The den was a tomb of stale air and recycled fear, but it was our tomb. And in the dim light filtering through the tangle of deadfall, we began the grim calculus of our next move. I had my journal open, the quill moving almost of its own accord, mapping out the logic streams.
"Two primary strategic options," I said, my voice low. It felt like I was back in a university strategy session, only the final grade was life or death. "First: We move deeper into the forest, away from the stream. Pros: We distance ourselves from the goblin camp and the known patrol routes. We reduce the probability of encountering water-dependent threats. Cons: We lose our primary landmark and easily accessible water source. We enter unknown territory with uncatalogued flora and fauna. The threat level is an undefined variable."
Elara, who was meticulously sharpening the point of her spear with a flat rock, grunted. "Translation: We could walk straight into a nest of whatever was making those bear-as-a-tank sounds last night."
"Precisely," I confirmed. "Second: We follow the river upstream, away from the goblin camp's primary territory. Pros: We maintain a constant source of water and a clear navigational path. The immediate threats are a known quantity—mostly goblins. We can actively scout for a more defensible position, like a cave system, which is more likely to be found in the rocky terrain common near watercourses. Cons: We remain in a high-traffic area for both predators and prey. We're guaranteeing eventual contact with hostiles."
I tapped the quill against the page. "Pick your poison. A predictable, attritional conflict versus a high-risk, high-reward gamble in the deep woods."
Elara stopped sharpening the spear and looked at me. Her gaze was sharp, analytical, but the suspicious, almost feral edge from yesterday was gone. My little mental nudge was holding firm, recategorizing me in her subconscious from 'potential threat' to 'strategic asset.' It was working perfectly.
"There's really only one option, Scholar," she said, her tone decisive. "Your second option. We go upstream." She gestured with the spear point towards her bandaged leg. "I'm not at one hundred percent. The last thing I need is to get turned around in some deep-woods hellscape and walk into a surprise party. At least with the goblins, I know what I'm dealing with. Annoying, vicious little bastards, but they bleed."
She pushed herself to her feet, testing her weight on the injured leg. She still favored it, but the wince was manageable. "We follow the stream. Find a real defensible position, a proper cave, not this glorified woodpile. We establish a base, I get fully healed, and then we can think about playing explorer."
My own analysis had already led me to the same conclusion. Her reasoning was sound, reinforced by her practical experience. The known variable, however dangerous, was always preferable to the unknown when operating with compromised resources.
"I agree," I said, closing my journal with a soft thud. "It's the most logical course of action. I'll take point with analysis; you handle stealth and threat assessment."
"Good. Let's move. Daylight's burning."
Leaving the relative security of the den felt like stepping out of an airlock. The forest immediately pressed in, a living entity of sound and shadow. We moved in a tight, efficient formation—or as efficient as a lanky, barefoot Scholar and a wounded Ranger could be. Elara took the lead, her movements economical and silent, her head on a constant swivel. She used the terrain, hugging the shadows cast by the massive trees, her spear held in a low, ready grip.
My role was different. I was the scanner, the mobile sensor array. My eyes flicked from the path ahead to the treeline, to the ground, constantly feeding data into the System.
[Analysis Skill Activated]
[Object: Disturbed Soil/Track]
[Classification: Fauna Signature]
[Details: Cloven hoof print, approximately 4 inches in diameter. Deep impression suggests significant weight. Three-toed. Matching print found 6 feet ahead. Stride length indicates a creature moving at a walking pace. Not Ember Stag. Species: Unidentified.]
[Confidence: 81%]
"Hold," I whispered, touching Elara's arm. She froze instantly. I pointed at the track with my quill. "Something big. Three-toed. Heavier than the deer we saw."
Elara knelt, her fingers hovering over the print without touching it. Her Ranger Vocation gave her insights my Scholar brain couldn't parse. "Tusker," she murmured, her voice tight. "Like a wild boar the size of a smart car. Aggressive. Territorial. This track is a few hours old, though. It's moved on. We're clear for now."
We continued, the tension ratcheting up a notch. Every piece of information added to the complex, terrifying mosaic of this world. We passed plants I quickly cataloged—some with restorative properties, others that were contact poisons. I found a rocky outcrop rich with dark, metallic veins.
[Analysis Skill Activated]
[Object: Iron-Rich Rock]
[Classification: Mineral Node]
[Properties: High concentration of raw iron ore. Can be smelted and worked into durable tools and armor with proper skills and equipment (e.g., Forge, Blacksmithing Vocation).]
