Lord: Starting from a Goblin Nest

Ron remembered Andre well—the young man he’d met in the refugee camp outside Fromm Town just a few days ago.

Back then, the only bright thing about him had been his eyes. Now, he was full of vigor, a leader in the village much like a chieftain.

However, Andre claimed he recognized Ron as his only leader, so he had only taken the title of militia captain, responsible for the security of the village and the surrounding trading post.

”Tell me everything. What’s going on?” Ron asked, surveying the village. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

The small village sat beside a jungle and swampland, adjacent to the trading post. Having been built recently, everything still looked new. The roads weren’t smooth; their uneven surfaces of sand and gravel barely kept the mud below at bay. The central village square was only roughly defined, its weeds not yet fully cleared. Beyond the simple wooden fence encircling the village, one could see the edge of the jungle and swamp, as well as a few scattered plots of land in the early stages of cultivation. It was morning, and some villagers were already out working, while others did simple tasks like handicrafts in front of their homes.

All in all, nothing seemed out of place.

”It doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong here.”

”You won’t see anything now, during the day,” Andre said with a wry smile. ”The strange things only come out in the middle of the night.”

”It’s something like a Ghost Fire: a flying skull wreathed in pale blue flames.” Andre didn’t seem particularly disturbed as he described it. ”It seems to live in the new well we dug in the village. It comes out every night to wreak havoc, then returns to the water before dawn.”

”Is there a problem with the well water? Has it become undrinkable or anything?”

”No, not really,” Andre said, shaking his head. ”The water is still fine to drink. Besides, you know us. We’re all too familiar with thirst. A slight odd smell is nothing, it doesn’t bother us.”

”So far, no one has gotten sick from drinking it. That’s why we didn’t want to trouble you.”

”But in the last two days, the Ghost Fire has become much more active. It seems to be able to pass through walls and people freely. Every night, it goes from house to house causing trouble: relighting candles, cackling from inside wardrobes and under beds, splashing water on sleeping people’s faces... Just all sorts of pranks, really.”

”And you know we’re cultivating the fields now, right? The villagers work on them all day, but when they go back the next morning, everything’s been messed up again. We’ve been patrolling all night for the past few days, but we just can’t catch it!”

”It’s no use even if you see it,” said a young man next to Andre, who looked to be another member of the village militia.

”I found it under my bed the other night. I threw my cleaver at it, tried to chop it—nothing worked! It’s like a real ghost. You can see it, but you can’t touch it!”

’It does sound like a Ghost Fire,’ Ron mused. Delusional Land was full of swamps and dangerous areas; it made sense for a Ghost Fire to appear here.

But this particular Ghost Fire seemed far too harmless compared to the ones in legends.

Typically, a Ghost Fire would lure unwary creatures into quicksand, monster lairs, or other hazardous places. They would then feast on the creatures’ suffering and torment, even relishing their death screams. This one, however, was merely a prankster, showing no such malevolent tendencies.

”Can you show me the well?” Ron asked.

”Of course. Please follow me.” Andre led the way. On the south side of the central village square, they saw the well.

Ron peered down. The well water was crystal clear; there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it.

”Save me—”

Just as Ron was about to turn away, a faint, distant whisper suddenly reached his ears.

”What?”

”What... what?” Aive raised an eyebrow. She was the closest to Ron but had no idea what he was talking about.

”You didn’t hear that?” Ron said, surprised. ”Someone in the well was just talking...”

”I didn’t hear anything,” Aive said, shaking her head. ”Victoria, what about you all? Did any of you hear it?”

”No,” Victoria said, taking out the emblem of Heim—an upright, left-handed iron gauntlet with a watchful eye engraved upon it. A faint light began to glow around her. ”I don’t sense any evil presence.”

”Me neither. Boss, you’re not hearing things, are you?” Delaford cleaned out his ear. He was practically leaning over the well. ’How could Ron, standing farther back, hear something he couldn’t?’

”Andre?”

”I haven’t heard anything either, my lord, not once in the past few days,” Andre said. ”Everyone’s been drawing water from here as usual. If there were any strange sounds, someone would have surely heard them by now.”

Ron leaned over the well’s opening again, and soon he heard the exact same voice as before.

”Save—me—”

”You heard it again?” Aive looked at Ron. ”Should I go down and take a look? I can dive.”

”Don’t.” Ron stopped the Half-Elf. He held out his hand, and a spark of light that looked like electricity, yet was so dim it was nearly black, flickered at his fingertip.

The cantrip, Strike Undead.

This cantrip was specifically designed for use against Undead Creatures. It was originally a form of Divine Magic that Priests received through prayer, but it was soon analyzed by a group of Mages and began to circulate as a learnable Magic.

After all, Mages have their own God of Arcane, too.

”I don’t care if you’re a Ghost Fire or something else, stop hiding,” Ron said, pointing his finger into the well. ”Come out and face us. If you have something to say, then say it clearly!”

”Save—save—me—”

The voice from the well sounded again, but whatever was down there showed no sign of emerging. It seemed it could only repeat that one phrase, each time with growing urgency.

”So we’re done talking, then?” Ron had no interest in playing guessing games. A blast of Strike Undead shot from his finger, pierced the surface of the water, and sped into the depths.

This time, everyone present heard a long, sorrowful sigh.

”At nightfall—”

”Looks like our little Ghost Fire is a bit shy! Doesn’t want to meet anyone in broad daylight!” Sera roared with laughter. ”Chieftain, I say we just jump down there and drag it out!”

”Or we could just tear this whole well apart and dig three feet down to find it! Let’s see if it dares to keep playing at being a ghost after that!”

To the barbarians from the north, the only Undead Creatures worthy of reverence were the Heroic Spirits of the war-dead, just as the only Deity they worshipped was Grom, the Lord of War and Hunt.