The forest changed as he moved towards the roar of the water. The dense, shadowy pines gave way to taller, broader-leafed trees with thick, gnarly roots that snaked across the damp ground. The air grew heavier, cooler, carrying the rich, wet scent of silt and decay. His progress was painfully slow, a cautious dance between stealth and survival. Every few minutes, he stopped, using his Keen Eye to scan not just for threats, but for opportunities the newly unlocked Wilderness Survival skill might highlight.
He found them. A fungus growing on a fallen log, highlighted with a soft green glow by his skill-enhanced sight. The slave-boy's memory supplied a name: 'Wayfarer's Bread'. It was tough and tasteless when raw, but edible and filling. He broke off several thick pieces, storing them. Further on, he spotted a plant with broad, arrow-shaped leaves. Wilderness Survival tagged it as useful: the stems, when crushed, yielded a sticky sap that could soothe insect bites and minor scrapes. He gathered a few, his movements economical, driven by a grim pragmatism.
He was learning. Not just about the forest, but about himself. The paralyzing fear of the first night was hardening into a sharp, constant vigilance. His modern mind, trained for logical problem-solving, was now desperately applying itself to the ultimate puzzle: staying alive. The system was his toolkit, but its interface was cold, its logic unforgiving. It provided data, not comfort; objectives, not reassurance.
The river's sound grew from a murmur to a thunderous presence. He approached the final line of trees with extreme caution, crouching low. Peering through a screen of ferns, he caught his first glimpse.
It was not a gentle stream. It was a powerful, churning torrent of white and grey, at least fifty yards wide, carving a deep channel through the rocky landscape. Icy spray hung in the air. On the far side, the cliffs rose sheer and imposing. On his side, the bank was a treacherous mix of slick, water-smoothed stones and thick, sucking mud.
[Primary Objective Updated: Establish Foothold.]
Sub-Goal: Assess the river as a resource and barrier.
Analysis: Water source confirmed (non-potable without purification). Significant barrier to eastward movement. High acoustic profile masks ambient noise (advantage and disadvantage). Potential food source (fish).
The system was right. He couldn't cross this. Not here, not without rope, a boat, or wings. The river was a wall, forcing him to choose a direction: upstream or downstream.
His Crude Map suggested Blackstone Outpost lay downstream, southeast. Following the river downstream made logical sense—settlements were often built along rivers. But logic in this world was tempered by danger. A well-traveled riverbank might mean people, but it also meant patrols, other predators, or the slave caravan's possible route.
Upstream, into the deeper mountains, promised more wilderness, more isolation, and likely more creatures like the Lurker.
As he weighed the decision, his Keen Eye, constantly active, caught a flicker of color in the mud near the water's edge. Something was half-buried, tangled in a root. He slithered down the bank, his feet slipping on the stones, and pulled it free.
It was a piece of torn netting, coarse and hand-woven from plant fibers. It was old, rotting in places, but a section about the size of his blanket was still intact. A fisherman's net, lost or abandoned. To his skill, it glowed with a faint, practical light.
'Resource identified: Damaged Gill Net. Potential uses: Fishing, crude snare, material.'
A tool. His first real find. It was worth more to him than gold. But as he straightened up, net in hand, a new system prompt flashed, urgent and red.
[Warning: Bio-sign Detected. Multiple contacts. Upstream. 200 meters. Movement pattern: Erratic, aggressive.]
He froze, clutching the net. He looked upstream. The river curved there, obscuring the view. But he could hear it now, over the river's roar—a cacophony of high-pitched, chittering shrieks and bestial growls. A fight.
The curiosity that had killed a thousand cats—and a hundred protagonists—warred with his screaming survival instinct. The system provided no further data. It was a warning, not an assessment.
'Information is survival,' the cold, logical part of his mind argued. 'Know what you're sharing the forest with.'
Crouching low, he moved upstream, using the boulders and riverbank foliage as cover. The sounds grew louder, more frenzied. He reached a vantage point behind a mossy boulder and peered over.
The scene was one of brutal, primal chaos. A large, boar-like creature—easily the size of a bear, with coarse black bristles and wicked, curved tusks—was backed against the river. It was wounded, bleeding from a dozen shallow gashes on its flanks. Surrounding it, harrying it, were six… things.
They stood on two legs like malnourished humans, but that was where any resemblance ended. Their skin was a mottled green-grey, like lichen on stone. Long, muscular arms ended in claws meant for digging and tearing. Their heads were hairless, with wide, black eyes and mouths full of needle-like teeth. They chittered constantly, coordinating their attacks with savage intelligence. Goblins. Forest Goblins. The memory-fragment supplied the name with a spike of visceral terror.
[Entities Identified: Forest Goblin Hunting Pack (6). Mature individuals. Threat Level: High (Collectively).]
[Entity Identified: Ironback Boar. Adult. Wounded. Threat Level: Extreme.]
The goblins were trying to wear the boar down, darting in to slash before scrambling back from its deadly tusks and thunderous charges. One goblin lay still on the ground, its chest caved in. The boar was tiring, its movements slowing, its breaths coming in great, pained bellows.
Chen Mo watched, his mind racing. This was a disaster waiting to happen. If the goblins won, they'd have a massive food source and would be entrenched in this area. If the boar won, it would be enraged and wounded—incredibly dangerous. Either outcome was bad for him.
Then, the system spoke again, not with a warning, but with an offer. A new prompt, framed in stark, metallic yellow, appeared:
[Tactical Opportunity Detected.]
Scenario: Two hostile forces engaged in mutually destructive conflict.
