Klein woke on his sixth morning in Tertius to the weight of accumulated progress—and the awareness that progress meant visibility.
Body inventory: automatic. Arm wounds from Forest Cat hunt #2: sealed but tender, maybe 70% healed. New cuts on legs and shoulders: superficial. Feet: fully functional. The baseline optimization continued its work with predictable efficiency.
Copper count: automatic. 768 pieces in his pouch. Fifteen days of survival at minimum rates, twenty-three if he stretched. The buffer was real now. Meaningful.
Threat assessment: automatic. Check the window—gray dawn, light mist. Check the door—locked from inside. Check equipment—spear intact, knife secured, rope coiled, smoke canister unused from yesterday's hunt.
The mathematics had shifted. For the first time since arriving in Tertius, Klein had actual financial security. Not wealth—just enough buffer to survive a crisis without immediate collapse.
But something felt wrong.
[PHYSICAL STATE: Integrity 72% → 75% (+3% overnight recovery)]
[EMOTIONAL DAMPENING FIELD: 81% - Stable]
Klein dressed and ran the morning's calculation. *768 copper. Ward inspection today would bring it to 788. Minus lodging and food: 743 by tonight. Still comfortable. Still insufficient for long-term security.*
He grabbed his spear and headed downstairs, his mind already cataloging the day's priorities. Another training session with Synel. Maybe visit Lyra for entropy practice. Check the marketplace for better equipment now that he could actually afford it.
The common room was quiet—too quiet for morning hours. Klein ordered porridge from Mira, paid his five copper, and settled at a corner table.
That's when he noticed the elf guard from the north gate.
She stood near the entrance, speaking in low tones with Captain Aldric. Their body language was wrong—too rigid, too focused. Aldric's golden Hail pulsed with controlled intensity, and the guard's expression was grim in a way that went beyond routine concern.
Klein ate slowly, watching without appearing to watch.
The conversation ended. Aldric left through the front entrance with purpose. The guard remained for a moment, scanning the common room with the kind of systematic assessment Klein recognized from security protocols. Her eyes passed over him—lingered fractionally on his absent Hail—then moved on.
Something's wrong. That wasn't a routine briefing.
Klein finished his porridge and stepped outside into the morning mist.
Thornhaven felt different.
Not obviously—the settlement looked the same. Buildings in their usual positions, morning smoke rising from chimneys, people moving between structures. But Klein's observation trait was processing details his conscious mind hadn't caught yet.
[Elf Scout observation: 21.2% → 21.5%]
The patrols were different. Normally, guards walked the perimeter in predictable patterns—one person per section, rotating every few hours. This morning, they moved in pairs. Their routes overlapped more than usual, creating redundant coverage.
Near the eastern gate, Klein saw two human guards standing close together, speaking in voices too low to carry. One kept his hand near his sword hilt—not threatening, but ready. The other kept glancing at the ward posts with the kind of focused attention that spoke of specific instructions.
They're on alert. High alert, but trying not to show it.
Klein continued toward the north gate for his ward inspection, his analytical mind processing the pattern. Paired patrols. Overlapping coverage. Guards watching the wards themselves instead of just the perimeter. This isn't general caution. This is specific threat response.
Then he saw Marcus.
The administrator was walking with another man Klein didn't recognize—older, maybe late fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a crimson Hail that pulsed with controlled intensity different from Marcus's comfortable self-interest. This Hail felt focused. Academic. The measured power of someone who understood forces Klein couldn't perceive.
They were standing near a ward post—not on the perimeter, but near the settlement center. One of the internal posts that reinforced the outer network.
The stranger was examining it with the kind of careful attention Klein had only seen specialists use. His hands moved through the air near the carved symbols, not touching but feeling something Klein's spiritual sensitivity could barely detect. Marcus stood beside him, taking notes.
Corvus. That has to be Corvus—Lyra's mentor. The mage expert.
Klein stopped walking, his mind connecting the data points.
Internal ward examination. Paired patrols. High alert posture. Marcus bringing in a specialist to examine posts inside the settlement perimeter, not just the boundary.
The sabotage investigation isn't theoretical anymore. It's active. And they're worried enough to call in experts.
The realization settled cold in Klein's chest.
[EVALUATOR ANALYSIS: Settlement security status - ELEVATED THREAT]
[Probability assessment: Internal investigation active (87% confidence)]
[Threat source: Unknown, but administrative response indicates credible danger]
[Recommended action: Accelerate personal capability development. Settlement stability uncertain.]
