I Am Not Goblin Slayer

Chapter 279: When the Sun Rises

There was a commotion of swearing and curses, mixed with clumsy orders about strategy and frantic talk of alliances being broken and marriages postponed.Claws splashed through water, rough hands scratched, and scattered talk about grades, officials, and dogs filled the air;old men bargained and argued, voices overlapping in a chaotic mess.

Someone urged restraint, another tried to calm a furious official, while small ministers begged for peace;light and shadow folded, and the scene grew increasingly tense and threatening.

A child’s name blinked in the middle of the chaos, his handsome face frozen in disbelief as the bickering continued.

Originally the blessed hall was orderly and disciplined, but now it had become disorderly—soldiers slouched, guards dozed, and those who should have been vigilant had grown lazy and careless.

"Buzz!!!"

A sound erupted. The guards’ spirits snapped awake like a string pulled taut;several officers shouted urgently, calling out positions and trying to rally everyone.

The lazy ones who had been lounging on a small boat let out startled cries as they were dragged into activity, flung into the blaze of the hall’s red lights and forced to take action.

The hall’s wooden panels trembled as the organizational command struggled to regain control, sending out messages that bit into the crowd like cold wind.

The gong of the surname bell rang out, its resonance seeping through the doorway like steam.

Xiao Nai suddenly realized something was off. The old veteran who had been standing nearby began to stagger backward, his legs pushing away from the burial mound and toward the hall boardroom.

But...

At that exact moment, an exhausted roar rose up.

Both the intruder and the lazy ones, the hall and its tear-streaked defenders, began to twist into a grim, snarling formation.

Claws and tails sought to recall memories of the boat—how had they been bound by such strange loyalty?

Lan Ji was like a mosquito in the dark, twitching and scribbling;Father Chang tightened his grip on a thin strip of parchment and sealed it.

“Squeeze!!!”

There was a sudden, desperate surge: an old mechanical bamboo contraption flashed with color and heat, crackling as it strained;someone shouted about a life at stake, about chaos in the ear, about nests and words being torn apart again and again.

The hall’s flames froze and gnawed, and officers began to raise complaints.

Hills trembled under pressure;old, narrow groups twisted and the crowd’s loneliness surged, jolting through the midday with blows like hammers.

At the same time, the fiercest beasts were watching the old veteran clearly.

To the north the formation suffered, brittle and entangled;the old veteran’s small stalwart figure still stood firm through the small ground-shaking assaults, bearing heavy blows from the earth’s churn.

Powerful scales and thorns blocked and exploded;the blazing rounds of catastrophe rose, piling wreckage upon wreckage. Rescue strength dragged like taffy, the captured uncle’s glue holding, yet the enemy’s weight pushed harder and harder. The mute watchers on the ridgeline grimly clung to their posts, their crimson visages reflecting harshly in the upstream burial ground.

The force of the tide shaped the momentum: the searing flames roasted and baked, bringing ruin to the units within a single measure;those pressed down under its weight could only hear the burning and felt the sorrow swell.

Observers drew breath;the buzzing swarm seeped through the original formation. The old veteran on the pavilion began to burn from within, their root-like hands charred and the fibers frayed as they were forced into the mire.

The hall’s blaze continued to surge outward along the edge of the field.

"!!!"

Fierce fear sliced through the crowd like a shadowed blade. Soldiers tightened up, patrols threaded themselves into formations, and even those who had been shrieking and shouting found their voices cut by white-hot intensity.

Fiery blasts went off, shattering things—some positions seemed to be designated for fathers and officials, while others were thrown into raw, desperate conflict.

“Thud! Thud! Thud!”

The pounding of boots filled the air from above;as people began to fall apart with sudden cracking sounds, odd metallic clicks and the dull roar of impact filled the ears.

Greasy smoke and flames billowed;explosions cracked the space as things crashed and tumbled….

Several items that had been left in neat piles were instantly scattered;originally stationary lookouts were knocked aside as others lept and climbed over bridges.

A proud badge on someone’s chest was cracked;the earth itself created echoes like drums as traps were sprung and sudden, rigid movements snapped the stillness.

The old veteran redoubled efforts, candles flared and flew like chanting, and names were recited in the chaos.

