The Regression Of A Grand Mercenary - 60 - Final Week Test - Part 4

The cold morning air clung to the camp like a shroud. A soft mist hovered just above the frost-covered ground, the embers from last night’s fire pits reduced to faint glows buried under ash and snow. Birds had not yet begun to sing. The silence was uncanny.

Unlike the first day — where voices, laughter, and clanging gear filled the dawn — this morning was subdued. No one busied themselves with sharpening blades or tying cloaks. No one challenged others to morning drills. Not a single soul made a move until the command was given.

They were all waiting.

And though no orders had yet been spoken, everyone knew something was coming.

At the edge of the camp, Mario and Astin stood by Thill’s tent, as still as statues. Despite the cold, neither of them showed signs of sleepiness. Their eyes were sharp, faces tense, ears occasionally straining toward the tent flap in the hopes of hearing something — anything.

“I haven’t heard a word from him since yesterday,” Mario muttered, keeping his voice low. “He didn’t even check our wounds last night.”

“Same,” Astin replied. “But I doubt it means he didn’t notice. With Miss Evelyn’s help, we all went to sleep in tip-top shape. he must have trusted Miss Evelyn to take care of the wounded.”

Mario nodded, then cast a curious glance toward the tent again. “What do you think he’ll have us do today?”

Astin didn’t answer at first. Instead, he opened a folded leather case and produced a sheet of parchment — now ink-stained with notes, arrows, scribbles, and hand-drawn terrain.

“Well,” he finally said, “I thought ahead.”

Mario blinked. “Wait… is that—?”

“A map,” Astin confirmed. “I went around last night. Spoke to each group. Got what I could from their travels. Some bits were vague, some overlapping, but I’ve charted the trails they followed, the terrain they crossed, and anything unusual they mentioned.”

He handed it over. Mario scanned it with wide eyes.

There were colored routes drawn in crisscrossing lines, each marked by initials of scout teams. Symbols had been scratched in the margins: a question mark near a cliff, a circle over a creature’s den, a jagged ‘X’ beside what seemed to be an unstable bridge. It was messy, but clearly the work of someone with a sharp mind and even sharper instincts.

“…I’m speechless,” Mario said. “You really pulled through.”

Astin gave a tired smile. “Didn’t sleep. But I figured if Thill’s going to test us again, we should be better prepared. And this—” he tapped the parchment, “—this is how you prepare.”

Just then, the tent flap opened.

Thill stepped out.

He held in his arms a large scroll — thick with weight, its ends fastened tightly. Snow crunched under his boots as he walked toward a cleared corner of the camp. The two boys trailed behind like hounds following a general, eager for commands.

Without saying a word, Thill approached a nearby tree, nailed two sheets of parchment onto its trunk The one on the right was a map similar to the work that Astin was able to make all night. Details that were clearly about the information gained from their own scout work, while the other one on the left was a piece of paper that was covered by another piece of paper, so the two of them couldn’t look what was on the other side. ,

Then, with his voice cold and curt, he spoke: “Call everyone. In ten minutes, we begin.”

Mario and Astin immediately moved. Their voices rang out across the frost-bound camp, summoning all the trainees.

Before long, the entire company had assembled. Forty-eight boys, clad in cloaks and patched armor, stood in five perfect rows — still, quiet, and attentive.

Thill stood at the front, arms folded behind his back, the map boards to his side.

His gaze swept across them like a commander surveying an army.

“Looking at your faces,” he began, “I can already tell you’re curious about today’s activity…”

His tone was even. Measured. But there was an edge of something in it — not quite amusement, not quite weariness. Something heavier.

“Well,” he continued, “don’t be.”

A pause. A flicker of unease rippled through the line.

“I’m not assigning any new test today. I’m not taking you back out into the field — not yet. Right now, we’re going to take a look at what yesterday really meant.”

He stepped toward the tree and gestured to the parchment on the right.

“This is your work,” he said. “Ten groups. One day of scouting. I’ve compiled everything you submitted and posted it here.”

Some of the trainees leaned forward to see. The parchment had lines, names, and markings scattered across it. Some looked detailed, others vague. It was a patchwork of effort — a collective map of exploration.

Then, without another word, Thill reached out and tore the cover off the second paper.

The parchment beneath was breathtaking.

Even Astin took a step forward, stunned by the detail.

It was a fully rendered tactical map of the forest — not just trails and markers, but terrain elevations, wind direction notations, game migration patterns, monster scent trails, and frost bloom distribution zones. Tiny scribbles in the margins marked resource-rich areas, probable den locations, and natural camouflage terrain. Even the temperature gradients had been charted in ink.

“This…” Thill said, his voice flat, “is my work. Done in the same amount of time as yours.”

Silence.

No one dared speak.

“Of course, I don’t expect any of you to match this yet. That’s not the point.”

He looked at them all now — his gaze stern, but not unkind.

“The point is awareness. Awareness of what you missed. Of what you failed to see. Of what you didn’t even realize you could see.”