[Confidence: 96%]
"Iron," I noted, making a quick mark in my journal. "If we find a craftsman, this could be invaluable."
"Let's focus on not getting killed long enough to find one," Elara muttered back, but I saw the spark of interest in her eyes. Resources meant a future.
We moved like that for what felt like hours, a silent, disciplined crawl upstream. My feet were a mess of cuts and bruises, but the constant low-level adrenaline kept the pain at a distance. My `Observation` skill ticked up steadily, experience points dripping in as I forced myself to notice every detail, every snapped twig, every unnatural shadow.
Then we heard it.
It wasn't the guttural snarl of a predator or the shriek of a goblin. It was human. A scream. High-pitched, laced with pure terror. It was followed by a panicked shout, and the unmistakable, ugly thwack of crude metal hitting flesh and bone.
Elara and I exchanged a single look. All the complex analysis vanished, replaced by a shared, primal understanding. Contact.
She immediately dropped into a low crouch, melting behind the trunk of a moss-covered fir. I followed suit, pressing my back against the rough bark, my heart hammering against my ribs. The fight was happening just ahead, around a bend in the stream.
"How many?" Elara whispered, her knuckles white on her spear shaft.
"Couldn't tell. At least one screamer, one shouter." My mind was already racing, running threat assessments. Humans meant potential allies. But they also meant potential rivals. And if they were losing a fight badly enough to be screaming, they could just be liabilities.
"We need eyes on," she decided. "Stay here. I'm going to circle wide, get a look from the ridge."
"No," I said, the word coming out with more force than I intended. "You're injured. Your stealth is good, but you can't move fast if you need to bug out. I'll go. My skillset is better for pure observation."
She looked at me, doubt warring with the logic of my statement. The subconscious "Ally" suggestion was probably the only thing keeping her from telling me to get stuffed.
"You're barefoot and unarmed," she pointed out, her voice a low hiss.
"I have a flint knife and my brain," I countered. "I'm not going to fight. I'm going to look, analyze, and report back. It's what my Vocation is for."
She stared at me for a long, hard second, then gave a sharp, reluctant nod. "Fine. But you see anything bigger than a badger, you pull back. I'm not dying to save a bunch of screaming idiots. Don't be a hero, Scholar."
"Heroes die," I agreed, my voice grim. "I'm a survivor."
I left her there, a silent shadow guarding our rear, and began my approach. I moved slowly, making a wide arc away from the stream and up onto the slight incline of the forest floor. Every step was deliberate, placing my bruised feet on moss and soft earth to minimize noise. The sounds of the fight grew louder: agonized grunts, the wet crunch of impact, and the gleeful, high-pitched shrieks that could only belong to goblins.
I reached the crest of the small rise, which gave me a clear vantage point through a screen of ferns. I dropped to my belly, the damp earth cold against my skin, and peered down.
The scene was chaos. A small, sandy clearing on the stream bank was the stage for a desperate, failing battle.
Two goblins. That was the first surprise. Only two. But they were fighting with a vicious, practiced cruelty. They were small, maybe four feet tall, with mottled green skin, long, spindly arms, and faces full of needle-like teeth. One was armed with a crude, rusty cleaver and a small wooden shield, while the other wielded a short, barbed spear. They were toying with their victims.
And there were three victims. Humans. Players.
My `Analysis` skill flared to life, feeding me a stream of data that my panicked mind struggled to process.
[Analysis Skill Activated: Target - Goblin Grunt (Level 3)]
[Vocation: Goblin Warrior]
[HP: 55/70] [MP: 0/0]
[Attributes (Est): STR 8, DEX 7, VIT 7]
[Equipment: Rusted Iron Cleaver (Damage: 6-10), Crude Wood Shield (Defense: 5)]
[Notes: Standard goblin infantry. Employs pack tactics. Enjoys causing terror.]
[Analysis Skill Activated: Target - Goblin Skirmisher (Level 2)]
[Vocation: Goblin Lancer]
[HP: 48/48] [MP: 0/0]
[Attributes (Est): STR 6, DEX 9, VIT 6]
[Equipment: Barbed Shortspear (Damage: 4-8, Applies Bleed effect)]
[Notes: Fast and agile. Prefers to harass and wound from a distance.]
My gaze shifted to the humans. They were a mess.
The first was a young man, probably college-aged, with terror-wide eyes. He was swinging a heavy-looking ball-peen hammer in wide, panicked arcs that the cleaver-wielding goblin was easily deflecting with its shield.
