With the aid of his perspective spell, Páng kè spotted six or seven small green-skinned creatures hiding within the man-tall bushes—goblins, common nuisances in both Faerûn and countless other worlds.
Goblins were distantly related to goblins, though no self-respecting goblin would ever admit it.
The goblins had lost their civilization ages ago, but their ancestors had once built the mighty Imaska Empire, a name still feared across many planes.
Goblins, on the other hand, had remained primitive since the dawn of time, barely scraping together a tribal existence.
It was no wonder that goblins looked down upon them as "poor relatives."
These creatures stood no taller than human children, their oversized heads adorned with sharp eagle noses and jagged teeth.
Dressed in filthy scraps of animal hide, they looked less like bandits and more like desperate beggars.
But despite their pathetic appearance, they weren't harmless.
Goblins were stronger than they looked, their wiry bodies as agile as apes.
A single goblin was no match for a trained fighter, but in groups, they were as dangerous as a squad of militia.
Judging by their ambush spot, their original target had likely been the herd of reindeer approaching the river for a drink.
With their stubby legs, goblins weren't suited for pursuits that required speed—like actual hunting.
But now, their beady eyes had shifted toward a new, seemingly weaker prey: Páng kè.
Too bad for them.
Páng kè reached into his robe and pulled out a small piece of rabbit fat.
Any creature with an IQ above 50 would have fled the moment they saw a mage preparing spell components, but these ignorant beasts still thought they were hidden, eagerly awaiting their "surprise attack."
With the smooth coordination of material, gesture, and incantation, Páng kè cast an apprentice-level summoning spell—Grease.
A large mass of astral oil condensed into existence, formed from his will and drawn into reality by magic.
The rabbit fat vanished, replaced by a basketball-sized glob of shimmering, white-specked oil.
As the final syllable of his spell left his lips, a simple kinetic push sent the astral oil flying toward the bush.
Unlike his Secondary Catapult spell, this projectile wasn't launched with sniper-like speed, but it moved fast enough that the goblins couldn't react.
The sticky substance splattered over the bushes and the creatures hiding within.
Panicked, the goblins shrieked and scrambled to escape, but the slick, greasy surface sent them toppling over one another.
They flailed and kicked, utterly helpless.
By the time they realized what had happened, it was already too late.
Páng kè had already begun casting his next spell.
This time, he chose the simplest of energy-shaping magic: Mini Fireball.
On its own, the spell had pitiful offensive power, mostly used for lighting fires.
But combined with Grease?
It became something else entirely.
Since Mini Fireball was such a rudimentary spell, it took him barely a second to complete.
A bright, orange-red sphere the size of a ping-pong ball flickered into existence at his fingertip.
A mere heartbeat after the goblins slipped, Páng kè flicked his wrist, sending the tiny ember sailing into the bush.
The result was immediate.
The astral oil ignited in a flash, erupting into a roaring inferno.
Thick black smoke billowed upward, and searing flames engulfed the goblins.
The temperature soared to nearly a thousand degrees.
Even in the cool morning air, the heatwave radiating from the fire scorched the surrounding grass.
From within the blaze, high-pitched screams rang out, only to be cut short.
A few of the creatures, luckier or more thick-skinned than the others, managed to stumble out of the burning thicket.
They rolled on the damp grass, smothering the flames clinging to their charred bodies.
But most were not so fortunate.
Their flesh blackened, cracked, and peeled away, turning them into nothing more than smoldering husks.
The fire burned fast and hot, consuming everything in its path.
Within a minute, the last of the flames flickered out, leaving behind only scorched earth.
As the final wisps of ash drifted away, the carnage was fully revealed.
The bush was gone, reduced to nothing but a blackened patch of soil.
Where the goblins had once crouched in hiding, there remained only fragments of carbonized bone and a few half-melted stone weapons.
Páng kè let out a low whistle.
He strode toward the burnt remains, nudging a few chunks of charcoal-like flesh with his boot.
Other than some barely recognizable bits of goblin, there was nothing left.
"This world is far too real for anyone to rely on luck," Páng kè murmured.
He scraped his boot against a river stone to clean off any lingering soot, then turned and continued on his way.
Walking downstream, Páng kè replayed the scene in his mind.
He was surprised to find that he felt nothing—no nausea, no revulsion.
If anything, a faint excitement simmered beneath his calm demeanor.
"Perhaps it's because they burned so quickly, they lost their human-like shapes," he mused.
That, he decided, was a good thing.
It meant he was adapting to this world—a world ruled by strength.
As he traveled along the riverbank, the sound of running water accompanied him, its surface sparkling with scattered blue glimmers from the small, horned fish that swam within.
Above, the sky stretched vast and open, dominated by two suns—one large, one small, one red, one orange—slowly inching toward their zenith.
By early afternoon, a village came into view.
It was a pitiful thing.
Surrounded by a makeshift fence of uneven wooden stakes, the settlement was less a defensive stronghold and more a crude marker of territory.
The farmland stretched out in haphazard patches, divided by winding dirt paths.
The homes—if they could even be called that—were little more than poorly constructed huts, their thatched roofs sagging.
More striking than the village itself were the people within it.
Even from a distance, Páng kè could see the farmers toiling under the sun, their bodies gaunt and frail.
Skin stretched tight over bones, their sallow faces spoke of long-standing hardship.
If it were night, they might have been mistaken for walking corpses.
A whip cracked through the air.
A tall, brutish man patrolled the fields, his face twisted in a permanent scowl.
Each time a laborer slowed, his lash struck mercilessly.
Páng kè barely spared the scene a glance.
His gaze landed on the whip-wielding man, the one who seemed to hold some authority.
"You," Páng kè called, his voice calm but commanding.
"Come here. Tell me which noble owns this land."
The man flinched.
For all his bluster, the moment he realized he was being addressed by a mage, fear overtook him.
His posture stiffened, and after only a brief hesitation, he scurried over, his steps quick but trembling.