Protocol Suggestion: Intervene at climax to eliminate remaining hostiles. High risk. High reward potential.
Proposed Contract: Protocol will temporarily enhance host's physical coordination and pain tolerance for a period not exceeding 90 seconds. In return, host will cede 70% of all Protocol Points earned from this engagement and first right of claim on one (1) non-standard material component from the fallen.
Accept Contract? Y/N
It was a devil's bargain. The system wanted a cut. A big one. But it was offering him a chance—not just to survive the immediate aftermath, but to profit from it. Meat. Hide. Tusks. And the goblins might have crude tools, weapons. The 70% PP cut stung, but points were abstract. A boar's worth of food and materials were concrete survival.
He looked at the fraying net in his hands. A plan, reckless and half-formed, crystallized.
He focused on the net, then on the concept of the environment—the slick rocks, the river's edge, the boar's charge pattern.
The system, sensing his intent, offered a swift, costly analysis:
[Environmental Utilization Proposal: Use net as entangling device. Target: Boar's hind legs during charge. Success probability with Protocol coordination boost: 41%.]
41%.Those were the worst odds he'd ever bet his life on.
The battle reached its crescendo. Two goblins, emboldened, lunged at the boar's head simultaneously. With a final burst of rage, the boar twisted, impaling one on a tusk and crushing the other with a swing of its massive head. But the move left it over-extended, its side exposed to the river.
The remaining three goblins shrieked in triumph and surged forward for the kill.
Now.
Chen Mo selected Y.
A jolt, like grabbing a live wire, shot through him. The world didn't slow down, but his perception of it did. The movements of the creatures became a series of calculable vectors. The fatigue and ache in his muscles were pushed into a distant corner of his mind. He was all cold, sharp intent.
He burst from cover, not towards the fight, but on a diagonal intercept course along the bank. The goblins, focused on the boar, didn't see him. The boar, enraged and bleeding, did. As the goblins leaped, the boar pivoted to face this new, sudden movement, its hooves scrabbling on the wet stones.
Chen Mo didn't stop. He sprinted directly at the boar, a suicidal move. At the last possible second, as the beast lowered its head to gore him, he dropped into a slide on the slick mud, passing just beneath the lethal tusks. As he slid, he hurled the tangled net upwards and backwards, aiming for the boar's churning hind legs.
The enhanced coordination was the only thing that made it work. The net, weighted by mud and roots, wrapped around the boar's ankles. It wasn't a strong hold, but it was a fatal surprise. The boar stumbled, its charge turning into a crashing, uncontrolled sprawl. It bellowed in shock and fury, crashing down onto its side, directly on top of one of the leaping goblins. A sickening crunch echoed.
The remaining two goblins, thrown into confusion, hesitated for a split second.
That was all Chen Mo needed. He was already up, a fist-sized rock in his hand. The Protocol enhancement guided his throw. The rock flew, not with great force, but with impossible accuracy, striking a goblin square in the temple. It dropped like a sack of stones.
The last goblin shrieked, its beady black eyes locking onto Chen Mo. It abandoned the downed boar and charged, claws raised.
Time seemed to contract. Chen Mo had no weapon. He backpedaled, his enhanced senses screaming. He tripped over a root, falling hard on his back. The goblin was on him in an instant, its foul breath hot in his face, claws descending for his throat.
Instinct took over. He brought his knees up, catching the creature in the midsection, and shoved with all his Protocol-augmented strength. The goblin was light. It flew off him, arms windmilling, and tumbled backwards into the churning river. A single, cut-off gurgle, and it was swept away, dashed against the rocks downstream.
Silence, broken only by the river and the labored, wet breathing of the dying boar.
The 90-second enhancement vanished. The world rushed back in, loud and painful. Every muscle screamed in protest, the borrowed energy leaving a deep, hollow ache. He pushed himself up, trembling.
The boar lay on its side, the net still tangled, one goblin crushed beneath it. The other goblin he'd shot was dead or unconscious. The battlefield was a scene of carnage.
[Tactical Opportunity: RESOLVED. Hostiles neutralized.]
[Contract Fulfillment Processing…]
A wave of notifications flooded his vision, a cascade of cold, clinical text.
[Experience Gained. Host Level: 1 -> 2.]
[Minor stat increase: Vitality, Dexterity.]
[Protocol Points Awarded for combat: 400 PP.]
[Contract Enforced: 70% deducted (280 PP). Net PP to Host: 120 PP.]
[Previous Debt of 120 PP is now REPAID.]
[Current PP Balance: 120 PP.]
[Contract Claim: Protocol selects material component: 'Ironback Boar – Primary Tusk (Right).']
As he watched, one of the massive, curved tusks of the boar shimmered with a blue light and simply vanished, absorbed by the system. A pang of loss hit him—that tusk could have been a dagger, a tool, currency. But a deal was a deal.
He was left with a mountain of meat, one giant tusk, several goblin corpses, and 120 PP that were truly his. He was also level 2. The difference was subtle, but he felt slightly more solid, the edge of his exhaustion blunted.
But the adrenaline was fading, replaced by a bone-deep weariness and the grim reality of the task ahead. He had to process this kill, and fast, before other scavengers—or worse, the rest of the goblin tribe—arrived.
He looked at the boar, then at the crude, stone-tipped spears dropped by the goblins. His first real weapon was within reach. The river roared beside him, a constant reminder of both his barrier and his lifeline.
The foothold was no longer an abstract objective. It was here, in this bloody patch of riverside mud. He had won it. Now, he had to build it. And he had to do it before the forest reclaimed its due.