Klein woke to gray pre-dawn light and the sound of rain intensifying against his window. His internal clock—six years of call center shifts had made it precise—told him he had maybe thirty minutes before he needed to start the ward inspection.
His body inventory was automatic: feet still tender but functional, shoulder stiff, cuts healing cleanly. The baseline optimization continued its work.
[PHYSICAL STATE: Integrity 81% (+3% overnight recovery)]
[DAMPENING EFFICIENCY: 81% - Stable]
He dressed methodically. Canvas pants, wool tunic, leather boots that no longer felt foreign. The copper pouch hung empty at his belt—a hollow weight that his analytical mind refused to ignore. Zero copper meant zero margin for error.
The ward inspection would fix that. Twenty copper. Enough for two days of cheap food or half a night's lodging. Not enough for both.
Klein strapped the basic knife to his belt opposite the empty pouch. The iron spear leaned against the wall beside his coiled rope. All the equipment he owned in this world, purchased with a dead man's execution.
The thought tried to surface—Rajesh's face, the testimony, the choice—but the Dampening compressed it before it could fragment his focus. Present, but manageable. Like all the other weights he carried.
Survive first. Process later.
The common room downstairs was nearly empty at this hour. Mira stood behind the bar, preparing for the breakfast crowd. She glanced at Klein's empty pouch but said nothing.
"Porridge," Klein said. "Five copper. I'll pay after my inspection."
"You'll pay now or you'll eat nothing." Mira's tone was flat. "I don't run credit for spawns."
Klein met her eyes. The Dampening held his frustration at manageable levels. "Marcus advanced me against today's work. I'm good for it."
"Then go get the copper from Marcus and come back."
Klein turned without argument. Mira ran a business, not a charity. He understood the mathematics perfectly.
Marcus's office was dark, door locked. Of course—it was barely dawn. The inspection wasn't scheduled for another hour.
Klein stood in the hallway, calculating. He could wait, hungry. Or he could start the inspection early, finish faster, get paid sooner. The rain was miserable but the wards didn't care about comfort.
He headed for the north gate.
The guard on duty was the same one from Klein's first day—the human with scarred hands whose golden Hail had dimmed at Klein's approach. This time the man just nodded when Klein showed the ward inspection token.
"You're early."
"I'm efficient." Klein stepped through into the rain.
The downpour was cold, steady, the kind that soaked through clothing in minutes. Klein ignored it. Discomfort was just data—irrelevant to the task.
He approached the first ward post, extending his awareness the way he had yesterday. The wrongness was still there, that stretched-too-thin sensation that made reality feel like overtightened fabric.
[Ward Magic observation: 1.3% → 1.6%]
The pulse was clean. Steady. Klein marked it in the mental map Marcus had shown him and moved to the second post.
Rain made the ground treacherous. His boots found mud that hadn't been there yesterday, roots made slick by water. Klein adjusted his pace, trading speed for stability. A twisted ankle would cost him more than time.
The third post—the one with degradation yesterday—felt worse. The stutter in its pulse had become more pronounced. Klein focused, trying to articulate what his new spiritual sensitivity was detecting.
Like a heartbeat with arrhythmia. Not failing yet, but declining.
He'd report it again. Marcus had said two weeks until replacement needed. Maybe less now.
Posts four through seven were clean. Klein moved with deliberate focus, his mind tracking patterns. The rain drummed against his skull, ran down his face, soaked through his tunic until the fabric clung cold against his skin.
[Elf Scout observation: 8.1% → 8.4%]
The trait was processing movement efficiency even in miserable conditions. Klein's untrained stumbling was gradually being analyzed, categorized, compared against Synel's grace. Understanding accumulating in fractional increments.
Post eight—the anomalous one—still felt deliberately knotted. Stable but wrong. Klein lingered, trying to understand what made it different from the degrading post three.
This isn't decay. This is... modification? Intentional warping?
He filed the observation away. Not his problem unless it became unstable.
Posts nine through twelve passed quickly. By the time Klein returned to the gate, he was soaked through, shivering slightly despite the baseline optimization, but the inspection was complete.
Forty-five minutes. Efficient.
The guard let him back through with a grunt that might have been respect or might have been dismissal.
Klein found Marcus in his office, now lit and occupied. The man looked up from his ledger when Klein entered, dripping rainwater onto the floor.
"You're early."
