Chapter 71

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Translator: Ace

Chapter: 71

Chapter Title: 8th Floor - Lv. 195 Fortress Commander (2)

-----------------------------------------------------------------

If you've ever been a god yourself, you'd know this, but the gods have something among themselves that you could call a community.

Legendary exiles who reached godhood after transcending a century.

And then, through eons of endless time, they live as gods ruling over countless worlds.

Once seated upon a divine throne, there aren't many ways to stand again.

Either a challenger appears to topple you, or you hand it over to a challenger yourself.

Most are the former, but challengers rarely even show up in the first place. A god losing is even rarer.

A god is a prisoner bound to a single run for an unimaginably vast stretch of time.

So it would be stranger if no camaraderie formed among them.

That said, certain thrones—functionally no different from racial gods for their species—do have bad blood between them.

They've built up histories of enmity even among gods, so what can you do?

The throne I once sat on was fairly free of such issues.

My goal in claiming it was something like raising devotees to my own taste and building the ultimate legion. I failed because the other gods checked me.

If any one faction grows too powerful, the others band together.

The gods' society is far more tight-knit than you'd think.

All that's left to them now is the title of god, the authority emanating from their throne, and the influence from their followers.

Nothing else.

Even gods, who seem a step above, are ultimately just exiles—humans.

They're disappointingly worldly from the start; nothing special.

'Think nothing of it.'

The goblin captain didn't even need convincing.

Having operated as part of the Greenskin faction myself, I could feel it: the goblins under the Savage God are brimming with resentment wherever you go.

They're not so much ticking time bombs as they are suppressed by the overwhelming power gap.

Of course, I was suspected.

If I were truly a high-ranking assassin, even a goblin would be guaranteed a lofty position.

They could escape the slave class and end up commanding orcs or ogres.

An assassin can beat a troll warrior head-on if the level gap is absolute enough.

Such a goblin would bask in the War God's favor, lingering in the empire's capital.

No way they'd be slumming it as an assassin in some brigade.

So the captain's suspicion was reasonable.

But sometimes, logic and plausibility don't matter all that much.

I whispered. I showed him.

Like a high demon tricking a human into a contract, I crammed a new idea into the goblin's modest little mind.

Topple this fortress. Abandon the god who scorns you.

"But betraying a god brings divine punishment."

In a world where gods are real and wield real power.

Born and raised under such circumstances, with War God devotee parents in a world full of nothing but War God followers, that's how you'd have to think.

There are no other worlds.

So I ask:

Do you know of the Goddess of Freedom and Chaos?

The grizzled old goblin captain, who'd lived long enough for his beard to get bushy, dredged up a dusty fact from the corner of his life.

"The Chaos God who sings of freedom..."

She doesn't refuse incoming devotees, nor cling to those who leave.

To the continent's inhabitants, that's how the "freedom" suffix is perceived.

Her followers are everywhere and nowhere, free wanderers roaming the continent.

Though if chaos tags along with freedom, they usually wither away.

That's just how exiles see it.

Game-wise, gods with the "freedom" suffix can't punish defectors.

But conversely, they also block other gods from punishing devotees who convert to her.

Truly a god of "freedom." Freedom of faith.

The old goblin trembled with emotion.

I could almost hear his tiny brain whirring at full speed. No need to ask what conclusion he'd reached.

"Will the Chaos God accept us?"

"Of course. I promise it in the High Priestess's name. Keruk."

Game over.

What a ridiculous situation.

Goblins—who effectively handle all the fortress's logistics and administration—are the slave class.

Sure, orcs and shamans handle the military side and major decisions.

The fortress commander, true to troll nature, only cared about feats of strength, ignoring admin entirely.

It's not that he's especially lazy or incompetent; this fortress is basically a backwater post.

Comparing to Chinese history: humans are frontier barbarians, while Greenskins are the central overlords clutching heaven's mandate.

A somewhat dim young troll commanding this place is par for the course.

But the goblins' long-accumulated grudges exceeded even my imagination.

"Ooh... Is this for real?"

"Scary stuff. Goblins..."

Handling poison is practically a goblin ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠racial trait. It's why they're natural assassins.

They instinctively figure out deadly combinations for living things.

Of course, options are slim in this barren land.

"Hm. Feces poison, huh."

Do you know how toxic human waste is? Potent enough to kill if ingested.

The goblins eagerly collected pre-fertilizer dung and mixed it into meals. Not human, but Greenskin waste is hardly less poisonous.

Experts in poison knew how to make it deadlier.

Mostly ex-assassins.

The Stormhowl Brigade deserter assassins had already realized my party and I weren't real deserters.

My plan was hastily thrown together, full of holes. Can't be helped.

But to the goblins, that hardly mattered anymore.

At least our devotion to the Chaos God was genuine.

This is the rage of those born under a god's yoke, persecuted their whole lives.

This guy's attitude is starting to get a bit weird.

Well, yeah. Even most veterans might think this way but never act on it.

Knowledge gained experientially in the labyrinth differs from structured game knowledge from outside.

The gap between "Is it possible?" and "It is possible" is huge.

This is a big reason I always have the gods' favor.

Gods who've accepted countless exiles as devotees after their own century-long runs.

Even to them, I must seem like I pull off wildly unconventional stunts.