Rubble collapsed, cliffs crumbled, and people’s faces were thrown into panic. Branches, those resting on the surface, were ripped apart and flew into the air.

Many in the twisted cohort held onto old grudges, trying to maintain control, but the power that once had protected them had hollowed out—boats and crimson soldiers, Father Chang and the hall’s tear-streaked defenders, all scattered into chaotic patterns.

The detained culprits were pushed forward;the old general’s vocal cords were like a violin being bowed. On the ridge, the angst and panic radiated.

Their collective grief and fear were plain, a woven net of trembling judgments.

The old veteran, the shaman, the appointed chakra man—names and ranks blurred into the struggle. The small force’s courage waned;only a few maintained their edge, while others stumbled and fell into disgrace.

Yet the old veteran traded insults with the thieves and plotted;the hall’s defenders and the thieves both scrambled for supplies and cover. The old veteran’s voice gave orders that traveled the fields, a bitter, serrated tone.

The hall’s flames pressed on, and the melody of the wailing swarm leaked out. Originally a set of palace banners and pavilions had stood like a well-ordered court, but now they were poles and rags, collapsed and trampled.

Time flowed on. The old shaman, with an air of humility, scanned the area, listening for the faintest signs of movement.

Paddles struck, and the soil was raked;the earth seemed to gasp as the formation struck like flint.

The blast at the ear’s edge muffled everything, and a gentle, persistent drone of explosions seemed to spread.

“Squeeze!!!”

Someone’s hands clenched;they drove the combatants, flattening the battlefield as the crimson scattered.

In the busy muddle of commands, a tiny official’s voice pealed out like a bell: “Palace! Hurry—!” The sound rolled and clattered like a wedding drum smeared in ash.

Order tried to reassert itself, and power attempted to steady the tide. But then the rolling motion of strategy faltered, and what had once been lazy, slothful vigilance snapped into sudden action, like a sluggish animal waking.

‘Attack!!!!’

Roars shook the air, deafening and relentless. The courtyard’s exhausted defenders launched themselves into the fray, their throats raw, and the ancestral drums vibrated the entire manor.

Some of the roaring mob still clutched old grievances and tried to pick away at the enemy, and the court collapsed into further chaos.

“!!!”

More strikes were made—stones smashed, blows landed—and slow, ponderous forms floated up like ghosts, urging calm.

Minor officers took turns rallying, their cautious voices drawing more people from the crowd, pulling up defenders who had been hiding in the corners. To the north, a circle climbed and halted, where a crawling beast had been playing before the hall.

That pair of golden eyes, sleeping in a tranquil pocket, suddenly shrank in alarm!

Long-standing threats clutched the base of the ear;their claws tore and cuts surfaced across many faces. The mild, cautious creatures would now be pushed into fierce and brutal action.

Moments later, the cunning enemy admitted defeat in some corners;the crawling beast’s small face twitched as it guessed at the skirmish, while the naked aggression of some turned to raw battle.

In one block, the old strategist stewed over the formation, and the hall’s people braced.

The ranks shouted orders and the exhausted men bowed under the rhythm of the roars.

Cotton-like tremors reverberated through the ranks;someone in the hall steadied their breath and gathered their heat, an inner flame growing and centering into the formation.

Hide and endure!

The golden pupils flashed, a collision rippled outward and exploded in sound.

Fragments and debris rolled away, and the old green-blue claws scrabbled at the side of a ravine.

If an enemy fell, the band would crush the remnant into dust, grinding even the cruelest of foes into the earth.

Some defenses cracked... the small fishing patrol that had scouted through the south had been used, thrown into a tragic southern skirmish. The old veteran fought with tenacity, nursing wounds and pressing the line.

Pain seeped in;the formation stitched up tears slowly, the wounded finding ways to recover.

A kiss of cold swept over the field.

Flames pooled and then slowly gathered.

At a decisive instant, the hall’s gate threw open;numerous officers surged through the door, sketching plans and tearing at the air with their maps.

"Buzz!!!!"

A tense hush—then a jolt. The old veteran staggered, as if struck, his face contorting, sending orders mixed with wheezing breaths and shuffles. Men grabbed at him, trying to steady him against the swelling tide of enemies.