"Post three's degradation is accelerating. Maybe ten days now instead of two weeks. Post eight still anomalous but stable." Klein's voice was steady despite the cold. "Inspection complete."
Marcus studied him for a long moment, then counted out twenty copper coins. "You're serious about this work."
"I'm serious about not starving." Klein pocketed the coins. The weight felt significant—two days of survival, or one night of safety, or the difference between hunting prepared versus desperate.
"Most spawns would've waited for decent weather."
"Most spawns die in the first week."
Marcus's crimson Hail pulsed with what might have been approval. "Fair point. Same time in two days?"
"Earlier if the weather's better." Klein turned to leave, then paused. "Question. Where do I sell mana crystals?"
"Trading post, main floor. Brunhilde handles most crystal purchases—she needs them for ward maintenance and equipment enchantment." Marcus's eyes sharpened. "You planning to hunt?"
"Planning to survive past day three."
"Forest Cats?"
Klein met his gaze. "Maybe. If I can control the engagement."
"Your funeral." But Marcus pulled out a different ledger, flipped pages. "Advice: eastern sector, near the tributary stream. Cats patrol there around midday when the smaller prey comes to drink. Set your trap upstream, wait downwind. They're ambush predators—use that against them."
He looked up. "And Klein? Don't die before Friday's inspection. The paperwork's tedious."
Klein left with twenty copper and tactical intelligence. The mathematics were improving.
Mira accepted his payment without comment and served porridge that tasted like wet cardboard. Klein ate mechanically, fueling the optimization.
[Physical State: Integrity 81% → 83%]
*[Stamina: 74% → 68% (exertion + environmental stress)]*
The rain had drained him more than he'd realized. Klein calculated: hunt now while tired, or rest and hunt this evening when Cats were transitioning to night activity?
The EVALUATOR activated without prompting.
[EVALUATOR ANALYSIS: Forest Cat engagement timing]
Immediate (fatigued state): 31% survival probability
Evening (rested, dusk transition): 43% survival probability
Recommendation: Delay 4-6 hours for stamina recovery
Klein finished his porridge, processing the numbers. Twelve percent difference in survival odds. Significant.
But delaying meant burning daylight, meant potentially missing the optimal ambush window Marcus had described.
Risk versus reward. Always the same equation.
He needed more information before deciding.
Klein found Synel in the training yard behind the settlement, practicing with his bow in the rain. The Elf moved through forms with liquid precision, each shot perfectly placed despite the weather.
"You're insane," Klein called out.
Synel loosed one final arrow—it split the previous shaft dead center—then turned. His golden Hail cast warm light despite the gray weather. "Rain doesn't care about comfort. Neither do predators." He studied Klein. "You're going hunting."
"This afternoon. Maybe. Forest Cat, eastern sector."
"Alone?"
"Can't afford a party."
Synel's expression shifted—not quite approval, but something close to recognition. "You're either very brave or very stupid. I haven't decided which."
"Desperate. There's a difference." Klein gestured at the practice targets. "Question: how good is a Forest Cat's sense of smell?"
"Excellent. They'll detect you from thirty meters downwind."
"Hearing?"
"Better than yours, worse than mine. They rely on scent first, sound second, sight third."
Klein filed that away. "Movement speed?"
"Faster than you in a straight sprint. But they're ambush hunters—they don't chase for long if the first strike fails."
"How long?"
"Ten, maybe fifteen seconds before they reassess. They're risk-averse. If prey fights back effectively, they disengage."
Klein's mind built the tactical picture. "So I need to hurt one fast enough to trigger retreat instinct."
"Or trap it so it can't retreat, then kill it." Synel's tone was matter-of-fact. "But that's riskier. Cornered predators fight harder."
"What would you do? If you were me, untrained, hunting alone?"
Synel considered. "I'd use terrain. Find a position where you have high ground or restricted approach angles. Forest Cats rely on speed and multiple attack vectors. Take those away, force them to come at you from one direction, and suddenly you're not prey—you're an obstacle."
He paused. "And I'd accept that forty percent odds mean you probably die. Most spawns your age aren't ready for solo hunting."
"Most spawns my age are already dead."
"Also fair." Synel walked to his target, retrieved arrows with practiced efficiency. "If you survive, come find me. I'll teach you proper spear work. Can't do much in one session, but it's better than nothing."
"Why help?"