He gestured again to both maps.

“You’re not here to be strong. You’re here to be sharp. To survive, to lead, to adapt. If you think swinging a sword harder makes you a warrior, you’re better off leaving now.”

His words struck deep.

Some of the boys lowered their eyes.

But Thill wasn’t finished.

“Yesterday, three groups encountered mishaps and fired their flares. These groups were saved only because I intervened. One group —” his eyes flicked toward Mario’s row, “— was moments away from being taken.”

A grim silence followed.

“And yet, none of you ran. You fought. You endured. You came back. And for that… I commend you.”

Thill’s voice softened slightly. Just enough for the boys to lift their heads again.

“But don’t forget — you survived yesterday because I was there. I won’t always be.”

He stepped away from the maps, letting them take in the image.

“So, tell me…everyone is free to tell what is on their minds. What do you think is in front of you? And to be more accurate, in your experience yesterday, what do you think of the map laid before your very eyes?” he asked.

For a while, no one answered.

The boys stood rooted to the frost-covered earth, their eyes darting between the two maps — one a collaborative patchwork of effort, the other a masterwork of knowledge and precision. They weren’t just comparing data anymore. They were confronting reality.

Then, slowly, a hand rose.

It was Garon — one of the oldest members to join the company and one of Mario’s boy’s who joined in his scout group. He was known to be a hunter in the forest so his expereince was well respected.

“Yes?” Thill said, not unkindly.

Garon lowered his hand and spoke. “When I look at your map, sir… it’s like I was blind yesterday. I walked those woods, marked what I could, but now I see how much I missed. There were things I didn’t even think to consider. Like elevation, wind… even frost blooms.”

Thill gave a nod. “And what do you think happens when a scout misses something as small as a wind current in monster territory?”

“…It could mean walking straight into a predator’s scent range,” Darren answered.

“Exactly.”

Thill turned to the group again. “Scouting is not about finding paths. It’s about understanding terrain. You need to know what the forest is trying to tell you. That sound? That silence? That broken branch? That ridge you ignored? Each of those things was screaming at you, and most of you didn’t listen.”

A murmur passed through the rows. Some looked ashamed. Others thoughtful. And a few — like Mario and Astin — were nodding slowly, beginning to see the shape of something deeper than just survival.

“Anyone else?” Thill asked.

Soon, many orther followed and said what they understood in the comparison of Thill’s work and theirs. They accepted their shortcomings and began to learn more from someone who was more experienced in this field.

And long after, Thill moved on to his next objective for this gathering.

Thill let the silence stretch just a moment longer, scanning the faces in front of him, before he spoke again.

“Now that you’ve seen what your eyes failed to grasp,” he said, his tone returning to its calm but firm edge, “it’s time we put that hard-earned experience to use.”

He turned back to the map — this time, pointing to a specific sector near the upper left corner of the parchment. It was circled in red ink, a jagged outline marked with a symbol the boys hadn’t noticed before.

“Group Two,” Thill said, eyes never leaving the map. “Step forward.”

A shuffle of boots echoed behind the silence. five boys from the second scout group moved out of the line, standing a pace ahead of the others — nervous, alert, and unsure what this was about.

“You five were the first to return to camp yesterday,” Thill continued. “You filed your report quickly… but when I cross-referenced your marked location with my own notes, something stood out. Tell everyone what you saw.”

The group leader, a stocky boy with a rough-cut cloak and fur-lined gloves, swallowed hard and took a breath.

“We… we came upon a clearing, Captain. North-northeast from the ridge. Looked like an abandoned camp at first, but…” He hesitated, then found courage. “But we saw goblins. A lot of them. Maybe thirty at the time. They hadn’t noticed us. We didn’t want to risk it, so we fell back immediately.”

Thill gave a single approving nod. “Good instincts. Not charging blindly into what you didn’t understand.” He turned his gaze to the others. “But what they saw was only half of what was there.”

He walked over and tapped the red-marked region again.

“I followed that lead last night. Took the long path around the ridge. What Group Two found was only the outer edge of a larger, more fortified goblin encampment — built into a series of rocky trenches and natural overhangs. They’ve dug themselves in. I counted sixty-three of them, not including the two shamans who were conducting rites near the center fire pit. If we don’t act first…”

He let the implication hang.

“…they’ll act for us.”

A few boys tensed, others clenched their jaws. Even the colder air seemed to weigh heavier now.

“So,” Thill said, turning fully back to the company, “we are going to eliminate them. Not with brute force. But with intelligence. With precision. With a plan that will leave no survivors.”

He stepped aside and motioned to the detailed combat map he had pinned next to the others.

“This is their layout — paths, sightlines, guard rotations, even where they keep their food and crude weapons. I marked where the shamans sleep and where their scouts rest during the day. Today’s mission is a live ambush operation.”

“Now, with all of this put before you, what do you think?”

“….”

Everyone was silent.