'Lord of Nature, it's not over yet.'

While the goblins prepared on their own, I selected the talented young ones.

This fortress had plenty of newborn goblins.

After gathering and checking them one by one, I found twins with exceptional magical talent.

Taught them necromancy. Just the basics crammed in over one day—they won't wield it properly yet.

But with this talent, combined with racial traits, they can develop through trial and error on their own.

Goblins under the God of War and Death aren't inherently different from those under the Savage God.

A properly trained goblin shaman can emerge even on this continent.

If I just plant the will to resist and leave, they'd fizzle out like dying embers without me.

Lay the foundation for them to build future strength, and the spark from this frontier fortress will blaze into a wildfire.

Looks like he and the War God have always had bad blood.

The other servers we'll hit after the kingdom should be a sight. Probably brawling it out there, hence this vibe.

In just one day, we set execution for the next dawn.

We burned through nearly all our remaining polymorph potions. Not enough left for the four of us.

Meant them for emergencies—sneak into a city, survive somehow, reach the next floor.

Things went too smoothly.

The Girl relayed how baffled Chaos was.

「You're directing from the middle, providing methods and leading the charge—it's all falling into place. Were you some red revolution leader out there?」

'Whoa, watch the dangerous talk. I love capitalism. But where'd you even pick that up?'

「Long ago, one of my devotees ranted about Bolsheviks all day.」

'All sorts out there. Still alive?'

「Died decades ago.」

Figures. Those obsessed with ideologies or faiths usually can't adapt to the labyrinth.

Either they snap ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mentally and reinvent themselves, or become despised refugees who never adjust and die off.

Useless in the labyrinth, clinging to their old-world lives.

Honestly can't relate.

The captain lacked book smarts but had wisdom aplenty.

He handled the real work but knew a doddering geezer couldn't front as the face.

"Apostle of Chaos. You leading is best. Heroes need to be handsome."

Sun down, most non-goblin, non-sentry troops asleep or squabbling petty fights.

A scrawny, weak goblin scurrying after orcs or ogres late at night? Utterly routine.

Even those noticing goblin groups heading somewhere didn't care.

To them, goblins were feeble parasites leeching off the great empire.

Gathered up, their numbers were staggering.

They all knew my tale now.

A tale I barely knew myself.

Flesh added to my half-baked fabrication.

Unlike me—who couldn't recall the last time I played goblin—the captain shrewdly packaged me as the hero.

Crafted tragedy, laid the backstory.

What I'd planned, but no need.

He wrapped it all in that short time. Thanks to his grip on the fortress goblins, but still, masterful.

"Left alone, wouldn't it have blown up eventually?"

"Nah, it wouldn't. Sure, it's executed with the weight of a thousand inner deliberations... but gods exist here."

"Where there's a Lord, there's a Satan too."

"Satan's a named demon."

The youngest grinned.

"Just a metaphor. Imagine if the War God had half our Goddess's compassion."

The Girl's face twisted oddly—probably Chaos flailing in divine speech.

Up on the improvised platform. Countless goblin eyes locked on.

Honestly, this was way easier than expected. Daylight robbery.

Planned to coax a bit, bail if no dice.

Figured future me arranged something.

But it worked great. Did future me skip sending a party to floor 8?

Nah, even then, probably not. Can we even take the fortress? Not certain.

What happens after the initial assault?

Can the goblins win?

Uncertain future.

That anxiety lingers in these gathered goblins too.

I mount the platform and declare.

Goblin holy tongue, dignified mid-low register. No magic flair needed. Mood's peaked.

First line...

Yeah.

"Comrades! The time of revolution has come!"

"Uncle, were you a cult leader out there?"

"Tried it in the labyrinth, not outside."

"I almost fell for it. Goblin face and all, you looked so cool."

"You already did."

"Not for Goblin Uncle!"

Chaos is probably reacting the same.

"First, we take the fortress commander. Kill him, and we're golden."

"Greenskins don't care much about commanders though, right?"

"True, but he's the strongest."

"How's he stack up to that Lava Hammer Battalion commander troll?"

"Ten fortress commanders couldn't take one battalion commander."

The Hunter looked confused on how to gauge that strength.

"Battalion commander's insanely strong. This guy's a backwater post. Captain equivalent, maybe."

"Battalion commander's a lieutenant colonel, then."

Military buff American gets it quick. Real ranks don't reflect personal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠power, but Greenskins are different.

Weak? No promotion.

"Prioritize threats goblins can't handle. Target one: trolls."

Party nods. Human traits linger despite goblin forms.

"Even if other goblins know we're shady."

"Humans exposed? Big risk."

"You all get it."

So most gear stashed outside. Girl left her signature dagger—didn't fit goblin size.

Her current knife's throwing type originally.

Hunter has a crude bow. Youngest's shield? No chance.

Other gear similar. No properly armed goblins here. Assassins just had better rags.

Plus [Polymorph ? Goblin] potions are debuff city.

Physical stats way down from human days.

Too optimistic thinking one troll's easy prey.

"Only reliable anti-troll weapon we sneaked in: that."

One weapon with troll-effective firepower a goblin can conceal.

Hunter's flintlock pistol.

Ideally, jam it down the throat or eye socket.