Klein forced himself to continue walking toward the north gate, his mind racing through implications.
Post eight. The deliberately modified ward Marcus told me to monitor. They're not just watching it anymore—they're investigating actively. Which means the threat is real enough to warrant bringing in a specialist.
And if the wards are compromised...
Klein remembered the Stalker pack. Seven of them, coordinated hunters with active camouflage. They'd nearly killed him, and Synel had only found him by luck and professional paranoia.
The wards kept things like that away from Thornhaven. Kept the settlement safe enough for people to sleep without guards in their rooms. Safe enough for Klein to focus on trait acquisition instead of constant survival.
If the wards fail catastrophically...
The mathematics were brutal. Klein was still baseline vulnerable—zero acquired traits, minimal combat training, surviving on preparation and a healing factor. In open forest against coordinated predators, his survival odds were maybe 20% on a good day.
Thornhaven was his safe base. His foundation for building capability. His buffer against the 83% Metamorphor mortality rate.
And someone is actively sabotaging it.
Klein reached the north gate. The same elf guard from the common room stood at her post, but now Klein noticed details he'd missed before. Her bow was strung—normally guards kept them unstrung except during active threats. Her quiver held more arrows than standard patrol loadout. And her eyes kept scanning the ward posts with systematic precision that went beyond routine.
She studied Klein's inspection token with the same suspicion as always, but this time her attention lingered on his face.
"You're consistent," she said. Her tone was neutral, but Klein caught the subtext: You're also the Neutral spawn who condemned Rajesh Kumar. The anomaly who keeps surviving against odds. The unknown variable in a settlement that suddenly can't afford unknown variables.
"Consistency is survival," Klein replied.
She almost smiled. "Maybe you'll last longer than most Metamorphs."
"Maybe."
Klein walked through the gate into the mist, carrying the weight of new understanding.
This settlement isn't safe. It never was—I just thought it was because I needed it to be. But it's a fort with cracks in the foundation. With a saboteur already inside the walls. With guards who are scared enough to double their patrols and bring in specialists.
My timeline just got shorter.
The ward inspection took forty-five minutes, but Klein's mind was elsewhere.
Post three's degradation was accelerating—the stutter in its pulse more pronounced, the spatial distortion feeling thinner. Maybe eight days until catastrophic failure now, down from ten days two inspections ago.
[Ward Magic observation: 3.8% → 4.1%]
Posts four through seven were clean, but Klein found himself examining them more carefully than before. Looking for signs of modification like post eight. Finding nothing obvious, but aware that "obvious" wasn't the threat here. The sabotage was subtle. Professional. The work of someone who understood ward architecture well enough to compromise it without triggering immediate alarms.
Post eight still felt wrong—that deliberately knotted spatial distortion, stable but fundamentally alien. Klein lingered, trying to understand what made it different from post three's degradation.
Post three is failing naturally—crystal running out of power, architecture degrading from simple entropy. Post eight is... reconstructed. Someone took working architecture and deliberately rewove it into something else. Multiple modifications layered on each other, each one stable but strange.
But for what purpose?
The Evaluator couldn't answer. The data was insufficient, the patterns too complex for his current analytical capability.
Klein completed the inspection and returned through the gate, his mind already moving to the next calculation.
I have 788 copper after this inspection. That's comfortable survival for two weeks, or one week plus equipment upgrades. But comfortable doesn't matter if the settlement collapses.
The wards protect Thornhaven. The wards are compromised. Marcus and Aldric are investigating, but investigation takes time. And if they can't find the saboteur before the modifications activate—or before post three fails completely—
Klein stopped that thought before it could spiral.
I need to accelerate trait acquisition. Need to be strong enough to survive alone if Thornhaven falls. The Forest Cat observation is at 24% now—three more solid hunts might push it toward 50%. Combined with Stalker at 23%, I'd have real predator understanding. Real combat instincts beyond just preparation and desperation.
The compound interest equation works, but only if I survive long enough for it to matter. I can't afford to plateau. Can't afford to wait for comfortable progression.
I need more data. More exposure. More risk.
Klein found Marcus in his office, already working through morning paperwork despite the early hour. The administrator looked up when Klein entered, and something in his expression confirmed Klein's suspicions.
