The Skeleton Soldier Failed to Defend the Dungeon
Chapter 64. Victory of Humanity (4)

Chapter 64. Victory of Humanity (4)

"The goblin dungeon, you say?" the man said, his voice laced with suspicion.

I glanced at the bandits. Their grips tightened on their weapons, their tension palpable. Although it didn't matter because I could kill them all without much effort if they attacked at once. I could tell from their stances alone.

I had nothing to hide, so I nodded casually. "Yes, the goblin dungeon."

The scar-faced man asked, "And... why do you want to know?"

My question wasn't suspicious. I was just asking about the location of the goblin dungeon.

Still, their reactions seemed overly cautious.

Are they somehow involved with the dungeon?

They looked like ordinary bandits, so I couldn't understand their apprehension. "Curiosity, I suppose."

"Are you... playing games with us?"*

"What, you don't want to answer?"

I locked eyes with the scar-faced bandit. His face was dirty and menacing, and his black hair twisted and braided into strands that hung down to his shoulders. His cheeks were sunken, and his jaw was broad and angular, giving him an imposing look. Based on his appearance, he appeared more intimidating than Benson Pretcher, the brute with a hammer, or even the bald captain of the guards in Yublam. But that was all.

His voice trembled. "I-it's not that we don't want to answer... Just tell us why you're asking!"

Already scared, huh?

I could understand his fear. I had just leaped out of a flaming pit, fully armored and seemingly unscathed. Even at a glance, I wasn't an opponent to take lightly.

He was understandably terrified of an unknown knight. I glanced at his weapon: a spiked iron club smeared with blood. His grip on it was sloppy, his stance pitiful. Though he looked cruel, his demeanor screamed of someone who only bullied the weak.

The distance between us was minimal—just three or four steps, and I could cut down all five of them with ease. However, killing them immediately wouldn't do because I needed to ask about the dungeon first.

"It's nothing much."

Pat, pat.

I brushed off my gauntlet, scattering the black, ashy remnants of the map that had burned away onto the ground. The last bits of ash, pressed thinly against the gauntlet, fell off cleanly.

I honestly answered the man. "I need to go there. Got some business to take care of. Unfortunately, the map's all burned up."

"B-business? What kind of business? Be specific!"

His voice grew louder, tension thickening the air. The bandits gripped their weapons tighter, preparing themselves for a fight.

What's their connection to the dungeon?

They seemed like ordinary bandits. Attacking or fleeing would've made sense, but grilling me about my intentions about going to the dungeon felt off.

Should I tell them the truth?

"The guild's—"

Before I could finish, a startled voice on my right interrupted me. "Ah! Ahhh!"

I turned my head to see a fat bandit with an axe, his eyes wide in shock.

The fat bandit pointed at me with a trembling finger. "T-that thing!"

What's his deal?

I tilted my head in confusion. "What? What is it?"

The other bandits turned to the axeman, who stammered as he stared at me, "T-that red color... I've seen something like that before. Let me get a closer look."

Red color? What about it?

Their gazes all shifted to my waist. I followed their eyes to the charred bag hanging there. Amidst the scorched remnants, a faint red glow emanated from within.

The scar-faced bandit's expression shifted to alarm as though he'd just remembered something important.

"Ah! Are you... from the Society?"

Society?

I was baffled. I had no idea what he was talking about.

"The Society?"

"Is that...? Come to think of it, you mentioned the guild earlier... Were you referring to our Society?"

Their grips on their weapons loosened slightly. Though tension still lingered, they began to bow slightly as if apologetic.

The scar-faced man quickly asked, "Could it be... is that an official member's ID? Are you the inspector we've been expecting?"

Inspector? ID?

Swish.

I pulled the glowing red card from the bag, its surface etched with Benson Pretcher's finely etched portrait. Below it, the words Necron Shrine Society were inscribed. The red card served as the official ID of the Society.

Oh, right. I had this with me.

I had handed most of my money to Rena, but I'd kept this ID. I had no clue what they meant by an inspector, but they clearly were bowing to the authority the card represented. They seemed to have mistaken me for someone important. Holding the card aloft, I showed it to each of them.

"Yes, this is an ID."

The five bandits surrounding me widened their eyes as they confirmed the ID one by one.

"Oh!"

Their remaining tension melted away, replaced by complete subservience. They bowed deeply, their postures obsequious.

The scar-faced man was their leader. "We were informed the inspector would arrive."

The fat axeman chimed in, "We were out cleaning the road since we were told you'd come around this time. We didn't expect to run into you like this! Hehe, they said you'd arrive in the evening, but you're a little early!"

"Something like that."

I remained silent beneath my helmet. For now, it was best to say as little as possible. Speaking too much might expose me. Since they had already misunderstood, I decided to go along with it.

The only thing I needed to say was, "Lead me to the dungeon."

The fat bandit quickly bowed his head. Then he led the way and boasted, "Of course! As you command! You'll be impressed by how thoroughly we manage the dungeon!"

Managing the dungeon?

I suddenly realized that these men were the target of the commission.