[Analysis Skill Activated: Target - Leo Vance (Human)]
[Level: 1]
[Vocation: Craftsman (Blacksmith)]
[HP: 11/55] [MP: 10/10]
[Status: Terrified. Fatigued. Minor Lacerations.]
[Equipment: Craftsman's Hammer (Damage: 4-6 Bludgeoning)]
Beside him, a woman was trying to fend off the spear-wielding goblin with a small hatchet. She was braver, placing herself between the goblin and a third figure on the ground, but her swings were clumsy, fueled by desperation rather than skill. The goblin danced around her, jabbing with its spear, leaving shallow, bleeding cuts on her arms.
[Analysis Skill Activated: Target - Maria Reyes (Human)]
[Level: 1]
[Vocation: Craftsman (Woodworker)]
[HP: 21/50] [MP: 10/10]
[Status: Frightened. Bleeding (Minor).]
[Equipment: Wood Axe (Damage: 5-7 Slashing)]
And then I saw him. The third figure. He was on his knees, clutching a small, crudely carved wooden holy symbol. His face was pale, his lips moving as he tried to speak, but the Lancer goblin kept breaking his concentration with a quick jab or a taunting shriek. He was the reason they were still alive. He was the prize.
[Analysis Skill Activated: Target - Samuel Jones (Human)]
[Level: 2]
[Vocation: Cleric]
[HP: 14/60] [MP: 5/70]
[Status: Wounded. Mana Depleted. Panicked.]
[Skills (Observed): Minor Heal (Active), Divine Ward (Passive - Inactive due to low mana/concentration)]
[Notes: Attempting to cast Minor Heal. Repeatedly interrupted by goblin harassment.]
A Cleric. A goddamn Cleric.
My thought process shifted from detached observation to a frantic, high-stakes calculation. These people were doomed. The two Craftsmen had no combat training; their Vocations gave them no bonuses for fighting. They were seconds away from death. The Cleric was their only hope, and he was effectively neutralized.
My first instinct, the cold survivalist part of my brain, screamed leave. Intervening was suicide. It was two goblins against me, a naked Scholar with a rock on a stick, and Elara, who was a hundred yards away and injured. The odds were garbage.
But the data argued back. It's two goblins. Level 3 and Level 2. Not a patrol, just a pair of sadistic bullies. Elara is a Level 3 Ranger. Even injured, her stats outclass them. The Cleric is Level 2. He has a healing spell. If we can get him back in the fight, he can stabilize the Craftsmen, and maybe even us.
The potential gain was enormous. An alliance of four. A dedicated healer and two craftsmen who could, given time and resources, turn that iron ore I found into actual weapons and armor. This wasn't just saving three lives; it was a quantum leap in our chances for long-term survival. It was the difference between hiding in a hole and building a settlement.
The risk was high, but the reward was exponentially higher. It was a calculated gamble, and my entire Vocation was about making the right calculation.
I scrambled back from the ridge, my mind made up. I slid down the incline and sprinted back to Elara's position, my bare feet slapping against the earth.
She had her spear up the second I came into view. "Report," she commanded, her voice like flint.
I didn't waste time. I gave her the data dump, quick and dirty. "Two goblins, one warrior, one lancer. Level three and two. Three humans, all low level. Two Craftsmen, one Blacksmith, one Woodworker. Both nearly dead. The third is a Level Two Cleric. He's the lynchpin. They're focusing on him, interrupting his casting. If he goes down, they all die."
Elara processed the information instantly, her Ranger mind seeing the tactical map I laid out. "And?"
"And we intervene," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. "The potential gain is too high to ignore. A Cleric changes everything."
She stared at me, her eyes boring into mine. "We're outmatched."
"No, we're not," I countered, my own confidence surprising me. "You're a Level 3 Ranger. Your DEX is higher than the Lancer's. I'm a Level 2 Scholar. My INT is higher than anything they can comprehend. We have the element of surprise. We dictate the terms of engagement."
I took a breath. "Here's the plan. I create a diversion. Something to pull their attention away from the Cleric for just a few seconds. The moment they turn, you move. Fast and hard. You target the Lancer—the one with the spear. He's preventing the healing. Take him out of the fight. I'll… I'll provide support."
The word 'support' felt ridiculous when the only weapon I had was a sharpened rock, but I had to do something.
