The Taxbound goblins marched ahead through the undergrowth, their golden Clubs of Compliance glinting beneath the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. Dressed in ill-fitting black suits, their tiny arms swinging with exaggerated seriousness, they looked more like failed performers from a forgotten vaudeville act than enforcers of a metaphysical revenue system. Their new uniforms, surprisingly resilient, seemed to cling to their gangly frames, a stark contrast to the wild, untamed forest.
Yet, each time they approached another group of wild goblins, the absurdity melted into a chilling dread. The untaxed goblins, accustomed to only the crude violence of their own kind or the overwhelming might of Players, found themselves facing something entirely new: an unyielding, bureaucratic menace.
"Oi, you got scale?" barked one of the goblin tax agents, its voice surprisingly gruff for its size, squinting at a trio of confused scavengers huddled near a fallen log.
"Scale?" one of the scavengers squeaked, clutching a rusty knife, its eyes wide with a mixture of fear and bewilderment.
"No ledger, no tax trail. You even registered?" the suited goblin snapped, its golden club tapping impatiently against the damp earth. It leaned in, inspecting their auras with an air of practiced authority, as if it had been doing this for centuries.
The scavengers looked at one another, clueless, their primitive minds unable to grasp the concept of registration, let alone taxes. They were bottom-feeders, scraping for survival, with no skills to speak of, no EXP flowing through their meager forms.
"Unregistered. No taxable income," the lead agent huffed, a look of disappointment on its face, as if it had just missed out on a prime collection. "Let 'em go."
The scavengers blinked, confused by their reprieve, and scurried off into the undergrowth, their relief palpable. The suited goblins, meanwhile, puffed their chests, pleased with their "field decision" and the display of their newfound power. Ben watched from a slight distance, a faint, almost imperceptible nod of approval. Efficiency. That's what mattered.
Further down the path, it was a different story. A pack of hunter-goblins—feral, sharp-eyed, brimming with low-level EXP from their recent kills—crossed their path. These were clearly earners, and the tax goblins didn't ask questions this time. Their golden clubs were already raised, their tiny faces set with grim determination. They acted.
[ ✦ Mark of Debt applied ]
[ ✦ Stat Seal applied: -15% Strength, -10% Agility ]
[ ✦ Disarm Lock initiated ]
[ ✦ Chain of Accountability: Engaged ]
Cries of outrage and confusion echoed through the trees as clubs swung with enforcement-approved precision. Golden glows struck green skin, followed by system-registered debuffs that crippled their targets. A hunter-goblin, mid-leap, suddenly found its muscles seizing, its agility halved. Another felt its grip on its crude bow loosen as its strength plummeted, the weapon clattering uselessly to the ground. Some goblins resisted, thrashing against unseen forces; most didn't even understand what was happening, only that their bodies were betraying them, their power draining away.
Ben walked silently behind his enforcers, his expression unreadable, letting the gears of the System do what they were built for: extract compliance. He was merely the conductor of this bizarre, terrifying orchestra, his presence a silent, undeniable authority. The satisfaction of seeing order imposed, even on these chaotic creatures, was a deep, resonant hum within him.
The goblin village was tucked into a moss-choked cavern, its entrance a gaping maw in the rock face. Inside, flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on walls slick with damp. The air hung heavy with the stinking scent of fungus, sweat, and something vaguely metallic—the raw essence of goblin life. Huts made from woven bark and discarded armor lined the damp walls, their entrances dark, maw-like openings.
As the six suited goblins marched into the central square, their golden clubs glinting, the reaction was immediate. A ripple of confusion, then alarm, spread through the milling villagers.
"Why're they dressed like that?" a young goblin shrieked, pointing a trembling finger.
"Is this... a prank?" another whispered, clutching its belly, a nervous tremor running through its small frame.
"Why's Snaggle got a golden stick?" a third muttered, recognizing one of the newly uniformed agents, its voice laced with disbelief.
Then the Taxbound Goblins began auditing. Their movements were clumsy but effective, their new purpose overriding their natural instincts. They moved with a strange, almost robotic determination, their eyes fixed on their targets.
The first goblin merchant, a corpulent creature hoarding a pile of shiny rocks, tried to flee, its stubby legs churning. It was promptly tripped by a surprising lunge from a suited goblin and debuffed with a low-tier silence seal, its outraged squawk cut short, replaced by frustrated gurgles. The next refused to pay until two compliance clubs met his shins with sharp, resounding thwacks. The goblin howled, clutching its legs, before reluctantly offering a flickering orb of EXP. A third simply sighed, a weary, human-like sound, and handed over its essence, its eyes already resigned to the inevitable.
The chaos and confusion reached the ears of the village's leader, a gnarled Goblin Warlock, hunched atop a bone-plated throne inside the largest hut. Four Elite Goblin Warriors, armored and well-fed, stood nearby, their expressions shifting from boredom to alarm as the sounds of their kin's misery echoed through the cavern.
Then Ben entered.
There was no dramatic wind. No system fanfare. Just a man in a tailored suit walking into a den of monsters with a briefcase and a neutral, utterly unyielding expression. The torchlight caught the glint of his spectacles, making his eyes seem like cold, calculating pools, reflecting the flickering flames with an almost predatory gleam.
The warlock narrowed his glowing yellow eyes, his gaze sharp and suspicious, assessing the newcomer. "Are you the one causing this trouble, human?" His voice was a low growl, thick with ancient malice, a challenge in its tone.
Ben stopped a few feet from the throne, his posture relaxed, yet radiating an undeniable authority that seemed to press down on the very air in the cavern. His eyes flicked over the warlock and his guards, assessing their power, their potential, their debt.
[ ✦ Mark of Debt applied: Goblin Warlock (Lv. 15) ]
[ ✦ Mark of Debt applied: Goblin Elite x4 (Lv. 10) ]
They didn't see the marks, but they felt them—a creeping chill like unseen chains coiling around their necks, a sudden, inexplicable weight settling upon their souls, a premonition of loss.
The warlock's brows furrowed, a flicker of unease in his glowing eyes. "What did you just do?" he demanded, his voice losing some of its initial arrogance.
Ben raised a hand, a gesture of calm command that silenced the buzzing chaos of the village.
[ ✦ Ledger View Activated ]
Transparent panels flicked into view before him, visible only to his eyes—rows of debt, defaulted EXP gains, undeclared skills, falsified growth logs. The warlock's entire financial history, laid bare in stark, undeniable numbers.