Hunger was no longer a sensation; it was a background hum, a constant, low-frequency vibration in Leo's gut.
He sat on the bank of the Turtle Pond, staring into the water. It was noon. The sun beat down on his neck, but he felt cold—a symptom of caloric deficiency. He had eaten the last crust of bread yesterday. The Cabbages were weeks away from harvest. The grass was inedible.
Below the surface of the water, life mocked him.
Shadows darted through the reeds. Fish. Amago. Char. Rainbow Trout. Protein.
Leo narrowed his eyes, tracking a silver flash near a submerged log. His mind automatically overlaid a grid onto the water.
Target depth: 0.5 meters. Refractive index of water: 1.33. apparent position vs. actual position.
He lunged, thrusting his hand into the cold stream.
He grabbed nothing but silt and water. The fish was gone before his fingers even broke the surface tension.
Leo pulled his hand back, dripping and numb. He wiped it on his jeans, frustration rising like bile. He knew the physics of light. He knew the biology of the fish. But he lacked the interface. He was a predator without claws.
"You're too loud," a voice said.
Leo turned. Standing a few yards away, blending almost perfectly with the trunk of a willow tree, was Galen.
The old man was dressed in drab, faded clothes that smelled of river mud and pipe tobacco. He held a long bamboo pole in one hand, the line trailing lazily in the water. He hadn't moved a muscle. He looked less like a fisherman and more like a piece of the landscape that had decided to wear a hat.
"I didn't say anything," Leo defended, his voice raspy.
"Not with your mouth," Galen said, his eyes fixed on his own bobber. "Your shadow. Your footsteps. Your breathing. You vibrate, boy. The water amplifies it. To the fish, you sound like a rockslide."
Galen lifted his pole. A large, shimmering Crucian Carp broke the surface, flopping gently onto the grass. Galen didn't celebrate. He simply unhooked it with a practiced, gentle motion and dropped it into a bucket.
"You're hungry," Galen stated. It wasn't a question.
"I'm waiting for a harvest," Leo corrected.
"Harvests take time. Stomachs don't." Galen reached behind him and picked up a second rod. It was old, the varnish peeling, the cork handle stained dark with decades of use. He held it out.
"Take it."
Leo hesitated. "I can't pay you."
"I didn't ask for money," Galen grunted. "The river belongs to everyone. But it only feeds the patient. And you..." He looked at Leo's shaking hands, the frantic energy in his eyes. "...you look like you're in a hurry to starve."
Leo took the rod. It felt light, balanced. A simple lever.
He stood by the bank. He looked at the water. He calculated the vector. He calculated the wind speed. He cast.
The hook landed with a splash that sounded like a cannonball in the quiet valley.
"Too hard," Galen critiqued from his stump. "You're throwing it. You have to place it."
Leo reeled in. He tried again. And again.
An hour passed. His arms ached. The sun moved across the sky. He caught nothing. Every time the bobber dipped, Leo jerked the rod, trying to set the hook with mathematical precision, but he was always a millisecond too fast or too slow.
"Stop thinking," Galen called out softly. "You're trying to solve the river. You can't solve it. It flows. You have to flow with it."
Leo gripped the rod. The Cursed Hoe, wrapped on his right hand, pulsed with irritation. It hated this. It hated the stillness. It wanted to strike the water, to boil it, to force the fish to the surface with a shockwave.
Let me, the tool whispered. I can catch them all.
Leo ignored the parasite. He closed his eyes. He stopped calculating the refractive index. He stopped thinking about the debt. He just felt the tension in the line.
Fluid dynamics, he thought. Not a rigid structure. A wave.
He felt a tug. Not a visual dip, but a vibration in the cork handle.
Leo didn't jerk. He leaned back, letting the rod bend, maintaining the tension without breaking the force.
The line went taut. Leo reeled, the gears grinding softly.
A splash. A flash of blue.
He pulled the catch onto the bank.
It wasn't a fish.
It was a small, humanoid creature, no bigger than a squirrel, dressed in a blue tunic that looked like it was made of fish scales. It was clinging to the hook with both hands, looking absolutely furious.
"Do you mind?" the creature sputtered, spitting out river water.
Leo dropped the rod. "What..."
"Blue Team," the creature announced, unhooking itself and shaking dry like a wet dog. "Hydrology division. Name's Paolo. And your casting technique is offensive."
Galen didn't seem to see the Sprite. He just nodded at Leo. "You caught something. Good."
Leo stared at the Sprite. "You were on the hook?"
"I was inspecting the water column!" Paolo snapped. He kicked a pebble at Leo's boot. "The pH is drifting. The dissolved oxygen is dropping. The river is getting heavy. Since the Lady turned to stone, the filtration system is offline. The water is... sad."
"Sad?" Leo whispered.
"Chemically depressed!" Paolo corrected. "Stagnant. If this keeps up, the fish won't just be hard to catch; they'll be toxic. You need to fix the circulation, farmer."
Paolo glanced at the bucket where Galen's fish lay.
"Nice carp, though," the Sprite admitted. Then, with a fluid hop, he dove back into the river, disappearing with a barely audible bloop.
Leo stood there, blinking.
"Well?" Galen asked. "Are you going to keep it?"
Leo looked down. On the hook, where the Sprite had been, was a small, silvery Amago fish. The Sprite had seemingly swapped itself for the prize, or perhaps the Sprite had guided the fish to the hook.
Leo picked up the fish. It was cold, slippery, and real.
"It's small," Leo said.
"It's dinner," Galen replied. He stood up, gathering his bucket. "The river is slow today. It feels heavy. But it provided."
Galen walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the trees as quietly as he had arrived.
Leo looked at the fish in his hand. He looked at the river, which flowed on, dark and indifferent.
He had learned a new variable. The water wasn't just H2O. It was a dying system, just like the soil. And somewhere deep in the current, the Blue Sprites were drowning in the stagnation.
But for tonight, the variable was simpler.
Leo put the fish in his bag.
Input: Patience. Output: Survival.