Klein woke on his fifth morning in Tertius to the realization that he was developing routines.
Body inventory: automatic. Arm wounds: sealed and pink, maybe 85% healed. Shoulder: functional. Feet: no longer tender. The baseline optimization was working with predictable efficiency.
Copper count: automatic. 373 pieces in his pouch. Eight days of survival at minimum rates, twelve if he stretched.
Threat assessment: automatic. Check the window—gray dawn, no rain. Check the door—still locked from inside. Check his equipment—spear intact, knife secured, rope coiled beside the bed.
Routines were dangerous. Routines meant his hindbrain thought he was safe. Safe was a lie you told yourself before something killed you.
[PHYSICAL STATE: Integrity 78% → 82% (+4% overnight recovery)]
[EMOTIONAL DAMPENING FIELD: 83% - Stable]
Klein dressed and ran the same mathematics he'd been running for days. 373 copper. Ward inspection this morning would bring it to 393. Minus expenses: 383 by tonight. Still solvent. Still insufficient.
Today's hunt would either solve the problem or solve it permanently.
He grabbed his spear and headed downstairs.
The morning crowd in the common room had grown familiar—the dwarf who always sat in the corner with his maps, the human woman with the Divine Hail who ran morning kitchen prep, the elf with the crimson Hail who left for perimeter patrol at the same time every day.
Klein was becoming part of the pattern. Another face. Another body occupying space in the mathematics of Thornhaven's survival.
That was probably good. Being unremarkable meant being unthreatening. But Klein's analytical mind refused to let him forget: he still had zero acquired traits. Still baseline vulnerable. Still surviving on preparation and a healing factor that would mean nothing if something cut his throat.
Porridge: five copper. 368 remaining.
[Elf Scout observation: 15.9% → 16.0%]
*Just walking generated fractional progress now. The compound interest was working, but the returns kept diminishing. Yesterday's two-hour training session had only netted 2.5% gain. The day before, one hour had given 3.9%. The learning curve was flattening exactly as predicted.*
He needed exposure to new stimuli. Novel movement patterns. Combat situations that forced adaptation under pressure.
He needed today's hunt to work.
The north gate guard was the elf woman again. She studied his ward inspection token with the same suspicion as yesterday, but this time she spoke.
"You're consistent. Most contract workers show up hungover half the time."
Klein met her gaze. "Consistency is survival."
She almost smiled. "Maybe you'll last longer than most Metamorphs."
"Maybe."
He walked through the gate into the pre-dawn gray.
The perimeter inspection had become routine, which made Klein deliberately focus harder. Routine bred complacency. Complacency killed.
Post one: clean pulse, 1-2-3-pause rhythm, no irregularities.
Post two: clean, identical rhythm.
Post three: the replacement crystal had been installed overnight. Klein felt the difference immediately—the clean pulse was stronger, more stable, no degradation signature. Professional work.
[Ward Magic observation: 2.1% → 2.3%]
The trait was progressing, but slowly. Ward magic wasn't combat-applicable, wasn't survival-critical. It was interesting infrastructure Klein filed away as potentially useful someday.
Posts four through seven: clean.
Post eight—the sabotaged post—still felt deliberately knotted. Klein lingered, extending his spiritual sensitivity further than before. The wrongness was complex, layered. Multiple modifications stacked on each other, each one stable but deeply strange. Someone had
compromised this ward architecture deliberately, rebuilt reality's local structure into new configurations that shouldn't hold but did.
The threat implications were obvious. Someone with ward expertise had access to Thornhaven's perimeter and was actively undermining it. Marcus knew. The settlement knew. And they were all pretending it was an acceptable risk.
He filed that under "reasons not to get comfortable here."
[Ward Magic observation: 2.3% → 2.7%]
Focused study generated better returns than passive observation. Klein noted that for future reference.
Posts nine through twelve: clean.
Forty-two minutes total. He was getting faster—pattern recognition making inspection more efficient.
Klein returned through the gate and went directly to Marcus's office.
The man looked up from his ledgers. "Post three?"
"Replaced successfully. Clean pulse, no degradation signature." Klein set the token down. "Post eight's modifications remain stable but complex. Multiple structural layers, all holding. Someone with expertise did this deliberately."