"Inspector." The prickly bandit holding a spiked sword hesitantly interjected, "May we verify your ID... and face?"

Thwack!

The scar-faced man smacked the back of the prickly bandit's head. "Hey! You idiot!"

"Ow! What was that for, boss?"

"What do you mean, what? Can't you see he's burned?! His helmet and armor are fused together!"

For a moment, I was worried that my identity would be exposed.

Crack.

I touched my neck.

Is it really melted?

The connecting joints had slightly fused but weren't completely stuck. Perhaps the scar-faced man was covering for me.

"Apologies!"

"We're so sorry, Inspector!"

The five of them bowed deeply in unison.

"To emerge from that inferno... You have our utmost respect!"

"We respect you!"

Their groveling while holding bloodied and flesh-stained weapons was a bizarre sight.

Who knew this ID would come in handy like this?

Benson Pretcher's ID was proving to be unexpectedly effective.

One of them glanced at the ID card I had shown. "As preliminary members, we always look up to someone like you, Benson Pretcher."

This seems like enough.

I slowly lowered the card in my hand. It felt awkward to place it back into the charred bag.

The fat axeman noticed my hesitation and quickly produced a small pouch.

"H-here! Please use this!"

He emptied the pouch, turned it inside out, and shook off the dust with his hands.

"No need."

I declined and casually slipped the ID card into a compartment in my armor. The armor Rubia had bought had numerous storage spaces.

Very functional.

I looked at the bandits. Fortunately, they didn't seem to know the name of the person they were expecting.

Where is the real inspector supposed to be?

There was a chance we'd cross paths. I needed to leave quickly.

"We respect you, Sir Fletcher!"

The bandits bowed deeply. This wasn't how one would treat a regular member. It seemed that the role of an inspector held some authority over them.

"We respect you!"

I organized my thoughts. These men were preliminary members of the Necron Shrine Society. They were managing the goblin dungeon, which was the target of my commission. And they mistook me for someone sent by the Society.

"Thank you for taking the time to guide us despite your busy schedule, Sir Fletcher!"

"Busy? Not at all."

Benson Pretcher wasn't busy at all. His human trafficking and contract killing operations had been permanently shut down. I personally ensured that a year ago when I buried him in a grave.

One of the men glanced at the ID and said, "By the way, it just looks like an ordinary piece of paper, but it's truly incredible. This is the ID of a member."

"Not a single scorch mark! Is it true that the Society employs wizards as the rumors say?"

The scar-faced man intervened, shutting down the conversation. "Hey! You'll find out naturally, so stop asking stupid questions!"

He seemed to be the leader among them, and he walked ahead to take charge.

I let out a thoughtful hum, trying to appear composed. "Hmm."

It was true, though—the ID card hadn't burned. Even after prolonged exposure to the flames, it remained intact, glowing softly in the darkness. It seemed to have been specially treated, or perhaps magic was involved, as they suggested.

Does the Necron Shrine Society have wizards?

As I pondered, the scar-faced man turned back to address me. "Apologies for our earlier rudeness. If we've upset you, we sincerely apologize!"

I waved my hand dismissively. Complete silence might arouse suspicion. I couldn't let them start wondering too much about me.

"Ah, don't worry about that. Now, give me a report on... goblin farming."

"Yes! Of course!"

The scar-faced man nodded and began explaining how they managed the goblin dungeon.

"As preliminary members..."

The preliminary members of the Necron Shrine Society controlled the outer areas while regularly hunting deeper inside. Occasionally, they detonated aphrodisiac bombs in the inner settlements, forcing the goblins into a breeding frenzy to maintain their population.

"I see."

I didn't respond further, maintaining an uninterested demeanor. The less I spoke, the less chance there was of exposing myself.

"The income is about 3 seirons per month."

"3 seirons?"

I was surprised by the low amount. That was about as much as I'd earned from a single tournament.

"That's rather little."

It was an honest reaction.

"W-well... that's..."*

The scar-faced man looked uneasy, bowing slightly as he spoke. "The ones who buy goblin bloodstones are usually low-level clients. The wealthier ones would commission alchemists to create proper potions rather than drink powdered bloodstones."

I feigned deep thought, pretending to understand while remaining silent. "Hmm..."

"Hehe... It's hard to raise the prices. Inspector, please help us connect with better clients."

"..."

"Hehe. Hehe."

Their laughter was irritating. The path narrowed further as we walked.

"We're almost there."

The scar-faced man bowed his head. Wooden fences emerged along the path. Not red but green blood splattered across the dirt, staining the ground completely.

Goblins.

It was their blood. We walked further until the sight of discarded corpses came into view. Each had their head crushed and heart split open. Only the bloodstones had been extracted before the bodies were discarded.

The scar-faced man chatted beside me. "We sell those too. A corpse collector comes to pick them up. You see, every part of a goblin is surprisingly valuable. Hehe... even their eyeballs are used in alchemy..."

Suddenly, I locked eyes with one of the corpses. Green blood oozed from its wounds, but its eyes were wide open, staring directly at me.

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