Troops surged, new brigades stepped forward;the old veteran got a measure of calm as others took the burden.

The shaman to the north, with a distant gaze, barged in and the veteran slumped;someone snatched up the veteran’s search tools and began to probe the area for survivors, for lost souls.

At this turning point, the right flank pressed, forming a defensive line against the encroaching enemy. The defenders tried to shield the main camp and to steady the hall’s breathing.

Downriver, the band of raiders had been pushed;their losses made them spin in confusion.

Selections and dispatch commands were placed: the autumn guard repositioned to protect the weakened points;tents were moved and ladders readied.

The little team with the code name “Autumn” hurried to patch holes, dispatching what men they had;their motions were precise and cold, like cutters at dusk.

In the scramble, one of the younger fighters, nicknamed Small Ice, pushed through patrol lines and lit a furnace to stoke the flames, keeping a section of the wall warm and intact.

Right then, the “Standing Column” team—an elite unit—cut a defensive net that blocked a majority of the nearby attacks. Their leaders, with faces like ivory blades, planted flags and took positions.

The enemy, crafty and opportunistic, tried to map out weak points, and the staff in charge quickly adapted countermeasures, installing watch posts and traps.

They organized tiered defenses;when forced, they used the “Autumn” squad to do the heaviest lifting. Scouts dispersed across the plain, digging in and staying alert for ambushes.

"Climb to blanket the old veteran *265"

The tally in the central register counted the wounded and the exhausted—names scrawled across the page—two hundred and sixty-five marked as in need of immediate attention. The crawling weight of casualties and shackled captives pressed on the scribes’ hands.

Commanders issued repeated instructions late into the evening.

Fortune and cost were calculated;funds were diverted to feed the wounded and pay for emergency aid. Portions of the regional grain were requisitioned for rations.

The statistics board flickered with numbers and codes: the assets that had been allocated to the hall and the defenders were being burned through at a terrible pace.

On the right, a surname’s militia was dispatched to relieve pressure;leaders took their positions and dove into the fray.

The little fishing scouts were quick to adapt. The finance officer delegated tasks to a local clergyman who had turned into a rigorous protector, his fiddling hands sealing documents and steadying the clerks.

He handed out small bribes and favors when necessary. It was crude but effective, and the local merchants complied, feeding small teams and tending wounds until the doctors could.

Many volunteer laborers came from nearby villages;they approached heavy work without complaint and carried wounded men to the makeshift infirmary.

“Angry filter register: 6271”

The ledger printed that code;it became a refrain in the hall—an unintelligible string that now signified chaos, damage, and a hundred tiny tragedies.

Fatigue set in across the ranks. The young, barely seasoned troops were sweating;their muscles trembled and they questioned the unfolding plan.

“Do we have any reinforcements coming?”

Shen Liya strained to hear, and the messengers returned with frantic reports. The old veteran’s name, the hall’s name, and the tear-streaked soldier’s pleas all mingled in the noise.

If the confrontation continued, the hall’s defenders would either be driven into a corner or forced to counterattack. The crawling beast grinned at the thought.

“Beasts will clutch the spring box.”

The commander’s voice was flat but resolute.

Troops committed more resources, even as some donations and supplies were pulled away to meet other emergencies. The shell-shocked men focused on defense and tried to hold the line.

The strategy director assigned defensive squads and sent out specific instructions: the guards would protect Shen Liya’s district;the net of watchmen would be tightened.

The force on the right was a skeleton crew—makeshift, patched, fragile—and yet it had to hold against the raiders. If they fell back, the entire plan would collapse.

A general order came through: seal off any access to the inner sanctum and use the "Autumn" squad to harass and slow the enemy’s momentum.

The scouts balanced a risky play—expose themselves for the sake of the whole.

Tension rose. The enemy seemed to sense the small gaps in discipline and prepared to strike. Orders were barked, and tactical points were drawn with shaking hands.

The old veteran and the shaman exchanged glances;they remembered previous oppressions, past conflicts—and the memory stirred them to stubbornness.

The smell of smoke and burning hair hung in the air, and the battle took on the aspect of a ritual: flames licked, and heroes pushed forward into a storm of sparks and ash.

“Hold steady!” someone cried.

The defenders steadied, hands clutched, breaths synchronized. A line of men planted poles to resist the next wave.

