared blankly at the nearby buildings, as the festive lights and cheerful music did nothing to lighten his mood.
Lizard Priest, always the most upbeat of the group, opened the atlas with a flourish— grinning as he pointed eagerly to a page marked with a hand-drawn star. "Look! I found the perfect place," he said, his forked tongue flicking with excitement. ""Chester's Cheddar Kingdom!" They have all kinds of cheese dishes— baked, grilled, melted… I asked the local youth, and they say Chef Pee Pee's cuisine is to die for!" He leaned closer to Goblin Slayer, beaming. "Doesn't that sound delightful?!"
Without a word, Goblin Slayer snatched the atlas from Lizard Priest's hands— his armored fingers gripping it tighter than necessary. He brought it up to his visor, scanned the page for barely a moment, then shoved it back into Lizard Priest's hands with a force that made the priest stumble slightly.
Still silent, Goblin Slayer turned on his heel and began walking toward the street beyond the courtyard garden, his pace brisk, and his helmet fixed forward as if the crowd and his companions didn't exist.
Lizard Priest blinked in confusion, glancing between the others, with the atlas still clutched awkwardly to his chest. "He must be even more excited than I am for cheese," he said, his voice full of earnest optimism. "I didn't think such a thing was even possible!"
High Elf Archer rolled her eyes, as she watched Goblin Slayer push through the crowd— his irritation practically radiating off him in waves. "What crawled up his ass and died…?" She muttered bitterly.
Dwarf Shaman sighed, tucking his leather canteen back into his robe. "I've a feelin' it's the work of an inquisitor," he said quietly, standing up from the bench and motioning for her to follow as they trailed behind Goblin Slayer and Lizard Priest.
High Elf Archer's eyes widened slightly, her brow furrowing in surprise. "Shit…! I-I was kidding when I said he might've been tortured…! Do you really think…?"
"Nah, lass, not like that." Dwarf Shaman shook his head, while adjusting the straps of his pack as he began walking beside her. "He's walkin' too well for that. All his parts intact, no limp, no blood… If an inquisitor had gone that far, he wouldn't be marchin' off like this."
High Elf Archer frowned, with her eyes narrowing as she looked ahead at Goblin Slayer again. He was shoving past people now— not even bothering to offer a word of apology as he roughly maneuvered through the crowd. Lizard Priest, trailing in his wake, was left apologizing to anyone that the enraged teen had pushed aside— cheerfully offering reassurances like, "He's just hangry for cheese!"
The elf's frown deepened as she turned back to Dwarf Shaman. "Then what do you think happened to him?"
Dwarf Shaman's face darkened as memories crept in, his eyes taking on a distant look. "Reminds me of the time I first came to Crossbell," he began slowly, his voice heavy with experience. "Was barely forty years old— fresh-faced and eager to join the adventurers. But they told me I had to apply for subject status from the Census Headquarters." He chuckled darkly, though there was no humor in the sound. "That's when they pulled me aside for a background check… By an inquisitor, no less."
High Elf Archer glanced at him, her curiosity piqued as she noticed the way his fingers curled into fists, the knuckles whitening as they clutched the straps of his pack. "What happened?"
"They try to get under yer skin," Dwarf Shaman continued, his voice low, as if speaking the words summoned the memory back in sharper detail. "They use everything they know about ye— everything yer past can offer— to prod at yer insecurities. Ye can't tell if they're doin' it to piss ye off, or if they're just good at their job. They do it, so they can test ye'— see if ye' pose a danger to the ones lucky enough to be born with a silver-spoon in their mouths."
He took a deep breath, with his eyes narrowing as he recalled the cold, clinical way the inquisitor had spoken to him all those years ago. "That bastard brought up my father's record… He said that he died like a worthless fat ass in the Zemuria Conquest. Called him a better pincushion for arrows than he was a man."
