The two white goblins did not hesitate. Their speed never faltered, yet their eyes moved constantly, scanning the environment with a sharpness that suggested training far beyond what most expected from their kind.
Their heads turned in fast intervals, adjusting angles and perspectives as they sprinted, not with the wild instinct of a beast, but with the awareness of someone used to being hunted.
Cain's team remained in place, concealed and silent, but even from their positions, they could tell the goblins were trying to spot them.
It wasn't working, not completely, but the goblins were getting close.
Pumbo's voice broke the quiet. There was tension in his breath, but he tried to keep it even.
"Lob-Lobby Commander, shou...should we fire? They're within my range."
He asked Cain, if he was sure about this. Cain didn't answer immediately.
In his mind, he admitted he hadn't seen white goblins before, only heard stories.
His tone was edged with anxiety, but there was no fear in it. He simply didn't trust them, and that uncertainty pulled at his instincts.
The white goblins seemed to have found something.
Their pace shifted slightly as they approached Beany's position.
It wasn't direct, not aggressive, but there was no doubt they had picked up on something, most likely the mana circulating around her.
Beany didn't flinch. Her flow remained steady, a light resonance rather than an active channel.
Ricky and Tol stepped slightly to her side, maintaining line of sight.
The goblins came to a gradual stop just outside of immediate strike range.
They didn't summon barriers. They didn't draw weapons. There were no floating trinkets, no glints of mana suppression, no veils to cloud tracking.
Everything about their stance was deliberately open. Ricky scanned them for artifacts.
Tol analyzed their posture. There was nothing threatening, but nothing fully safe either. The scene held in stasis. They were being read as much as they were reading.
It was Fizz who stepped forward first, the one with the wild grin and unbothered posture. Her hair was tied back, but strands framed her face in a way that made her look both carefree and oddly calculating.
Her skin was pale, her ears pointed, and despite the dirt lining her boots and cuffs, she carried herself like someone used to getting what she wanted through attitude rather than force.
With an exaggerated ease, she raised one hand and addressed Cain's group directly.
"Protect us out of here and we'll pay you a mana stone."
She said, loud enough for the surrounding trees to hear but soft enough for the sounds of cicada to muffle.
Then, with a half-laugh and a sideways glance, she added.
"Big demon sister, no need to doubt our intention. Just drop us off on the outskirts of Sliabh'Verdan. We don't have a terminal yet, our chief hasn't signed the treaty."
Her words were casual, but they struck sharp. No terminal meant no recognized status, no permission to interact with any official settlements.
That also meant no registry, no tracking, no identification.
The statement was more than unusual, it was dangerous.
The other goblin, the quiet one, remained back. She wore a pale beige dress with a knotted sash, and though her face was composed, there was something else beneath the surface.
Her name was Fayn, and she didn't speak. She only observed. Her eyes were still, but her hand clutched her skirt just a bit too tightly.
The small gesture didn't go unnoticed. Ricky's eyes narrowed. Tol subtly shifted his stance. For both of them, the tension signaled more than nerves.
It suggested concealment, either fear or guilt.
They were right to be cautious.
Treason against humanity was not just a political issue.
It was a sentence. Anyone found guilty of knowingly aiding unsanctioned creatures, especially those with the potential to harm another human or spread infectious malady could only atone through missions ranked at the highest danger tier.
Missions that almost no one returned from without half a body or a cursed soul. Even then, one's record would remain permanently stained.
And yet Cain did not call them out. He said nothing about the treaty, or the skirt, or the missing terminals.
He didn't even come close. He held back, still cautious for his own safety.
The rest of the team waited, watching him as he seemed to weigh something left unsaid.
Fizz knew what they were thinking so she reached into the folds of her large travel bag and pulled out something that at first seemed far too small to carry weight.
It looked like a folded note, no larger than a palm.
The edges were slightly curled, and the surface shimmered faintly under the filtered forest light.
It had the dull texture of old parchment, but the moment Cain unwrapped it, every face around him turned serious.
No one dismissed it as a mere slip of paper.
What Fizz held was a Demonic Contract.
Its origin could be traced to only one place, the ruling courts of Hell.
And such a document could not be forged.
Contracts of this kind were issued only by authority figures ranked Marquess or higher, these beings were so embedded in hellish bureaucracy that even if you combined all the time humans had since the dawn of hunting and gathering, it still wouldn't be enough to their time of service.
These contracts carried no ink, no seal. Their validity rested in the aura that surrounded them and the binding effect it initiated once two parties accepted its terms.
To establish one, both sides only needed to agree to the written terms and drip a portion of blood onto the contract.
The moment blood seeped into the fibers, the hidden clause stitched into its creation awakened.
Breaking triggered the penalty laced within the spell's framework.
These ranged from minor disfigurements to full bodily forfeiture, where the failing party's vitality would be transferred directly to the other.
In the worst cases, the condemned could become vessels or anchors for demonic possession or long-term curses that spread through family lines.
But if the contract was signed through force, it became a mockery of its maker, and the parchment would retaliate.
Those who dared misuse it would be devoured.
It would drink their nutrients first, then peel away memory by memory, next is shred the soul until not a shred remains, until nothing remained but a hollow skin, stripped of identity, screaming silently in ink.
And this contract, though small, was no less real.
Fayn stepped forward quietly, her voice softer than her cousin's but far more direct. She didn't unfold the paper herself, only gestured toward it as Fizz held it open.
Her explanation was without dramatics, but each word carried weight.
"It's a simple tier-one contract. The oathbreaker terms listed here state that you'll be required to offer a fourth of your blood every quarter, once every three months. It will be drawn directly, and it will be sent to Demon Prince Olivier."
There was no malice in her tone, only clarity. She spoke like someone who had memorized the terms and no longer feared them, as if it were just a price of doing business.
But the implications weren't light. Demon Prince Olivier was not a name thrown around casually.
A being of that rank, second only to the Archdukes, would not deal with trivial requests.
If this contract bore his mark, then it was sanctioned. And if it was sanctioned, then any attempt to break it would be enforced without delay.
Cain's team remained still, but not because they were dismissive. They were calculating. The contract wasn't something they could ignore, but accepting it came with consequences.
A quarter of their blood, drained regularly, would weaken them over time.
Ten years under such conditions would mean slower recovery, weakened spells, and degraded endurance.
Training would become torture. Missions would need more potions, more support and more margin for error.
If they failed to meet the demands, even one season, they risked collapse.
Pumbo clenched his jaw.
Ricky leaned against the stone, eyes narrowing.
Beany crossed her arms without saying a word.
Tol glanced at Cain but offered no opinion yet.
None of them said no outright. But none of them could say yes without hesitation either.
It was a crossroads. One that could be paved by fortune or misfortune.