Marcus's expression didn't change. "I'm aware."
"And you're letting it stand."
"I'm monitoring it." Marcus's tone made it clear the conversation was finished. He counted out twenty copper. "Four inspections total. You're reliable. I like reliable."
Klein pocketed the coins. 388 copper. The math updated automatically.
"Question," Klein said. "If I bring back more crystals from hunting, what's the buyer market actually look like?"
"Volume buyer?" Marcus's crimson Hail pulsed with interest. "Brunhilde takes anything up to ten crystals weekly at standard rates—200 silver local per Stalker crystal, 50 per Forest Cat. Above that, I can connect you with continental traders who'll pay 300 per Stalker, 75 per Forest Cat, but they only visit monthly."
*Klein calculated. One Forest Cat crystal at 50 silver = 500 copper. Two would be 1,000 copper. That was three weeks of comfortable survival. Or one week plus equipment upgrades. Or seed*
capital for larger hunts.
But two Forest Cats meant two separate hunts or one hunt where he encountered multiples. The first option was time-expensive. The second was probably fatal.
"What else drops crystals?" Klein asked. "Besides Stalkers and Forest Cats."
"Ironbark Beetles—swarm insects, 20 silver per crystal but you need to kill dozens for one drop. Rendered Bears—100 silver, but they're territorial apex predators that will absolutely kill you if you hunt alone." Marcus leaned back. "There's other options further out. Dungeon spawn occasionally wander into hunting range. But those are higher risk-reward calculations."
Klein filed the information away. Bears were off the table. Ironbark Beetles weren't worth the effort. Dungeon spawn were unknown variables.
Forest Cats remained the optimal target for his current capability level.
"Thanks," Klein said and turned to leave.
"Klein." Marcus's voice stopped him. "You're planning another solo hunt."
Not a question.
Klein met his gaze and said nothing.
"That's either very brave or very stupid." Marcus studied him. "I can't tell which yet. But if you come back with another crystal, I'll know it's the former."
"And if I don't come back?"
"Then I'll know it was the latter, and I'll find another ward inspector."
Marcus returned to his ledgers, the conversation finished.
Klein left carrying the weight of being a replaceable asset in someone else's calculations.
Klein found Synel at the training ground, but this time he wasn't alone.
Three other spawns were there—two humans and an elf, all with golden Hails, all moving through combat drills with the kind of coordination that spoke of established party dynamics. Synel was instructing them on formation positioning.
Klein watched from the edge of the yard. The elf scout's movements were still the most efficient, but Klein's observation trait was now cataloging the differences between Synel and the other
spawns. The gaps in their technique. The wasted motion. The inefficiencies that spoke of incomplete training.
[Elf Scout observation: 16.0% → 16.4%]
Synel noticed Klein and gestured him over. "This is Klein. Fresh spawn, Metamorphor, Neutral classification. He's paying for private instruction."
The three spawns studied Klein's empty Hail space with predictable reactions. The humans' golden Hails dimmed slightly. The elf's remained steady but wary.
"The one who testified against Rajesh Kumar," one of the humans said. Male, maybe late twenties, carrying himself like someone who'd done military service in a previous life.
"That's me," Klein confirmed.
"Pragmatic choice," the man said. His tone was neutral—assessment, not judgment. "I'm Erik. That's Tomás and Shandril. We're a hunting party. Three weeks together, still alive."
"Klein."
"We know." Erik's expression was calculating. "We heard you took down a Forest Cat solo. That true?"
"Trap-work and luck."
"But you came back." Erik glanced at his party members, some unspoken communication passing between them. "We're planning a Stalker hunt. Four-person kill squad. We have formation tactics but we're light on trap specialists. Interested in contract work?"
Klein's analytical mind processed the offer immediately.
Stalker pack hunting—minimum three creatures, probably five to seven in a full pack. Much more dangerous than Forest Cats individually, but with a coordinated four-person party, the survival mathematics shifted dramatically. Established formations. Complementary skillsets. Redundancy if someone got injured.