Synel's golden Hail pulsed thoughtfully. "Because you're not stupid enough to hunt without preparation, which means you might actually survive. And Thornhaven needs people who think before they act." He met Klein's eyes. "Also, I'm curious what a Neutral Metamorphor becomes if he lives long enough."
Klein nodded his thanks and turned to leave.
"Klein." Synel's voice stopped him. "The guilt you're carrying about the Kumar execution. It's going to get heavier before it gets lighter. Don't let it make you reckless."
Klein didn't answer. There was nothing to say that wasn't already obvious.
He spent the next three hours preparing.
The rope became a trap—fifty feet of crude snare built from techniques half-remembered from survival forums he'd read in Manila during slow call center shifts. The knots were inelegant but functional.
The knife he tested against wood, learning its edge and balance. It wasn't made for throwing, but it could stab if he got close enough. Which meant he'd already failed if he needed it.
The spear he practiced with in his room—basic thrusts, learning the weapon's reach and weight. His movements were clumsy, unrefined, but the Elf Scout observation trait tracked each iteration.
[Elf Scout observation: 8.4% → 9.1%]
Not enough to matter. But every fraction helps.
At noon, Klein ate more porridge—five copper he couldn't really afford—and felt his stamina climb back toward functional.
[Stamina: 68% → 76%]
Good enough.
He packed light: rope coiled at his belt, knife secured, spear in hand. The ward inspection token stayed behind—no point risking it in the forest.
Fifteen copper remained in his pouch. Three days of food, or one more night's lodging.
Hunt successfully: 50+ copper profit. Hunt unsuccessfully: permanent death.
The mathematics were simple.
Klein headed for the east gate.
The rain had stopped, leaving the forest humid and dripping. Klein moved carefully, using the tributary stream as his landmark. Midday sun filtered through breaks in the canopy, painting the undergrowth in shades of gray-green.
[Forest Ecosystem observation: 7.2% → 8.1%]
He found the spot Marcus had described—a place where the stream narrowed between two large rocks, creating a natural bottleneck. The banks on either side rose slightly, offering marginal high ground.
Klein studied the terrain with analytical focus. The Forest Cat would approach from downwind, following scent. If Klein positioned himself upstream, the water would mask some of his scent. If he set the snare between the rocks...
Force it to come through the narrows. Limit approach vectors. Turn speed advantage into a liability.
The trap took twenty minutes to set properly. Rope strung between the rocks at ankle height, camouflaged with mud and leaves. Not invisible, but difficult to see in the dappled light.
Klein positioned himself on the higher bank, downstream of the trap. The spear felt inadequate in his hands, but it was all he had.
Now came the hardest part.
Waiting.
Thirty minutes passed. Then forty-five. Klein's legs cramped from holding position, his grip on the spear growing slick with sweat despite the humid air.
The Dampening held his anxiety at manageable levels, but he felt pressure building behind the barrier. Every rustle in the undergrowth triggered calculation: threat or false alarm? Prey or predator?
*[EVALUATOR ANALYSIS: Recommended position hold time: 2-3 hours maximum before fatigue compromises response capability]*
Klein had maybe another hour before his body started making mistakes.
Then he heard it.
Movement through undergrowth. Deliberate. Circling.
Klein's grip tightened on the spear. His heart rate spiked—the Dampening compressed it before panic could set in, but his body remained on high alert.
There. Thirty meters. Moving counterclockwise.
He couldn't see it yet. Just the subtle displacement of leaves, the faint sound of something large trying to move quietly.
The Forest Cat was hunting him.
But I chose the ground. I set the trap. And I'm not running.
The movement stopped. Klein held position, barely breathing. His analytical mind tracked possibilities: had it detected the trap? Sensed wrongness in the terrain? Decided easier prey existed elsewhere?
Then something changed. The presence—because that's what it felt like now, a weight in the air—shifted direction. Began approaching.
Straight toward the stream narrows.
Straight toward the trap.
Klein's hands were steady on the spear despite everything. The Dampening compressed fear into cold focus, turned panic into calculation.
Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten.
He saw it then—sleek body, fur that shifted colors to match the undergrowth, elongated skull with too many teeth. Exactly like Synel's sketch, but larger. Heavier. Moving with predatory confidence.
It reached the narrows between rocks.
One paw touched the rope.
The snare triggered.
Klein was already moving.