Marcus was stressed. Not panicking—his crimson Hail remained controlled—but the comfortable self-interest had sharpened into focused concern.
"Post three?" Marcus asked without preamble.
"Degrading faster. Eight days now, maybe less." Klein set the inspection token on the desk. "The replacement crystal needs installation soon."
Marcus made a note with precise movements. "It arrives tonight. Installation tomorrow morning." He counted out twenty copper coins, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.
"The specialist examining the internal posts," Klein said carefully. "That's new."
Marcus's eyes sharpened. "You noticed Corvus."
"Hard not to. Internal ward examination isn't standard maintenance."
Marcus studied Klein for a long moment, his crimson Hail pulsing thoughtfully. Whatever he saw in Klein's expression made him reach a decision.
"You're observant. I'll give you that." He leaned back in his chair. "Post eight's modifications are more complex than we initially assessed. Corvus is here to determine if there are others we haven't detected. And to figure out what the hell someone accomplished with that weave."
"Found anything?"
"Not yet. But Corvus says the architecture is... ambitious. Professional work. Someone with deep understanding of ward theory." Marcus's expression darkened. "Which means whoever did this isn't some random saboteur. They're skilled. Connected. And they had access to our perimeter long enough to do precise magical engineering."
Klein absorbed that. Professional saboteur. Inside access. Complex modifications with unknown purpose. The threat profile keeps getting worse.
"How long until Corvus finishes his assessment?" Klein asked.
"Days. Maybe a week." Marcus met his eyes. "Until then, we maintain operational security. No panic. No public announcements. Just heightened patrols and internal investigation."
He paused. "Which brings me to something else. Your ward inspections have been consistently accurate. Your spiritual sensitivity is proving more valuable than I expected. I want you to expand coverage—check the internal posts twice weekly in addition to perimeter work. Same rate, twenty copper per inspection. That's an additional forty copper weekly if you complete both internal rounds."
Klein calculated quickly. Perimeter: 60 copper weekly. Internal: 40 copper weekly. Total: 100 copper income versus 50 copper expenses equals 50 copper weekly surplus. Real buffer. Real security.
But also: more exposure to whatever is happening with the wards. More visibility to whoever is doing the sabotaging. I become part of the investigation, which makes me either protected or a target depending on how this resolves.
"I'll do it," Klein said.
Marcus nodded. "First internal inspection tomorrow after the perimeter check. I'll have a route mapped." He handed Klein an additional token—identical to the first but marked with a small symbol. "Show this to guards if questioned. It authorizes internal infrastructure access."
Klein pocketed both tokens, the weight of new responsibility settling alongside new income.
"One more thing," Marcus said as Klein turned to leave. "Be careful. Whoever modified post eight has skills I don't fully understand. If you notice anything unusual—anything at all—report to me immediately. Don't investigate alone."
"Understood."
Klein left carrying the weight of expanded responsibility and the cold certainty that his safe haven was less safe than he'd calculated.
Outside, the morning mist was burning off. Klein checked his mental ledger: 788 copper. Ward work expanding to 100 weekly income. Settlement in high alert. Investigation active. Timeline accelerated.
I need more capability. Need to hunt again. Push trait observation harder.
Klein headed toward the eastern training ground to find Synel.
The elf scout wasn't there.
Klein stood in the empty training yard, his mind processing the absence. Synel was usually here by mid-morning, running through bow drills or practicing movement techniques. His absence was notable.
Where is he?
Klein checked the main marketplace, the trading post, even walked past Synel's small dwelling near the north gate. No sign of the elf.
Finally, Klein caught sight of him near the western perimeter—deep in conversation with Aldric and two other scouts Klein didn't recognize. All three scouts were fully equipped—bows strung, packs heavy with supplies, the kind of loadout that meant extended patrol rather than training exercises.
Synel noticed Klein approaching and broke from the group, moving with fluid grace that Klein's observation trait cataloged automatically.
[Elf Scout observation: 21.5% → 21.8%]
"Klein." Synel's tone was distracted, his golden Hail pulsing with controlled stress. "Bad timing. Aldric has all scouts on priority rotation—special patrols, expanded coverage. I'm heading out for a thirty-six hour circuit."
"I was looking for training," Klein said.
"Can't today. Or tomorrow." Synel's expression was apologetic but firm. "The situation's... complicated. settlement security takes priority over personal instruction."