High Elf Archer's steps slowed as she listened— her eyes widening as she noticed the shift in Dwarf Shaman's tone. His usually jovial, easy going demeanor was now marred by something darker— something old and bitter.
"And then the sod had the gull to insult my own mother," Dwarf Shaman continued, his voice tightening. "Told me how he was going to send a platoon of recruits to visit 'er with the address I gave 'em… Said he would have them shag her— show 'er what real cock feels like."
High Elf Archer's face flushed with anger on his behalf. "Fuck the Empire," she muttered through clenched teeth, her voice low. "They're all just a bunch of jackasses who-Glurk?!"
Before she could finish, Dwarf Shaman uncapped his wine bottle and shoved it against her lips— causing her to splutter as the sudden influx of liquid hit her throat. She choked and coughed violently as she wiped the spilled wine from her chin— glaring at him between ragged breaths.
Dwarf Shaman calmly recapped the canteen, a small, apologetic smile on his face. "I'm sorry, lass, but remember— the Emperor's ears are everywhere here. Last thing we need is an inquisitor visitin' us personally."
High Elf Archer coughed one last time— rubbing her throat as she shot him a dirty look, but the weight of his words settled over her. She glanced at Goblin Slayer, who was still stomping ahead— the crowd parting before him as he moved with purpose.
"Gods," she muttered, her voice now hoarse from the wine. "What did they say to him…?!"
The restaurant was a chaotic wonderland, like something out of a child's dream but filtered through the grimy lens of a fantasy world struggling to keep up with its own technological advancements.
The brick-lined walls hummed with gears and steam pipes that hissed overhead— powering the lights and the brass fixtures scattered around the room. "Chester's Cheddar Kingdom" was alive with the sound of children laughing, screaming, and chattering in delight. An enormous midway arcade stretched along one wall, filled with flashing lights and the mechanical clunking of games.
At one corner, a strength tester glowed— its mechanical mallet swinging down as a tiny orc girl slammed it with all her might. The meter shot up to "Mighty Champion!" with a loud clang, and she jumped up and down, while her tusks glistened as she cheered. "I did it! Look, mom! Dad!" She squealed with her parents clapping behind her— their tusks flashing in proud grins.
Across from her, a group of goblin children crowded around a basketball machine— their sharp little claws gripping the rubber balls, as they threw them towards a hoop that hovered just a bit too high for their height. A mechanical scoreboard clattered noisily above them, counting each miss and score with unforgiving precision.
Nearby, an elf girl with short brown hair focused intently on a shooting gallery game. She and other non-human children gripped wooden flintlock pistols— aiming at interactive targets of bouncing clowns popping up from behind wooden barrels. Each hit caused a little mechanical jester to fall over— cackling as they went down.
In the midst of it all, Chester Entertainment Cheddar— an anthropomorphic rat nearly seven feet tall, with fur matted from years of grease and pizza crumbs— strolled through his restaurant, with a fat cigar clamped between his lips. His ratty red vest clung to his broad frame, and in one hand he effortlessly balanced a tower of boxed pizzas. In the other, he held a polished dress cane— tapping it against the floor as he limped along.
The copper tokens the children clutched bore his face, their edges worn from countless hands exchanging them for prizes and games. He made his way to the party room at the back of the restaurant— a cloud of cigar smoke trailing behind him. He paused in the doorway, glanced up at the ceiling, and blew a slow— a deliberate puff of smoke spiraled lazily upward, disappearing into the dim lighting. His expression was a mixture of boredom and exhaustion, as though he'd lived too many years in the same godforsaken pizza joint.
"Here's yer fuckin' pizzas," he grumbled in a rough accent, as he flicked the boxes onto the table where Goblin Slayer, High Elf Archer, Dwarf Shaman, and Lizard Priest sat. Without waiting for a thank you or even acknowledging their presence further, Chester limped away— the cane clicking on the floor as he vanished into the throng of children.
