Building a Kingdom as a Kobold-Chapter 58: I Am Not Emotionally Prepared for Ambush Etiquette

Let it be known that I never asked for the forest to become more alive.

It was already too alive. It had breathing mushrooms, glaring frogs, and plants with opinions. But no, apparently that wasn't enough. Now the trees were watching us.

Not metaphorically. Literally. I looked up, and there were patterns carved high into the trunks—spirals, notches, geometric lines like a language that forgot how to be readable. They hadn't been there a few hours ago.

I stared at one particularly jagged symbol about fifteen kobolds above my head.

"I don't like that it's blinking," I said.

"It's not blinking," Tinker replied automatically.

The mark pulsed faintly. Not like light. More like heat behind the eyes.

Tinker stared up at it. "...Correction noted."

The path had vanished an hour ago. Now we were just following the half-elves as they moved silently through thicker and thicker brush. Even the squad was quiet. Not disciplined. Just... unsettled.

Cinders was still holding her ladle like a club, and I couldn't even blame her.

The system chimed in, not helpfully.

[Local Terrain Status: Verdant Ring Inner Threshold]

[Territorial Markers Detected - Source Unknown]

[Current Zone Alignment: Neutral / Watchful]

I paused. "That's a setting now? Alignment?"

Sylrien glanced back. "The deeper parts of the Ring are old. Not all of them sleep willingly."

That sounded like a warning if I'd ever heard one.

We pushed forward. Something shifted. The air thickened. Every breath tasted like damp bark and moss and something faintly metallic underneath.

Then, Relay stepped into what looked like a normal patch of moss—and vanished through it with a shout.

He didn't fall. He just... dropped.

I rushed forward in full panic mode only to find him lying on what looked like normal forest floor about a meter down, completely unharmed but tangled in vines that were slowly retracting like embarrassed snakes.

"What just happened?" I demanded.

Tinker waved a scanner at the space. "Localized root collapse. Possibly part of an older elven defense matrix. Possibly sentient."

"Fantastic," I muttered. "Put it on the list, Tinker."

"Which list?"

"The one labeled 'Stuff Trying to Inherit My Flame Without Asking.'"

Relay sat up and looked at me. "I didn't mean to!"

"Classic."

Then the forest moved.

Not violently. Not with rage. Just... in disapproval. Like a librarian who'd seen you mishandle a rare scroll. The roots lifted. Branches bent. Every tree seemed to lean just a little too far inward.

Glare raised her claws in slow reverence. "We are being judged."

"No kidding," I muttered.

The half-elves fanned out with fluid grace, forming a half-circle. Sylrien whispered something melodic. The forest stilled. Whatever had been watching backed off.

The system chimed again, too calmly.

[Localized Natural Defense Mechanism: Stabilized]

[Alignment Shift: Neutral / Alert]

[Recommendation: Proceed Without Provoking Further Sentient Plants] freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

"Yeah. That was the plan already."

We moved slower after that. The forest wasn't actively threatening us anymore, but it was definitely... listening. The half-elves kept their eyes high and wide. Even Flick stopped climbing things.

The squad stayed close. Quiet. Alert.

Which is why, when the first arrow zipped through the canopy and embedded itself in a tree next to me, nobody screamed.

We just all stopped moving at the same time.

"Cover!" I snapped.

Cinders tackled Glare. Tinker dove behind a mossy log. Relay vanished into a bush like he'd practiced it.

I dove sideways and rolled just as a second arrow thunked into the dirt where my chest had been. Metal-tipped. Not goblin-made. Too clean.

Elves responded instantly. Two of them broke formation and melted into the trees. Sylrien stood beside me, bow drawn before I'd even turned fully upright.

"Scouts," she hissed.

"More than one?" I asked.

A third arrow answered that question.

The ambush didn't come all at once. It came in flickers—snap-movements through the green, flashes of cloaks, soundless dashes. Testing. Measuring. Not a full force. Just a handful of mercenaries feeling us out.

And then they pushed harder.

One of them broke cover too close to me. Human, older, padded leather, eyes wide and sharp. He lunged fast, blade out, no hesitation. A real fighter.

I stepped into his swing and parried with the butt of my weapon. He adjusted mid-strike—clever. Not brute force, not charging in like an idiot.

I ducked under his second swing and aimed for his side. Caught him in the ribs. He grunted, stumbled, but didn't fall.

I didn't press the advantage. I backed up. Watched his stance.

He grinned. "Didn't expect a kobold to have footwork."

"Didn't expect a mercenary to monologue," I shot back, and feinted low.

He bit. His foot shifted wrong.

I swept his leg and drove his shoulder into the dirt. Before he could react, I slammed the flat of my blade across the back of his knee and pinned his arm.

He struggled. Briefly. Wisely stopped.

I looked down at him, breathing hard. "Still want to talk about footwork?"

"No, ma'am."

Good answer.

The fight around us resolved fast. One scout fled after getting clipped by an arrow. Another went down with a shriek and was quickly bound by an elf. The last one slipped into the trees, vanishing completely.

It was over in under a minute.

Relay emerged from his bush. "Everyone alive?"

Cinders gave a thumbs up, holding her now-dented ladle like a war trophy.

I walked over to where the scout I'd dropped had tried to crawl away. He wasn't unconscious. Just winded.

"Who sent you?"

"Don't know names," he rasped. "Just got paid to map the treeline. See how far you things spread."

"'You things,'" I repeated. "Nice."

He shrugged.

One of the elves bent down and picked something from the scout's belt. A small, round disc etched with concentric patterns—part mechanical, part magical.

Sylrien handed it to me. "Do you recognize this?"

I turned it over in my claws. It buzzed faintly. The system helpfully lit up.

[Item Identified: Tracker Sigil]

[Origin: Surface Craft – Guild Signature Detected (Flagged Unauthorized)]

[Purpose: Remote Path Mapping / Target Marking]

I stared at it.

"So we're being tracked," I muttered. "With Guild-made gear someone definitely wasn't supposed to have."

Relay leaned in. "Stolen supply chain?"

"Black market," I said flatly. "Or deserters. Either way, it's worse."