Klein's analytical mind processed the subtext immediately. He knows about the sabotage. Probably guarding Corvus or running counter-surveillance patrols. The internal threat is consuming resources.
"I'm planning another hunt," Klein said. "Western ridges. I need intel—terrain differences, prey behavior variations, threat assessment."
Synel glanced back toward Aldric, clearly calculating time constraints. "Western ridges? Should be more of the same as eastern sector. Forest Cats stick to their patterns—territorial, solitary, ambush tactics. Just apply what you already know from your previous hunts."
He started to turn away, then paused. "Don't take unnecessary risks. Your preparation worked twice—don't get cocky and assume it'll work forever. If something feels wrong, retreat. You can always hunt another day."
Then he was moving back toward Aldric's group, the conversation clearly finished.
Klein stood in the empty training ground, processing the interaction.
More of the same. Apply what you already know. Don't take unnecessary risks.
The advice was sound. Professional. The kind of guidance that would keep someone alive through standard operations.
But it was incomplete.
Synel hadn't asked about Klein's specific target location. Hadn't detailed the terrain differences between eastern and western sectors. Hadn't mentioned subspecies variations or seasonal behavior changes or any of the dozens of variables that could matter in wilderness hunting.
He doesn't have time for a full briefing. The internal threat is higher priority than one Metamorph's solo hunt. He's triaging.
Klein understood. Completely. Synel was being rational—settlement security versus personal instruction wasn't even a close calculation. Dozens of lives versus one spawn's trait progression.
But understanding didn't change Klein's situation.
I need more capability. The settlement is unstable. I can't afford to wait. And the only person who could give me complete intelligence is occupied with the sabotage investigation.
Klein checked his copper: 788 minus 5 for breakfast equals 783. Enough for supplies. Enough to prepare properly.
Western ridges. More of the same. Forest Cats stick to their patterns.
I can work with that.
Klein spent the rest of the morning preparing.
Brunhilde's stall first. The dwarf weaponsmith looked up from sharpening a blade, her golden Hail bright despite the settlement's tension.
"Back already? You just sold me a crystal yesterday."
"Planning another hunt." Klein set copper on her counter. "I need information. Western ridges sector—any reports of unusual activity? Predator behavior changes? Terrain hazards I should know about?"
Brunhilde's expression shifted—consideration mixed with professional assessment. "Western ridges are higher elevation, rockier terrain. Forest Cats there tend to be slightly larger than lowland variants—better muscle development from climbing. But behavior should be similar. Ambush hunters, territorial, solitary."
She paused. "Haven't heard reports of anything unusual from that sector recently. Marcus would've mentioned it at the morning briefings."
So standard threat profile. Slightly larger prey, rockier terrain. I can adapt.
Klein purchased supplies: additional rope (10 copper), two smoke canisters (30 copper total), field rations (10 copper), and a backup knife—crude but functional (15 copper).
783 minus 65 equals 718 copper remaining. Still comfortable.
He checked his equipment systematically: iron spear in good condition, primary knife sharp, rope properly coiled, smoke canisters secured. Everything organized for quick access.
Preparation is survival. Check everything twice.
The afternoon sun was high when Klein approached the western gate. Different guards than the north entrance—a dwarf and a human, both with golden Hails, both carrying themselves with the heightened alertness Klein had noticed all morning.
"Forest Cat hunt," Klein said, showing his ward inspection token as identification. "Western ridges sector."
The dwarf studied him. "You're the Neutral. The one who keeps hunting solo."
"That's me."
"Alone?" The human guard's skepticism was obvious. "Ridge terrain is more dangerous than lowlands. Steeper drops, unstable footing. You slip and fall, nobody's finding you."
"I'm aware," Klein said flatly.
The guards exchanged glances. The dwarf shrugged. "Your funeral. Sign out."
Klein signed the logbook: Klein, Metamorphor, Forest Cat hunt, western ridges, 13:47 departure.
The gates opened.
Klein walked through into alien forest, carrying his equipment and incomplete intelligence.
More of the same. Apply what I already know.
That'll have to be enough.
The western ridges were different immediately.
The forest floor rose steadily, the gradual incline becoming more pronounced with each hundred meters. The trees changed too—still the massive trunks with color-shifting bark, but spaced wider apart, their roots gripping exposed stone like fingers.