Despite the grimy conditions of the establishment, the party table they were seated at held a feast filled with a large basket of Buffalo wings dripping with sauce, garlic breadsticks fresh from the oven, and two pitchers of microbrew beer that foamed at the top. A basket of fries sat next to a pitcher of Sharky Cola— the local sugary beverage that sparkled darkly under the dim lights.
Goblin Slayer sat at the head of the table—his orichalcum helmet set aside, revealing his pale face. His crimson eyes stared darkly at the pizza in front of him, but it wasn't the food he saw— it was something darker, something that lingered in the back of his mind, like a shadow he couldn't shake.
He muttered to himself between long, steady gulps of Sharky Cola— the liquid disappearing down his throat as if it were some form of cheap liquor he was trying to drown his demons in.
"What kind of freaking restaurant did you pick, Jaree…?!" High Elf Archer muttered, leaning back in her chair— her eyes wide in disbelief at the circus of lights and noise that surrounded them. The sight of children with rat-faced tokens, the mechanical noises from the arcade, and the unsettling owner himself was almost too much.
Lizard Priest clapped his hands together excitedly— the child-sized party hat atop his head wobbling slightly. It was too small for his head, yet he wore it proudly. "A very good restaurant!" He declared, while opening one of the pizza boxes— steam rising from the gooey, five-cheese masterpiece within.
His forked tongue flicked out eagerly— tasting the air before he grabbed a slice, holding it reverently before taking a massive bite. His eyes widened as tears of pure joy welled up in the corners. "This… This is the best food I've ever had," he whispered, before shoving the rest of the slice into his mouth and chewing happily.
High Elf Archer stared at him in disbelief— her arms crossed as she scowled at the absurdity of it all. "Seriously? This place is like a nightmare."
Lizard Priest didn't seem to hear her, as he was too enraptured by the sheer joy of his meal. His forked tongue flicked out again, tasting the air before diving in for another slice— his hands working quickly as he devoured it with unabashed glee. "The cheese... It's perfect," he mumbled between mouthfuls— wiping another tear from his eye.
Meanwhile, Goblin Slayer remained silent— his crimson gaze focused on nothing, as he continued to mutter darker and more incoherently with each sip of Sharky Cola. His hand gripped the plastic cup tightly— the crack of the cheap material barely noticeable amidst the cacophony around them.
Dwarf Shaman leaned back in his seat, staring at the tension brewing across the table as he took a deep, contemplative chug of his beer. His mind was racing, trying to figure out how to ease the situation, but the weight of Goblin Slayer's brooding mood hung over them all like a bad omen.
With a reluctant sigh, the white-haired dwarf reached for the unopened box of pepperoni pizza— opening it slowly as if it were a delicate task. The smell of greasy cheese and spice wafted up, making his stomach rumble despite the tension. He plucked a slice, still dripping with hot grease, and set it on a ceramic plate before pushing it toward Goblin Slayer.
"Here, lad," Dwarf Shaman said uneasily, extending the plate like it might bite back. "You should have a slice. Ain't no shame in eating a little comfort food, eh? Hell, might even help ye feel better. You know, they say goblins are terrified of pepperoni. Can't stand the sight of it. Too spicy for their little taste buds."
Goblin Slayer didn't respond. His crimson eyes remained cold as he stared at Dwarf Shaman— wordless and unblinking, as if the simple act of offering food was a personal insult.
Without a word, he grabbed the handle of the glass pitcher filled with Sharky Cola and aggressively dumped the sugary soda into his empty cup— spilling some onto the table. He returned to muttering under his breathaa his voice low and filled with seething hatred, as though replaying some dark memory over and over in his mind.
Dwarf Shaman flinched slightly, as he awkwardly pulled the plate of pizza back toward himself. He chuckled nervously, trying to shake off the cold shoulder. "Ah, well, maybe you're just more of a wings man, eh? No worries, lad, no worries."