Stalker crystals: 200 silver each, 2,000 copper. Even split four ways was 500 copper per person per crystal. Two crystals meant 1,000 copper for Klein—two weeks of comfortable survival or significant equipment upgrades.
The economic logic was flawless.
The developmental logic wasn't.
Klein ran the numbers automatically: In party formation, his direct combat exposure would be diluted across four people. He'd be setting traps, supporting from range, contributing to collective success. Safer. Smarter. Better survival probability.
But his observation traits didn't progress from watching coordinated teamwork. They progressed from direct pressure. From being the decision point. From adaptation under immediate threat when his hindbrain had no choice but to process faster, learn harder, survive or die.
*Party hunting would generate maybe 1-2% trait gain per hunt—the same diminishing returns he was getting from training sessions. Safe, steady, insufficient.*
*Solo hunting had given him 6-8% gains in a single engagement. Dangerous, traumatic, necessary.*
Klein was on day five with zero acquired traits. The 83% mortality rate wasn't for Metamorphs who played it safe. It was for Metamorphs who stayed baseline too long. Who prioritized comfort over capability until something killed them anyway.
The mathematics were brutal: Party hunting offered better immediate survival odds but worse statistical survival odds over time. He'd live through more hunts but die before acquiring the traits that actually mattered.
"What's the split?" Klein asked anyway, running the full calculation before committing.
"Even four-way on all drops," Erik said. "We pool everything and divide equally. No preferential shares."
Equal split was fair but inefficient for Klein's specific needs. His trap work would be force-multiplying the party's effectiveness, but his trait progression would be averaged into collective success. Support role, not pressure role.
"When?" Klein asked.
"Tomorrow morning. We've been tracking a pack near the northeastern sector—five confirmed individuals, maybe six. Good crystal yield if we execute properly."
Tomorrow meant no Forest Cat hunt today. Meant delaying his second solo attempt. Meant another day at baseline vulnerability, another day the statistics wanted him dead.
"I need to think about it," Klein said.
Erik nodded, no pressure in his expression. "Find me before evening if you want in. We leave at dawn."
The party returned to their drills. Klein watched for another few minutes—studying their formation, their coordination, the way they moved as a unit. It was impressive. Professional. Exactly the kind of structured safety that would keep him alive and mediocre.
[Elf Scout observation: 16.4% → 16.8%]
"You're not going to take the offer," Synel said quietly, appearing beside Klein.
Klein didn't answer immediately. He was still running the mathematics, checking his logic for emotional bias, making sure the Dampening wasn't compressing reasonable fear into reckless confidence.
But the numbers held. Party hunting was the comfortable choice. The safe choice. The choice that would keep him breathing for another week while his trait acquisition flatlined and something faster, stronger, better-adapted than him eventually closed the capability gap.
"It's economically optimal," Klein finally said. "Better survival odds, higher earnings potential, lower individual risk."
"But slower trait progression."
"Much slower." Klein met Synel's eyes. "I need to hit 80% observation to acquire actual capabilities. At party-hunting progression rates, that's eight to ten weeks. At solo-hunting rates, maybe three to four weeks. The mortality risk is higher per engagement, but the overall survival probability over two months favors faster trait acquisition."
"That assumes you survive long enough to acquire the traits."
"It assumes the alternative—staying baseline for ten weeks—is statistically equivalent to death anyway." Klein's voice was flat, analytical. "The 83% mortality rate exists because most Metamorphs don't adapt fast enough. They take safe contracts, train carefully, build up slow. And then something they're not prepared for kills them because they never developed the capabilities to handle novel threats."
Synel's golden Hail pulsed slowly. "You're betting that high-risk exposure now beats low-risk stagnation later."
"I'm betting that baseline vulnerability has a shelf life. And mine is expiring."
Klein turned to face Synel fully. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. Party hunting is safer. But safe is relative. I'm playing against a timer where 83% of people like me die in the first three months. I can't afford to optimize for per-hunt survival. I need to optimize for trait acquisition speed."
"So you're going solo again. Today."
"Forest Cat. Eastern sector. Better preparation than last time. Improved technique from your training."
Synel was quiet for a long moment. His expression was complex—concern layered with something that might have been respect.