Elara didn't waste time debating. She saw the logic. She saw the prize. A flicker of the old predatory light entered her eyes. "A diversion? What kind of diversion can you make, Scholar?"
I thought of my new skills. `Subtle Influence` was too slow, too delicate for this. But the other one… the other one was perfect.
"Something they won't be expecting," I said, feeling for my tiny mana pool. It felt like holding a single cup of water before a raging fire. I focused, calling on the power.
I was banking everything on this single, desperate roll of the dice.My gaze locked on the Cleric. He was the fulcrum on which this entire battle would pivot. Everything depended on giving him a window, a single heartbeat free from harassment.
"A diversion?" Elara's voice was a low growl of skepticism. "What can you possibly do, Scholar?"
I didn't answer with words. I met her gaze, letting her see the cold certainty in my eyes, then dropped my focus inward. The world outside muted as I reached for my mana. It wasn't a vast reservoir; it was a shallow pool, and I was about to drain a significant portion of it. I dredged up the memory of the track we'd just seen, the weight and menace Elara had described. The Tusker.
[Activating Skill: Minor Illusion (Level 1)]
[Mana Cost: 20]
My mana bar dropped from 90 to 70 in a blink. The energy surged from my core to my mind, a humming vibration behind my eyes. I didn't try to create a visual; that was too complex, too easy to see through. I focused on a single, terrifying sound. The sound of a multi-hundred-pound engine of pure fury crashing through the undergrowth.
I projected the illusion about thirty yards behind the goblins, deep in the thick woods on the far side of the stream.
The effect was instantaneous. A sudden, explosive CRACK of a massive branch snapping, followed by a series of heavy, thudding impacts and a guttural, enraged snort that vibrated in the air.
The two goblins froze mid-swing. The one with the cleaver, who had been about to bring it down on the Blacksmith's head, stopped with his arm raised, his beady eyes wide with animal panic. The Lancer whipped his head around, his spear forgotten, his entire body language screaming predator. Their small, cruel minds couldn't process strategy; they only understood the food chain, and my illusion had just announced the arrival of something much, much bigger than them.
That was the only opening Elara needed.
She didn't run. She exploded. One moment she was coiled tension behind the fir tree; the next she was a blur of motion, devouring the ground between her cover and the stream bank. Her injured leg seemed forgotten, powered by pure adrenaline and the Ranger Vocation's raw physical enhancement. Her movements were silent, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground.
The Lancer goblin was still turned away, distracted by the phantom Tusker, its back exposed. It was a fatal mistake.
In the final ten feet of her charge, Elara's body became a single, perfect weapon system. The torque started in her planted back foot, spiraling up through her hips and into her shoulders, which coiled like a releasing spring. The spear, held low during her run, snapped up, its sharpened point glinting in the dappled sunlight. It wasn't a clumsy poke; it was a piston strike, all of her momentum and strength focused into a single, infinitesimal point.
[Ranger Skill Activated: Stealth Strike!]
[Targeting Vulnerable Enemy: +50% Critical Hit Chance!]
[Critical Hit!]
The spear struck the goblin Lancer in the base of its spine with a sickening, wet thump that was immediately followed by a sharp, splintering sound. The goblin's panicked shriek was cut short, turning into a gurgling gasp as its entire lower body went limp.
[-112 HP! (Damage: 45 x 2.5 Crit/Stealth Bonus)]
[Target Status: Stunned (3 sec), Paralyzed (Lower Body), Bleeding (Severe)]
The Lancer crumpled to the ground, its upper body twitching uselessly, the spear still embedded in its back.
The Warrior goblin whirled around at the sound, its tiny brain finally registering the immediate threat. Its face contorted in a mask of rage and confusion as it saw Elara standing over its fallen comrade. It let out a piercing battle cry and charged, its rusty cleaver held high.
This was my cue.
I burst from my own cover, a lanky, barefoot madman clutching a flint knife. Fear was a cold fire in my gut, but my Scholar's mind was a block of ice, calculating angles and probabilities. I wasn't a warrior. I couldn't meet its charge. But I could support.
The goblin was completely focused on Elara, who was already wrenching her spear free from the Lancer's spine in a spray of dark blood. It saw her as the prime threat. It didn't even register me until I was almost on it.
I didn't aim high. I didn't try for a vital organ. As the goblin thundered past me towards Elara, I dropped into a low slide on the damp ground, extending my arm. The flint knife, my pathetic excuse for a weapon, scraped across the back of its heavily muscled calf.
[-1 HP!]
