Chapter 79 — When Numbers Matter

  Ivaline did not practice swordsmanship that night.

  Not in reality.

  Her blade remained sheathed. Her body stayed still upon the mat. But inside her mind, the training had already begun.

  “Chronicle,” she said softly, eyes closed. “Tell me about goblins.”

  There was a pause—not hesitation, but searching.

  “In my former world, goblins did not exist.”

  Her brow twitched slightly.

  “However, many books did,” Chronicle continued. “Fantasy. Myth. Tactical imagination. Patterns repeated often enough to form probability.”

  That was enough for her.

  “Tell me.”

  “Green skin.

  Height comparable to yours, some slightly larger.

  Physically weaker than adult humans, but stronger than children.

  Low individual discipline. High group coordination.

  Cunning. Opportunistic.

  They flee when pressured—but only after advantage is lost.”

  As Chronicle spoke, Ivaline began to build them.

  Not as pictures.

  As presence.

  A single goblin formed first.

  Crude posture. Jerky movement. Poor balance.

  She stepped in.

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  It fell easily.

  Two goblins appeared.

  They circled. One distracted while the other lunged. Her timing slipped—but she adapted. The fight lasted longer, but ended cleanly.

  “Still easier than the wolf,” she murmured.

  Three.

  Four.

  The space shrank. Angles overlapped. Feints became traps. Her awareness split too thin, too fast.

  By the time five appeared—

  It was no longer a fight.

  It was survival.

  They pressed from multiple directions. Her imagined footing faltered. One slipped past her guard while another forced her blade aside. She took hits she could not afford.

  Chronicle’s earlier words surfaced, unprompted.

  Cunning. Numbers. Pressure.

  She stopped trying to defend.

  Instead, she charged.

  Forward. Always forward.

  She targeted the nearest. Closed distance. Struck hard. Reduced the count.

  Then another.

  The illusion wavered.

  With fewer bodies, the pressure broke. The remaining goblins hesitated—then scattered, fleeing into nothingness.

  The field vanished.

  “Huff… huff…”

  Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

  Sweat beaded at her temples despite her body never moving an inch. Her fingers curled reflexively, as if still gripping a sword.

  Mental rehearsal still taxes the mind, Chronicle noted.

  “I can feel it,” she replied, swallowing. “Like… almost dying without bleeding.”

  She lay still for a moment longer.

  “Chronicle,” she said. “Normally… goblins stay in groups, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “In my world’s literature, they often split into smaller units. Scouts. Bait. Ambush teams. Rarely alone. They lure prey, then strike together.”

  “…That’s nasty.”

  “Agreed.”

  She considered that.

  “…Are there goblins that wander alone?”

  “There are accounts. Rare. Exiles. Survivors. Broken individuals.”

  “How rare?”

  “Approximately one in a thousand.”

  She exhaled.

  “…Then I’ll pretend they don’t exist.”

  Chronicle did not argue.

  “That mindset should keep you alive.”

  She repeated the exercise.

  Again.

  And again.

  She refined spacing. Learned when to retreat, when to press. She stopped imagining victory and focused on exit conditions.

  Eventually, she reached a conclusion she trusted.

  “If it’s four,” she said quietly, “I can manage alone.”

  “Correct.”

  “But five or more…”

  “You should rely on your party.”

  She nodded, even with her eyes closed.

  “Good.”

  Chronicle’s tone softened.

  “Sleep now. If you delay further, you will be late for the meeting.”

  “…Okay.”

  Her breathing slowed.

  The imagined field dissolved completely.

  And though no goblin had ever stood before her yet—

  When they finally did,

  She would not be meeting them unprepared.