"That's the survival gambit talking," he finally said. "You're betting everything on accelerated development because you think the alternative is slower death."
"The alternative is slower death. Just more comfortable. Just surrounded by people who'll say they tried to help when I die anyway."
The words came out harsher than Klein intended, but they were true. The Dampening kept him from feeling the fear properly, but the logic was sound. He'd spent six years in Manila watching people optimize for comfort instead of capability. Watching them complain about the system while never building the skills to escape it. He'd been one of them.
Tertius was different. The timer was visible. The mortality rate was published. The cost of stagnation was death, not just mediocrity.
Klein refused to die comfortable.
"I'm going," he said quietly. "Today. While my baseline optimization still gives me healing advantage. Before I settle into routines that feel safe but aren't."
Synel studied him for several seconds, his golden Hail pulsing with what Klein's Evaluator classified as reluctant acceptance.
"At least let me give you updated tactical intelligence," Synel finally said. "The Forest Cats have been more active this week—territorial disputes from increased Thornhaven hunting pressure. That means higher density near water sources, more competition for prime territory."
"Higher density means higher encounter risk."
"It also means if you're selective, you might find individuals that have been pushed out of prime territory. Displaced, stressed, operating in unfamiliar ground. Different threat profile than last time."
Klein absorbed that. Displaced predators meant unpredictable behavior. Stress changed decision-making. Unfamiliar territory meant reduced tactical advantage for the Cat but also less predictable movement patterns.
Different variables than his first hunt. Not just "trap and ambush" again. Actually novel conditions requiring adaptation.
"Thank you," Klein said.
"Don't die stupidly," Synel replied. "That would reflect poorly on my instruction."
"I'll try to die intelligently if it comes to that."
Synel almost smiled. "That's the most Metamorphor thing you've ever said."
Klein spent fifty copper on supplies.
Thirty copper: fresh rope, twice the thickness of his previous trap line. Fifteen copper: small smoke canister from Brunhilde's alchemy stock—single-use area denial if something went wrong. Five copper: dried rations he could eat cold.
338 copper remaining. Seven days of survival, or four days comfortable.
The investment was necessary. Better equipment meant better probability. Klein's first Forest Cat hunt had succeeded through minimal preparation and maximum luck. The second hunt needed optimization.
He approached Brunhilde's stall mid-morning. The dwarf looked up from sharpening a blade, her golden Hail pulsing with recognition.
"Back already?"
"Shopping." Klein set his copper on the counter. "I need the smoke canister. And information."
Brunhilde pocketed the coins and handed over the canister—ceramic, palm-sized, with a simple ignition cap. "Pull the cap, throw, hold your breath. Creates twenty-meter smoke cloud for thirty seconds. Blocks vision and smell. Good emergency escape tool."
"Information?" she prompted.
"Forest Cats. You mentioned last time you don't judge people for surviving. I'm planning a second solo hunt. I need updated threat assessment."
Brunhilde's expression didn't change, but her Hail's pulse rhythm shifted slightly—something Klein's observation trait catalogued as increased attention.
"You killed one already," she said. "What makes you think the second will be different?"
"Because I'm going in less desperate and more prepared. That changes the mathematics. But preparation can breed overconfidence. I need someone to tell me what I'm not seeing."
"Honest assessment." Brunhilde set down her sharpening stone. "Forest Cats this week are territorial. Males especially. Hunting pressure from Thornhaven has disrupted their normal
range distribution. If you find one that's been displaced from prime hunting ground, it'll be aggressive, stressed, and operating in secondary territory it doesn't know as well."
Klein filed that away. "Behavioral differences from a healthy territorial male?"
"Stress makes them reckless—less likely to retreat even when wounded. More aggressive, less calculating. But also less familiar with the terrain, which means more vulnerable to environmental tactics." Brunhilde met his eyes. "Your first hunt worked because you controlled every variable. That Cat was healthy, cautious, operating in known territory. It behaved predictably."
"And a stressed Cat won't."
"A stressed Cat will fight until it physically can't anymore. Wounded predators are more dangerous than healthy ones when they stop thinking tactically." She paused. "You're baseline Metamorphor. You don't have the capability for quick kills. Not yet. Which means you need to either control the engagement perfectly or be prepared for prolonged combat you probably can't survive."
