The chrono-navigator felt heavy in the Invader's hand, a cold, metallic weight that anchored him to his uncertain future. Glancing at the list provided by Time Father, his gaze settled on the names scrawled in the unfamiliar script: The Watcher brothers. History painted them as legendary figures, defenders of a vast region with a skeleton crew. The Invader's well of historical knowledge readily identified them as pivotal figures, but their current location remained a shroud. The only clue: a vague reference to most inhabitants residing in the northeast.

With a grim nod, the Invader shouldered his pack and adjusted the straps of his weapons. Armed with this sliver of information and a gnawing uncertainty, he set off in the designated direction, the dense forest swallowing him whole. He moved with practiced efficiency, his senses alert and searching. The verdant expanse stretched endlessly, offering little respite – just a monotonous parade of trees and unknown flora. Hours bled into one another, the only change a few unfamiliar plant species disrupting the monotony.

Finally, the trees thinned, revealing the outline of a small town nestled in a clearing. Relief washed over the Invader, a flicker of hope igniting in chest. Here, amidst the bustle of civilization, he might glean the information he desperately craved.

But as he approached, the initial sense of relief morphed into a cautious wariness. The town itself was a hodgepodge of simple wooden structures, some leaning precariously, others adorned with vibrant murals depicting fantastical creatures and epic battles. Smoke curled from chimneys, their sweet, acrid scent mingling with the earthy tang of the forest and the metallic tang of sweat on the Invader's brow. Laughter and shouts drifted on the breeze, punctuated by the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. Children, barefoot and boisterous, chased each other through the dusty streets, their bright eyes filled with curiosity as they watched the stranger approach.

The Invader pressed on, his boots crunching on the uneven ground. He passed a weathered well, its wooden bucket creaking as a woman drew water, her calloused hands a testament to a life of hard work. A sign, painted on a crooked post, proclaimed the establishment as "The Rusty Sword Tavern," the lettering done in a childlike scrawl. A mongrel dog, ribs visible beneath its matted fur, eyed the Invader with a wary suspicion before lumbering away with a disdainful sniff.

Despite the outward bustle, a sense of underlying tension hung in the air. Whispers followed the Invader, punctuated by curious glances thrown his way. He was an outsider, a stark contrast to the sun-baked faces and worn clothing of the townsfolk. This wasn't a place accustomed to visitors, and his arrival disrupted the rhythm of their daily lives.

He pressed on, determined to find the information he needed. Reaching the center of the town, he spotted a communal eating area – a large, open-air pavilion bustling with activity. Here, amidst the cacophony of conversation and the clatter of utensils, he might find the answers he sought.

After brief scrutiny, an old man seated on a stone-made, throne-like chair captures his attention. The man's weathered face was etched with a map of wrinkles, each line a testament to a life lived under the harsh sun and harsher circumstances. He wore a simple tunic and trousers, the fabric worn thin from years of use. A long, gnarled staff rested against the armrest of his makeshift throne, a silent symbol of his authority. With a deep breath, the Invader approached, his voice calm and measured as he addressed the elder.

"Excuse me," he began, "I'm looking for a few people."

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The old man remained silent momentarily, his rheumy eyes boring into the Invader with a piercing intensity. Then, with a slow, deliberate turn of his head, he fixed the warrior with a wry smile. "Who isn't?" he rasped, his voice a dry rustle like wind through dead leaves.

Undeterred, the Invader elaborated, "The individuals I seek are three brothers, the renowned Watcher brothers. I'm sure you've heard of them."

A flicker of something akin to pride crossed the old man's face. "There is no one in this village unfamiliar with their names and the pledges they made."

"Their pledges?" the Invader echoed, his curiosity piqued.

"They arrived here long ago, promising to rid us of the goblin menace. But those filthy creatures..." the old man's voice trailed off, a tremor of anger shaking his wizened frame. "They persist, taking our elders, women, children – the vulnerable – to their caves for..."

The Invader, hearing of these creatures for the first time, felt a surge of alertness. Yet, a nagging suspicion bloomed in his gut. The villagers' distress seemed genuine, but perhaps they were withholding some information. Seeking clarity, he probed further.

"What do these goblins look like?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

The old man's cloudy eyes widened in surprise. "Even with a sword strapped to your back," he rasped, a hint of accusation lacing his words, "I couldn't discern your warrior type. There's not a soul unfamiliar with goblins in this era. Every warrior knows of their savagery, lethality, and aggression. They're short, grotesque creatures with long, clawed fingers and a penchant for darkness. Their stench precedes them, a sickly sweet odor that curdles the stomach."

A child, no older than eight, his clothes patched and dusty, approached Leto with wide, hopeful eyes. The conversation with the elder had drawn him in, and now he tugged at the Invader's sleeve, his voice barely a whisper.

"Mister, can you help me?" he pleaded, his face etched with worry. "The goblins took my mama! They dragged her to their caves!"

The village leader, his weathered face hardening, let out a sharp reprimand. "Don't bother strangers with your troubles, boy! We don't need outsiders meddling in our affairs."

But the child was persistent, his lower lip trembling. "But you said this man is a warrior! He can fight the goblins and save Mama!" He turned back to the Invader, his voice filled with desperate hope. "I know where the Watcher brothers are! They can help you!"

Intrigued by this turn of events, the Invader crouched before the child, his gaze gentle. A deal, perhaps, could be struck. "I can't guarantee anything," he said softly, "but I can investigate the caves. If there are survivors, I'll do my best to bring them back."

The child's eyes widened. "But the Watcher brothers! They can help you fight the goblins!"

The Invader hesitated. He needed a different approach. "Tell me," he began, his voice even lower, "who are these Watcher brothers fighting? What kind of enemy are they facing?"

The child hesitated, glancing at his grandfather, who watched the exchange with a mixture of disapproval and grudging acceptance. Finally, the boy blurted out, "They fight the Jutons! They're a big, mean race, with tusks and bad breath, and they work with the goblins!"

The Invader's hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword. The Jutons – a brutal, warlike race mentioned in some historical texts. This added another layer of complexity to the situation.

Taking a deep breath, he proposed a different solution. "Here's what we'll do," he said, his voice firm but reassuring. "You lead me to the Jutons. I'll scout them out, see what's happening. If there's a chance to save anyone in the caves, I'll do it. But I can't promise a fight with the Watchers. They have their own battles to fight."

The child's face fell, but before he could protest, the old man stepped forward, placing a calloused hand on his grandson's shoulder. "This warrior speaks sense, boy," he rumbled. "These are desperate times, and we must take what help we can get. You heard him – he'll see what he can do. And if he succeeds, if he brings back even one villager…" He trailed off, "We'll offer any assistance we can in return."

This village leader, despite his initial gruffness, possessed a pragmatism born of hardship. He understood the value of a skilled warrior, even an outsider, in the face of such threats. With a curt nod, the Invader sealed the deal.