Helping with Adventurer Party Management - Chapter 372

This is the third and final part of the interlude. The main story will resume in the next chapter.

That day, when Swiberry arrived at the usual spot in the forest for practice, something was different. The tree he usually used for thrusting practice had been broken—shattered halfway up.

Was it a bear, or perhaps a boar? If it were a large animal, it might have knocked the tree over with brute force to assert its territory. The trunk looked as if it had been snapped with overwhelming power, not finesse.

“If it were a beast, our dinner would be richer,” he muttered.

Over the years, Swiberry had faced bears and boars many times, bringing them down. Their massive bodies and strength were terrifying, but animals lacked the subtlety of distance and timing, making them unsatisfying opponents. With a wooden sword, Swiberry would strike, and the beast would fall, never knowing what had hit it.

He couldn’t read their expressions, but with a single strike that shattered their skulls or brains, they had no chance to make a sound. What bothered him this time, though, was that the ground showed no signs of being disturbed, unlike the usual traces beasts left behind.

The broken branches didn’t appear crushed by claws or gnawed by teeth. Instead, they looked as though they’d been shattered by some primitive tool.

Then, suddenly, Swiberry felt a sharp wave of killing intent from deeper in the forest.

Focusing his gaze, he saw a giant humanoid figure pushing through the underbrush, slowly making its way toward him. It was huge—similar to a goblin, but a head taller than himself. In its right hand, it held a spiked club.

Could that be what destroyed the tree?

“Did your minions get killed, and now you’re angry about it?” he muttered.

The answer came in the form of a violent strike with the spiked club. Its arms were long, and the attack came fast. For the first time, Swiberry was forced to retreat.

It was something he hadn’t done since beginning his thrusting practice.

The hobgoblin, with its ugly face twisted in a howl, charged at him. It was a monster with a larger body than his own, and a weapon that could end his life in a single blow. The storm of attacks from its long arms came without pause.

Normally, someone would feel fear when facing such danger—but Swiberry felt an odd calmness in his mind.

No matter what the enemy was, the task remained the same.

He focused on the creature’s eyes and extended his awareness across its entire body.

The creature inhaled, then exhaled.

In that instant, from a relaxed stance with his wooden sword, Swiberry stepped forward and thrust. It was a movement he had repeated thousands—no, tens of thousands—of times.

Pushing off the ground with both feet, he transferred power from his legs through his knees and hips, twisting his back and arms to drive all the force to the tip of the sword.

The wooden blade shot forward, smashing the club the creature had raised to defend itself, shattering its upper jaw, and piercing through.

Fragments of skull and blood mixed with brain matter splattered in the air. It was a fatal blow.

Even so, the creature struggled in its final moments, clawing at Swiberry with sharp nails despite the mortal wound.

Reacting instantly, Swiberry pulled back his sword, stepped in close, and reversed his grip to slam the hilt into the creature’s abdomen like a dagger.

Though it was only the hilt, the force of his full-body attack at such close range sent the massive, half-dead monster flying. It crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust.

“A sword like a spear, or a dagger,” Swiberry murmured to himself, feeling a slight sense of satisfaction as he looked down at the fallen body.

When he returned to the village, Swiberry’s report caused an uproar. A hobgoblin attack was a serious matter for a humble farming village.

No one could believe that the boy had brought down such a creature with just a wooden stick.

He had arrived just before sunset, but by the time night fell, bonfires had been lit across the village, and the young militia rushed about with torches.

“It was too heavy, so I left it behind. If someone comes with me, I can go back and fetch it,” Swiberry said.

The villagers exchanged glances, each passing the task to the next. Entering the forest at night was considered madness.

But if the hobgoblin’s death was real, they had to confirm it.

Eventually, a few villagers gathered their courage, picked up torches, and followed him.

To distract themselves from the fear of the dark forest, they tried talking to Swiberry, but he only responded with grunts like “Yeah,” or “I guess,” ending each conversation quickly.

Soon, they reached the site of the battle.

“Unbelievable… It’s really down.”

That they didn’t say, he defeated it, showed they still couldn’t quite believe Swiberry had done it.

“What’s wrong? Not taking it back?”

Prompted by his question, the villagers hastily began tying ropes around the body.

They quickly made a sled out of nearby branches and loaded the massive corpse onto it.

“Would you mind pulling the sled?” a villager asked.

“If you take care of any monsters that attack, then sure,” Swiberry replied.

The night forest was a dangerous place. No one knew when another monster might appear.

Shivering with fear, the villagers hurriedly pulled the sled, while Swiberry walked alongside, ever alert.

“So, you’re really going?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard the lord will appoint you as a soldier. Isn’t that enough reason to stay?” His mother tried to stop him, but Swiberry’s resolve didn’t waver.

The tale of the boy who defeated a hobgoblin one-on-one with a wooden stick had spread far and wide. The lord had even offered him a position as a soldier.

For a farmer’s child, it was an incredible opportunity.

“No. I still want to refine my sword. I want to fight even stronger opponents.”

“I won’t stop you now… but I still can’t believe it… our little Berry…” his father chuckled wryly.

The words his father once told him—use the sword like a spear or a dagger—had been misunderstood.

His father had meant: If you’re good with a spear but only have a sword, tie it to a stick and use it as a spear. If you don’t have a dagger, grip the sword near the hilt and use it like one.

But somehow, Swiberry had misinterpreted that advice and created his own unique sword style.

And despite being just a boy, his skill had already surpassed his father’s.

All his father could do was smile wryly as he sent him off.

A few years later, Swiberry would meet Jilboa—and under that banner, serve as vice-captain of the Sword Fangs Legion.

“Well, I’m off now.”

He spoke the same words he had said the day he first left the village, stepping out the door.

Much time had passed since then, but Swiberry hadn’t changed.

The people around him had changed, his sword had changed, and his surroundings had changed.

But still, like the boy he once was, he continued to swing his sword—

To become stronger.