The assessment was blunt and accurate. Klein appreciated both qualities.
"Alternative tactics?" he asked.
"Don't wound it unless you can kill it quickly after. Trap work has to be decisive, not just damaging. If you're committing to this hunt, commit fully—either perfect execution or immediate retreat. No middle ground."
Klein nodded slowly. His first hunt had relied on wounding the Cat enough to trigger retreat. That tactic wouldn't work on a stressed animal. He'd need different mathematics.
"Thank you," Klein said.
"Don't thank me until you survive. I don't like wasting good advice on corpses." Brunhilde picked up her sharpening stone again. "But for what it's worth, you're thinking about this the right way. Most spawns your age would take the party contract and congratulate themselves for being smart."
"Most spawns my age will be dead in two months."
"Yes," Brunhilde said quietly. "They will."
Klein left Thornhaven through the east gate at noon. The guard—a human with a crimson Hail—barely glanced at him.
"Forest Cat. Eastern sector."
"Sign out." The guard gestured to a logbook. "So we know whether to expect you back or not."
Klein signed: Klein, Metamorphor, Forest Cat hunt, eastern sector, noon departure.
His handwriting looked strange on the page—neat, controlled, the script of someone who'd spent six years filling out call center forms with precise attention to detail.
The guard checked the entry. "You've got until dusk. After that, gates close and you're outside until dawn."
"Understood."
Klein walked through and heard the guard mutter to his partner: "Five days and already hunting solo again. Either brave or stupid."
Klein didn't turn around. That calculation would resolve itself in a few hours.
The forest felt different in full daylight without Synel's presence.
Klein moved with deliberate focus, applying the footwork training from yesterday. Weight distribution through the ball of the foot. Minimal noise generation. Efficient movement that conserved energy while maintaining readiness.
[Elf Scout observation: 16.8% → 17.3%]
The trait was processing in real-time now. Every step analyzed and optimized. Klein could feel the difference—his movements were smoother, more controlled, generating less wasted motion. Not graceful like Synel, but functional. Measurably better than five days ago.
He reached the tributary stream and followed it northeast, away from his first hunting location. The theory was sound: territorial displacement meant stressed Cats would be pushed toward secondary water sources, away from prime hunting ground. Less food, less security, more desperation.
Klein found the spot forty minutes into his search.
Not a choke point this time. That was the wrong tactical assumption. A stressed, aggressive Cat wouldn't funnel predictably. It would attack from unexpected angles, press harder, refuse to retreat.
Instead, Klein chose an open clearing near the stream where three game trails converged.
Good sightlines in multiple directions. Firm ground for stable footing. Scattered deadfall that could provide cover or obstacles depending on how the engagement developed.
Most importantly: multiple escape routes.
If this went wrong, Klein needed the option to run. Pride wasn't worth dying for.
He set his rope trap differently than last time—not as a leg snare, but as a trip line stretched between two trees at the clearing's edge. Simple, obvious if you were looking for it. But a charging predator focused on prey wouldn't be looking down.
Then Klein did something Synel hadn't taught him but his analytical mind suggested: he created a second position.
First position: obvious high ground on a fallen log where a hunter would naturally set up for ambush.
Second position: fifteen meters away, partially concealed behind deadfall, with clear sightlines to both the clearing and the first position.
If the Cat detected his primary ambush, it might circle to flank. Klein would already be somewhere else, watching, adapting.
The setup took thirty minutes. Klein was meticulous, checking angles, testing sightlines, making sure both positions had retreat paths.
Then he settled into his second position and waited.
The forest filled with small noises—birds, insects, wind through leaves. Klein's threat assessment catalogued each one, filtering for patterns that didn't fit.
[EMOTIONAL DAMPENING FIELD: 83% → 85% - managing anticipatory stress]
His hindbrain wanted to panic. Wanted to catalog every way this could kill him. The Dampening compressed it into focused attention, but Klein could feel the pressure building beneath the filter.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then forty.