But the joke didn't land either.
High Elf Archer, who had been silently watching the whole exchange with growing frustration, finally had enough. With an exasperated growl, she stood up from her seat— the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the checkered floor.
Leaning over the table, she glared down at Goblin Slayer, her sharp elven eyes narrowing. "Alright, I've had it!" She snapped, her voice rising above the noise of the restaurant. "It's two in the goddamn morning, and this?! This little "bitch-fit" you're throwing?! I'm done— I'm done with it!"
The party room fell into a stunned silence, all the other patrons and kids freezing mid-chew, mid-laugh. Even Chester Entertainment Cheddar's band on stage faltered— the furry creatures exchanging awkward glances as their instruments continued to play out of sync with the moment.
High Elf Archer jabbed a finger toward Goblin Slayer, her voice sharp with irritation. "We've tried everything! We've given you space, we've tried to talk to you, ask you if you're okay. Hell, we played those stupid arcade games with you, and we even sang along to that godforsaken band of furries on stage! What more do you want?!"
Dwarf Shaman started to interject, raising a hand to calm her down. "Lass, maybe now's not the-"
"-Don't you DARE baby him again!" she shouted, cutting him off without even looking his way. Her focus was solely on Goblin Slayer now. Her voice dripped with anger and hurt as she grabbed his collar, yanking him toward her so that they were face-to-face, her knuckles white with frustration. "Either grow up and move on, or just tell us what's is wrong already, so we can all be done with this stupid crap!"
Her grip loosened, and she shoved him back into his chair, glaring at him. "Look. We don't have to be friends, but we're sure as hell not going to be your punching bags! So either you drop your bad attitude, or we're dropping you. It's not fair for us to be treated like shit, and I'm not gonna allow it."
The entire restaurant had fallen dead quiet, the air thick with tension. Murmurs erupted among the customers— whispers spreading like wildfire. Even the band on stage looked more uncomfortable than before— their awkward, jerky movements continuing to play out their tune as they cast nervous glances toward the party room.
Goblin Slayer didn't react for what felt like an eternity. The two of them locked in an intense stare, the whole restaurant watching like an audience at a gladiator match. His crimson eyes burned under the dim lighting— his expression unreadable beneath the grim shadow of his thoughts. Finally, after what seemed like an unbearable silence, he muttered a single word under his breath.
"Fine."
Without another word, he slammed his backpack onto the table— startling everyone. He began aggressively sorting through it, with his companions watching with wide-eyed confusion as he pulled out a leather-bound journal. His hands were rigid, almost shaking as he flipped it open to the first blank page and dropped it onto the table with a loud thud.
Reaching into his belt satchel, he retrieved his fancy pen— polished silver with intricate engravings— and began scribbling furiously across the paper.
High Elf Archer blinked, taken aback by his sudden shift. "W… What do you think you're doing?" She asked— her voice sharp but now tinged with uncertainty.
Goblin Slayer didn't look up— his pen scratching angrily against the page. "What you wanted," he spat bitterly. "Moving on."
His writing was fast and forceful— the ink bleeding into the paper with every word. He was venting, with his emotions spilling out onto the page in dark, jagged letters. The room was so silent now that the only sound was the furious scraping of his pen against the parchment.
High Elf Archer exchanged a look with Dwarf Shaman, who shook his head disapprovingly as he took another swig of beer. She scoffed while shaking her head as she sank back down into her seat— clearly not satisfied but not willing to push any further.
Lizard Priest, who had been quietly holding his fourth slice of pizza, was visibly uncomfortable. The undersized party hat still perched crookedly on his head only made him look more out of place.
He lowered his eyes, his voice small and awkward as he spoke into the uncomfortable silence. "This... Is making me feel more uncomfortable than the rat was."
His words broke the tension just enough, but the mood remained heavy as Goblin Slayer continued to scribble down his thoughts, while the rest of the table sat in uneasy silence.