[System Anomaly: Attack targeted specific tendon.]
[Critical Effect Applied: Hamstrung!]
[Target Status: Movement Speed -60%]
The damage was laughable, a single point of health. But the effect was devastating. The goblin's charge dissolved into a stumbling, lurching limp. Its right leg buckled, unable to support its weight, and it staggered forward with a grunt of pain and surprise, its cleaver swing going wide.
That one-point attack had bought the most valuable commodity on any battlefield: time.
And the Cleric, Samuel, seized it.
The pressure was off. The Lancer was down, the Warrior crippled and distracted. His panic receded, replaced by the focused calm of his Vocation. He thrust his wooden holy symbol forward. It began to glow with a soft, golden light.
"In the light, find succor! Minor Heal!" His voice was thin but steady. A warm, shimmering wave of energy flowed from the symbol and washed over the terrified Blacksmith, Leo.
[Leo receives Minor Heal from Samuel Jones!]
[+25 HP!]
Leo's health jumped from a critical 11 to a much healthier 36. The terror in his eyes was replaced by a surge of adrenaline and raw, vengeful fury. He looked at the crippled goblin, then at the heavy ball-peen hammer in his hand. He wasn't a warrior, but he was a Craftsman. He knew how to hit things hard.
"You son of a bitch!" he roared, and charged the goblin's undefended side.
Simultaneously, the woodworker, Maria, seeing her companion healed and the tables turned, let out a war cry of her own. She darted around the goblin's other side, her hatchet held in a two-handed grip.
The goblin was now caught in a triangle of death. Elara was in front of it, her spear dripping blood. The two Craftsmen were flanking it. My hamstringing attack had locked it in place.
Leo's hammer came down first, a brutal, overhand swing aimed at the goblin's shield arm. There was a sickening crunch of shattering bone.
[-7 HP!]
Maria's hatchet followed a split-second later, burying itself deep in the goblin's thigh on its good leg.
[-9 HP!]
The goblin shrieked in pain and rage, lashing out blindly with its cleaver, but its movements were slow, clumsy. Elara simply stepped back, out of its range, her face a mask of cold patience, letting the two furious Craftsmen do their work and gain valuable combat experience.
It was my turn again. I had another tool. Another way to support.
I focused on the beleaguered goblin, whose small, hate-filled mind was now overloaded with pain and rage.
[Activating Skill: Subtle Influence (Level 1)]
[Mana Cost: 15]
[Target: Goblin Warrior]
[Target Status: Panicked, Wounded, Crippled. Willpower severely compromised.]
[Contested Check: Your Will (5) vs Target's Effective Will (2)]
[Success!]
I didn't choose a complex word. Just a single, crippling concept.
Fear.
The goblin's enraged shrieks died in its throat. Its eyes, which had been burning with hateful fire, suddenly went wide with pure, unadulterated terror. It dropped its cleaver with a clatter, its body trembling, its mind snapped by the sudden, overwhelming wave of unnatural dread I had just mainlined into its consciousness. It forgot the fight, forgot its enemies. It just wanted to flee.
But it couldn't. It was hamstrung, surrounded.
Elara did not hesitate. As the goblin stood there, trembling and defenseless, she stepped forward with fluid grace. Her spear blurred.
[Critical Hit! Targeting Unaware Enemy!]
[-125 HP!]
The spearhead punched clean through the goblin's throat, silencing its terrified whimpers forever. It collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
The clearing fell silent, the only sounds the gurgle of the stream, the ragged, gasping breaths of the three newcomers, and my own pounding heart. Elara calmly twisted her spear free and turned to the paralyzed Lancer, who was still twitching on the ground. She dispatched it with a single, brutal thrust to the skull. No ceremony. Just a threat being neutralized.
The fight had lasted less than thirty seconds.
The three survivors stared, their chests heaving, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock, awe, and terror. They looked at the two dead goblins, at the quiet, lethal efficiency of Elara, and then at me—the naked, barefoot Scholar who had crippled one monster with a scratch and broken another's mind with a thought.
We weren't just heroes who had saved them. We were something else. We were competent. And in this world, competence was the most terrifying and valuable currency of all.
The Blacksmith, Leo, finally lowered his hammer, his knuckles white. The Cleric, Samuel, stumbled to his feet, still clutching his glowing holy symbol. Maria just stood there, her hatchet dripping, her face pale.
"Who… what… are you people?" Samuel finally managed to ask, his voice trembling.