Klein forced himself to stay patient. Hunting was mathematics plus time. Rushing meant mistakes. Mistakes meant death.
An hour into the wait, Klein noticed the forest had gone quiet.
Not completely silent—that was horror movie logic. But the bird calls had shifted. The normal background noise had changed pitch, become more sparse.
Something large was moving nearby.
Klein's grip tightened on his spear. His breathing stayed controlled—four counts in, hold, four counts out. Manila technique applied to Tertius survival.
Movement, fifty meters downstream. Something low and predatory, moving with aggressive purpose through the undergrowth.
The Forest Cat.
[EVALUATOR ANALYSIS: Target compromised. Injured, stressed, operating in pain. Threat assessment: HIGHLY UNSTABLE. Recommend extreme caution—wounded predators exhibit unpredictable aggression patterns.]
Klein recalculated instantly. An injured Cat changed everything. It wouldn't retreat—it couldn't retreat, not with those wounds. Retreat meant death from blood loss or follow-up attacks from whatever had injured it.
This Cat was already fighting for its life. Klein was just another threat in a very bad day.
Which made it exponentially more dangerous.
The Cat moved toward the clearing, drawn by the stream. Its four eyes scanned constantly, ears swiveling. Hyper-alert. Paranoid.
It bypassed the obvious ambush position entirely—the fallen log Klein had deliberately made visible. The Cat's threat assessment was good. It recognized artificial advantage points.
But it didn't see Klein in his secondary position.
The Cat entered the clearing cautiously, limping slightly from the flank wound. Blood dripped steadily, leaving a trail.
Klein had maybe three minutes before blood loss started degrading the Cat's combat effectiveness. After that, it would either collapse or enter terminal desperation mode—nothing to lose, pure aggression.
Neither option favored Klein. He needed to act now, while the Cat was still capable but compromised.
The Cat moved toward the stream. One step. Two. Three.
Its front paw hit the trip line.
The rope yanked taut. The Cat stumbled—not a dramatic fall, just a disruption of its gait, a moment of off-balance confusion.
Klein moved.
Not toward the Cat directly. That was prey-drive activation. Instead, he repositioned rapidly to cut off the Cat's retreat toward the forest, driving it into the clearing where terrain favored Klein.
The Cat's four eyes locked onto him immediately. It snarled—wet, pained, furious.
And charged anyway.
Not tactical. Not calculating. Just pure stressed-predator aggression aimed at the nearest threat.
[COMBAT INITIATED - SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 34%]
Klein's hindbrain screamed. The Dampening surged to contain it.
[EMOTIONAL DAMPENING FIELD: 85% → 89%]
The Cat covered fifteen meters in two seconds, faster than Klein's first opponent despite the injury. Desperation was a hell of a stimulant.
Klein set his spear in a guard position—proper form this time, Synel's training firing automatically. Weight distributed. Shaft angled for maximum deflection.
The Cat leaped.
Klein thrust.
The spear tip caught the Cat mid-leap, punching into its chest just left of center. Not a perfect heart strike, but deep. The Cat's momentum drove it further onto the iron tip, the shaft bending dangerously.
Blood sprayed hot across Klein's hands.
But the Cat's claws were still raking forward, jaws snapping, four eyes full of dying fury.
Klein twisted the spear shaft—not away, but into the Cat's momentum, using its own weight to carry it past him instead of into him.
The Cat hit the ground hard. Klein's spear tore free, the tip dripping.
The Cat tried to rise.
Couldn't.
The wound was catastrophic—iron through the lung, blood filling its chest cavity. But it was still trying. Still snapping at Klein's legs, claws tearing at earth, dragging itself forward.
Brunhilde's words echoed: Wounded predators fight until they physically can't anymore.
This Cat was already dead. Its body just hadn't accepted it yet.
Klein stepped back, spear ready, and waited.
Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
The Cat's movements slowed. Its breathing became wet, labored. Blood pooled beneath it.
Thirty seconds.
It collapsed fully, four eyes still fixed on Klein, still trying to snarl but producing only bubbling gasps.
Forty-five seconds.
The Cat stopped moving.
Klein stood there for a full minute, watching, making absolutely certain it was finished.
