Chapter 65: The Adorable Hakimi!

With a troop of well-trained kobolds serving as sentries and scouts, keeping watch over the river bend, who would ever fear a bandit attack? Training them to gather herbs and search for minerals could one day become a major industry as well.

This is a world of magic. Many rare minerals and herbs emit a gentle glow and radiate magical energy as they're harvested. One glance reveals their worth—only a fool would dismiss them as worthless. Why do adventurers in this otherworld always plunge into the wilderness? Is it merely a death wish?

The Riverbend domain had barely found its footing when adventurers began to appear, probing the local geography. The militia, for now, was organized by Leo into three companies. The first company formed the core of combat, essentially serving as the official militia and enjoying the highest privileges, the price being the willingness to lay down their lives at any moment.

The second company was the militia reserve, training for half the hours of the main force. When casualties occurred in the first company, the best from the reserves would fill the ranks.

The third company comprised the Riverbend youths—and now, a pack of dogs. The first two companies represented Riverbend’s current martial strength, already surpassing most knightly domains. Not every lord is as generous as Uriyan, willing to invest in his militia. Pouring money into the militia—can it even be called a militia then? In the North, militiamen supply their own weapons and gear. The poor march to battle with nothing but a hayfork, the well-off might even wear plate armor.

The South is even more absurd: there are no militias, only private armies and serf soldiers. When war breaks out between lords, their private troops are too precious to risk, so only the serfs are sent to fight. A sea of people, all clad in simple cloth and wielding hayforks, while the knightly lords charge among them, armored in plate and riding northern warhorses, cutting through serf ranks with impunity, displaying their valor.

It is less a war than a game among nobles.

The third company is Riverbend’s hope for the future. If cultivated properly, it might yield not only special forces, but perhaps even knights.

After settling the young kobolds, Leo returned to the manor, where he saw Fisha and the little mouse sitting together on the steps, gazing enviously at the children playing in the distance.

Fisha was the youngest of Riverbend’s trio of simpletons, yet the most mature. But kobold intelligence is, at best, equal to a human ten-year-old—slightly more mature, but not by much. Though Fisha was cleverer, she often inadvertently revealed her childishness.

Freya, meanwhile, was an eighty-year-old preschooler—a spoiled brat fond of tantrums. Fisha was like a four- or five-year-old adult, taking on responsibilities early and managing the kobold valley with remarkable order.

Compared to them, only the little mouse seemed normal.

Just now, a copy of Brother Lawrence’s canon lay across the little mouse’s lap; evidently, he had been teaching Fisha to read.

Fisha’s cleverness and thirst for knowledge were no exaggeration. She would not let a single opportunity slip by, seizing every way to learn. After witnessing Olivia and the mouse teach letters, Fisha immediately became a student.

Compared to the village rascals—or to Leo himself, the hopeless fool—Fisha learned to read much faster. She probably knew more letters than Leo by now.

Yet Leo doubted whether this skill would be of much use in the wild.

“Still here? Waiting to scrounge dinner?” he asked.

“Ogres—what’s the plan?” Fisha was clearly waiting for Leo.

“I’ve sent word to Bjorn, asking him to bring ten wild hunter tribesmen to help. Just us alone, it’d be tough to handle ogres.”

The crossbows lacked power, and the spears were too short—neither seemed adequate against ogres. The only long-range weapon Leo could think of with real impact was the wild hunters’ yew longbow. In his eyes, it was the otherworldly equivalent of a bolt-action rifle—practically usable into the modern age.

Without the wild hunters, victory would cost lives, and that was not Leo’s style.

The wild hunter tribe by the great waterfall had always been the kobolds’ shield. Fisha, who revered the hunters, wagged her tail in delight at the news. “Wonderful!”

She hopped down from the steps and waved to the little mouse. “Goodbye, dear Hakimi!”

The little mouse replied, “Goodbye, clever Fisha.”

When all three simpletons gathered, Fisha would call herself “Clever Fisha,” and Freya would counter with “Brave Freya.” The mouse was always self-conscious, suffering sleepless nights, pestering Leo for a nickname.

Thus the name “Dear Hakimi” was born.

As for Leo, he was dubbed “Ruthless Harasho!” Her cheeks were too thin to say it aloud herself, but hearing it from others still made her happy.

Two days later, Bjorn arrived at Riverbend with ten wild hunter tribesmen.

After the wild hunters and Riverbend militia combined forces to weaken the boar-man tribe, their hunting grounds expanded greatly and life became comfortable for a time. Yet the words of Elder Zulvan and Leo quickly proved true.

With the boar-men weakened and their territory shrinking, the northern wilds became unclaimed, and other alien races began to appear. At least three types of alien scouts had crossed the boar-men’s domain, leaving tracks on the north bank of the Anzeno River.

Elder Zulvan had been right: the wilds could never be cleansed of alien races. Defeat the boar-men, and there would be gnolls and minotaurs.

Even with powerful troops like the wild hunters, humans remained the disadvantaged race in the wilderness.

But Leo’s point was just as valid: with the beast-men invading in force, unrest grew more pronounced. News had already arrived from the more northern wild tribes, some of whom were preparing to migrate south.

Every social species is deeply attached to its homeland, and will not choose migration lightly except in dire times.

For the northern wild tribes to consider migrating, the situation had become extremely grave.

In such times, survival demanded not only greater strength, but also the search for suitable allies.

Thus, Bjorn agreed to Leo’s request without a second thought.

Ogre tribes in Wolfbane Plains were very few; these towering, two-meter-tall fatties were lazy gluttons and hated the cold, unsuited to the northern climate. Most ogres came from the southern or western regions and could never pass through human blockades in large groups.

So their occasional appearance was understandable.

Bjorn had once dealt with an ogre himself, finding it only slightly tougher than a brown bear, and not necessarily smarter than a kobold. With simple bait and traps, one could kite it to death.

Two ogres were nothing to worry about!