The weight of what Thill had just said hung in the air like the frost on their shoulders. An ambush. A full assault. Sixty goblins — maybe more. Some swallowed hard. Others shifted uncomfortably in place. Even the hardiest among them couldn’t deny the chill that now crept beneath their skin wasn’t just from the cold.

This wasn’t a simulation. This wasn’t a drill. This was an opportunity for war presented by Thill before his company.

For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke.

Then —

“I’ll say something,” came a voice from the second row.

Astin stepped forward, clutching the folded map he’d made the night before. His voice was calm, but not without hesitation. He wasn’t pretending to be brave — he was choosing to be.

“I’ve dealt with goblins before,” he said. “Back home… they’d sneak into our farmlands at night. They’d steal chickens, ruin the crops, smash our tools. Sometimes they’d stab the livestock, leave them to bleed out just for fun.”

He paused, letting the memory sit heavy.

“I helped my father track and kill one once,” he continued. “It was small — sickly. Took us hours to find. When we cornered it, it begged. In a broken version of our language. Said it was hungry. Said it had no choice.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

”Even still, we killed it. On my first time killing a goblin…one thing that caught me off guard was the fact that…while it was bleeding to death, it was laughing at me. Taunting me…” at his words, everyone was silent.

Goblins were common monster pest that anyone with a weapon could handle. Stories about their nature and existence would not be taken lightly. They say that sometimes, Goblins would take hostages of little children when given the chance. They knew the knowledge of relation that was common in the human society…

Rumors that they were evolving with the human race made them a terrifying race itself.

They had religion…a god to call out to…

They bore knowledge about using traps to lure in hunters in the forest and trapping them to eat their flesh while they were alive.

Their weapons were crude and coated with their own piss which was extremely poisonous to  that of a simple human. One fatal injury from their weapons and the man would began to fall ill all to his death. Without proper care, they would fall and suffer slowly.

[AN: Goblin piss = Komodo Dragon Spit.]

Goblin Shamans were known to use magic, so even though mages were rare in the human race, the Goblins themselves were quite blessed to gain the opportunity to use magic. Making them extremely dangerous.

And most of all, they fucked like rabbits. Their numbers grow three times as fast as humans do, so their race is never completely wiped out.

A few of the boys looked disturbed by what Astin said. Some lowered their heads. Others simply stared, haunted by the knowledge that what they’d once laughed off as “goblins” — the bottom-rung pests of adventurer tales — were anything but a joke.

Thill, standing silently, allowed the truth to linger.

It was important that they understood.

Goblins were no mere wildlife.

They were a parasite species. One that adapted to human behavior and then weaponized it.

They mimicked our structures, our languages, even our vices. They fed on fear and flesh in equal measure.

And the worst part?

They were getting smarter.

“I’ve fought goblins more times than I can count,” Thill finally said, his voice breaking the silence like the snap of frostbitten bark.

“And no matter how many we kill, they come back. Because they don’t die like us. They don’t fear like us. When a goblin dies screaming, the others hear it as laughter. When you corner them, they bleed — and sing. Not because they enjoy pain. But because they’ve long since learned that their fear is your weapon… so they took it from you.”

He stepped forward, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.

“But that’s also what makes them weak.”

The boys looked up.

Thill’s eyes gleamed not with rage — but clarity.

“They’re clever, yes. Vicious, yes. But they’re predictable. They rely on overwhelming numbers and surprise. On fear. On the false hope that you’ll hesitate when you see a child-sized thing screaming in a tongue you don’t understand. But when you strip away their tricks — when you deny them chaos and give them fire, steel, and precision?”

He raised his voice.

“They die like everything else.”

A few of the boys straightened. Shoulders squared. Spines aligned.

“This isn’t just a test,” Thill said. “It’s an opportunity. A goblin horde that close to our village could jeopardize everything we’ve built. Left alone, it becomes an infestation, it becomes another raid for our homes to suffer. But hit fast, strike clean, and we send a message.”

He turned back toward the map pinned to the tree, placing a firm finger down on the red-marked camp.

“We’re going to gut them where they live. Every tunnel, every fire pit, every shaman. I want the nest burned, the entrance collapsed, and no survivors crawling back to warn the rest of the region.”

“For the next six hours, I will impose another part of your training that you will use to attack the goblins.” he said.

“What is it sir?” asked one of the boys.

“Trapping.” he said firm.

Thill was going to let the boys themselves prepare to attack the goblin camp in ways that he knew from his past. Like any hunt, he was going to play with his prey…lead it on to a point that it falls dead before his very feet.

He had already discussed the art of trapping to the trainees. The basics at least. And using their knowledge, he wants them to experience what it means to attack an enemy that was on equal strength to theirs.

Currently, the boys were still green…and like the color of the skin of the goblins, the boys were just good enough…but not enough to survive in a world where the swords run red with blood.

So without further explanation, he began giving them their next objective.

Attacking the Goblin Camp.