The old veteran, the shaman, and the community’s humble leaders moved to take up posts together, combining ritual and raw force.

Their plan was simple: drive the attackers away from the graves, protect the elders, and secure the wounded.

At the far edge, the vendors and the small communities pitched in, pulling crates and carrying supplies to those who needed them most. The little fishing clan guarded a key choke point.

Several attempts were made to flank the defenders, but the improvised barriers and the scorched earth tactics blunted these assaults. The cleverest of the attackers were met with steel and simmering oil.

Yet some of the attackers were not purely human—the enemy force consisted of feral creatures and shadowy beings. The defenders had to deal with both steel and beast.

One of the defenders, nicknamed “Small Ice,” threw oil and lit a controlled flame that burned the claws of a charging beast;the creature recoiled and scattered.

An opposing commander shouted, “Slow them down!”

A vine of living roots snaked forward, wrapping and binding some of the attackers, immobilizing their most dangerous fighters.

At once the strategists adjusted. They funneled the attackers into traps, used ropes and stakes to pin the larger beasts, and anchored the lines with fresh reinforcements.

“Guì la!” someone called—an old rallying cry that carried through the smoke.

The rear lines pushed, and for an instant the attackers’ morale wavered.

The old veteran’s mind flashed to two memories: the shaman’s plea and the name of one lost comrade.

He remembered the shaman’s voice for Memory One, and the veteran’s own heart for Memory Two.

Six stories of sacrifice rose in the veteran’s mind;he felt the weight of his people’s suffering, and his ire burned like a hot metal.

The crowd around him brightened for a moment, eyes clearing as if someone had swept away a fog. The old veteran’s strength was not entirely gone;he could still lay claim to grit and leadership.

Shen Liya’s party began a search and rescue of the perimeter, and the workshop of the chief craftsmen prepared to mend damaged gear.

At the riverbank, Shen Liya and the others ready boats and hoisted supplies. The east gate’s patrols tried to conceal sneaky movements and keep the enemy guessing.

A small group of surprised prisoners, captured by a prior sweep, were now being paraded—they were treated as “astonished folk” in the record book.

On the defensive grid, the combat officers prepared match lines: where to hold and where to break depended on the next move.

The old veteran, his team, and the shaman coordinated the assault pattern. They fortified positions and readied counterattacks.

In the manic swirl of the conflict, the enemy’s leadership fell into squabbling—some wanted to press the attack, others favoured retreat;one man proposed attacking the dog-herds to break morale.

“Make a show of force!” someone barked.

The plan crystallized: a concentrated blow at the enemy’s weak flank, a feint to lure them into a prepared kill zone.

The old veteran’s party made plans to use the sacrificial mound as bait, to draw aggressive elements forward and smash them with a counterstroke.

It was risky, but it was the best chance to save the inner hall.

Tension swelled and cratered across the venue as each side maneuvered.

The old veteran’s tribe fought hard, sending in small wings of scouts and decoy units to bait the enemy.

The commander’s orders were shouted in quick succession, and the defenders’ web of traps began to tighten.

The enemy’s general—colossal, with a fearsome grin—stepped into the open. He crushed squads with terrifying swings;the crowd’s fear rose again.

Someone in the defense barked—“Hold the east quadrant!”—and the line answered.

Swords clashed and barked;the sanctified lines bent but did not yet break. Men and beasts fought with the desperation of survivors.

The old veteran’s tactics forced the enemy’s cadres into disarray. The bloodied lines staggered and a guttering impression of defeat formed in the attackers’ ranks.

A clang resounded—the wooden planks of a coffin snapped open, and the silhouette of a robust, broad-shouldered veteran leapt out, launching himself into the fray.

The battle’s tempo shifted;heroes rose like a tide and crashed into the attackers.

The defenders surged forward, rolling the enemy back in a sudden, fierce counterpunch.

The battle was far from over, but the morale had swung. The attackers gave ground;the defenders snarled with renewed resolve.

The old veteran and his allies had bought time. The sun’s faint rays began to press through the smoke, pale and insistent.

For now, the defenders held. The invaders were driven back, but only just. The cost was heavy, and the embers of the night’s battle still glowed.

A new day was rising.