His hands were shaking. Not from fear—the Dampening had that compressed—but from pure adrenaline overload. His heart was hammering. Sweat soaked his tunic despite the cool forest air.
He'd won.
Clean victory. No injuries. Perfect execution of adapted tactics.
And Klein felt absolutely nothing.
[EMOTIONAL DAMPENING FIELD: 89% - combat stress suppression maintaining]
The Dampening had contained everything—the fear, the adrenaline spike, the triumph, the relief. All of it compressed into flat tactical assessment.
He should have felt something. But there was just… emptiness. Calculation. The next task.
He pushed the thought aside and moved to extract the crystal.
The work was messy but quicker than last time. Klein's hands were steadier now, his technique improved. Four minutes of careful cutting and the crystal came free—smaller than his first one, but good quality. Female territorial Forest Cat, compromised by injury. Maybe 45-50 silver value.
[MANA CRYSTAL ACQUIRED - Quality: Common]
Klein wrapped it carefully, cleaned his spear on the Cat's fur, and checked the clearing one final time.
No other threats. No blood trail leading toward him. Just a dead predator and a live Metamorphor.
The mathematics had worked.
[Stalker observation: 21.3% → 28.1%]
[Forest Cat observation: 8% → 19.6%]
[Elf Scout observation: 17.3% → 20.8%]
The trait gains hit Klein's awareness like cold water.
6.8% Stalker. 11.6% Forest Cat. 3.5% Elf Scout.
Massive progression. More than his first hunt. The combat pressure combined with improved technique had accelerated learning dramatically.
But more importantly: Forest Cat observation had jumped past 15%, past the threshold where passive observation became active learning. The trait was now processing movement patterns, threat assessment, predator psychology at a deeper level.
He was actually progressing. Actually building capability.
The validation settled into his analytical mind like a solved equation. The risk had been worth it. The mathematics had been sound.
He started the walk back to Thornhaven, moving carefully, conserving energy. No injuries meant no blood loss meant no degraded performance. Clean hunt. Optimal outcome.
[EMOTIONAL DAMPENING FIELD: 89% → 87% - normalizing post-combat]
The Dampening started releasing its grip gradually as the immediate danger passed. Klein felt… not emotion, exactly. But a subtle increase in his awareness of emotion's absence. The knowledge that he should be feeling relief, pride, satisfaction.
He felt none of those things. Just the ledger updating. The trait progress counting. The copper value calculating.
Klein reached Thornhaven's east gate thirty minutes later, clean and efficient, crystal in hand.
The guard looked up, saw him uninjured, saw the crystal.
"Second solo kill in three days." The guard's expression was somewhere between impressed and wary. "You're either very lucky or very skilled."
"Preparation and mathematics," Klein replied.
"Right." The guard made a note in the logbook. "Welcome back, then."
Klein walked through the gates and headed straight for Brunhilde's stall.
The dwarf looked up from her work, saw Klein, saw the crystal, saw the lack of injuries.
"Successful hunt," she said neutrally.
"Applied your advice. Wounded, stressed target. Adapted tactics accordingly. Clean kill, no injuries."
Brunhilde took the crystal, examined it, and counted out 450 copper. "45 silver. Slightly reduced value from injury-stress effects on crystal formation. But solid quality."
Klein pocketed the copper. 788 total now. Nearly two weeks of comfortable survival, or one week plus significant equipment investment.
The ledger was growing.
"You're getting better," Brunhilde said quietly. "That's good. Most spawns peak early and plateau. You're still on the upward curve."
"The curve has to continue climbing," Klein said. "Plateauing at baseline is just slower death."
"True." Brunhilde met his eyes. "But be careful. Confidence is good. Overconfidence is how skilled people die stupidly."
"I'm not confident," Klein said. "I'm just running the mathematics and accepting the outcomes."
"That might be the same thing. Hard to tell from outside." Brunhilde returned to her work. "Either way, you're still alive. That counts for something."
Klein left the stall and walked back to the boarding house, copper heavy in his pouch, crystal sold, trait progression achieved.
Day five complete.
Still alive.
Still insufficient.
But measurably closer to adequate.
The compound interest was working.