Klein moved carefully, testing each step before committing weight. The undergrowth was sparser here, making movement easier but also more exposed. Less cover for Klein, but also less cover for ambush predators.
Trade-offs. Always trade-offs.
[Forest Ecosystem observation: 9.1% → 9.8%]
After an hour of steady climbing, Klein found what he was looking for.
A ridge line with good visibility, natural choke points where rock formations created bottlenecks, and—most importantly—multiple escape routes. If something went wrong, he could retreat upslope or downslope depending on threat direction.
Terrain advantage. Force the engagement into controlled space.
Klein set his first trap between two large boulders—rope stretched at ankle height, camouflaged with loose stone and vegetation. Simple, obvious if you were looking for it. But a charging predator wouldn't be looking down.
Second position: elevated outcropping with clear sightlines. High ground advantage, protected flanks.
Third position: fallback point twenty meters upslope. Emergency position if primary engagement failed.
Three positions. Multiple options. Adaptation built into the plan.
Klein settled into his primary position and waited.
The forest filled with small sounds—birds that weren't quite birds, insects that clicked instead of buzzed, wind through leaves that rustled in harmonics Klein's Manila-born ears found deeply wrong.
[Elf Scout observation: 21.8% → 22.1%]
Twenty minutes passed. Then forty.
Klein's analytical mind stayed focused, cataloging every detail. Movement patterns in the undergrowth. Wind direction changes. The way light filtered through the canopy as the sun tracked westward.
Then he heard it.
Movement. Deliberate. Multiple sources.
Klein's grip tightened on his spear. His heart rate elevated—the Dampening compressed the spike before it could become panic, but he felt it there. Pressure against the barrier.
[EMOTIONAL DAMPENING FIELD: 81% → 84%]
The movement resolved into shape.
Two Forest Cats.
Klein's analytical mind processed the data even as adrenaline flooded his system.
Two. Not one. Two separate individuals moving together.
Forest Cats are solitary. Synel said solitary. Brunhilde confirmed solitary.
This is wrong.
[EVALUATOR ANALYSIS: Target assessment - ERROR]
[Expected: Single territorial predator]
[Observed: Mated pair / Cooperative hunting pattern]
[Threat assessment: CRITICAL - Model assumptions invalid]
[Survival probability: Recalculating...]
The Cats moved with coordinated precision. Not pack tactics like Stalkers—something different. One circled left, one circled right. Testing. Probing. Looking for weakness with the kind of intelligence that came from partnership rather than pack hierarchy.
Klein's first trap was positioned for single-target engagement. The elevated outcropping gave high-ground advantage against one predator, not two approaching from different vectors.
His entire tactical model had just collapsed.
More of the same, Synel said. Apply what you already know.
But this ISN'T the same. This is completely different behavior.
The left Cat—slightly smaller, probably female—moved toward the choke point. The right Cat—larger, heavier—circled wider, cutting off Klein's planned retreat route.
They were working together. Deliberately. With practiced coordination that spoke of established partnership.
Mated pair. Has to be. Breeding season? Territorial defense of shared space? It doesn't matter WHY—what matters is my plan just became worthless.
Klein recalculated frantically.
Primary position: exposed to two-vector attack. Trap: optimized for single target. Fallback position: cut off by the male.
I need to abort. Retreat now before they commit to the attack.
Klein started backing toward his third position—the emergency fallback—moving slowly to avoid triggering chase instinct.
The female Cat's four eyes locked onto his movement.
She lunged.
Not at Klein directly—at the trap rope. Her claws caught the line, yanked it free from its anchoring stone. The trap collapsed in seconds, rendered useless.
She identified it. Saw the trap and neutralized it before engaging.
These aren't standard Forest Cats. These are experienced hunters with learned behavior.
The male moved simultaneously, closing the distance from Klein's right flank. Not charging—advancing with controlled aggression, cutting angles, forcing Klein away from his prepared positions.
Klein's mind raced through options.
Fight: Two opponents, coordinated tactics, my model is broken. Survival probability: less than 20%.
Flight: Male is blocking primary retreat. Female controls the choke point. I'm being herded.
Emergency supplies: Two smoke canisters. Bought them for exactly this scenario.
Klein pulled the first canister from his belt, yanked the ignition cap, and threw.
The ceramic shattered against stone between him and the female. Smoke erupted—thick, choking, expanding into a twenty-meter cloud exactly as advertised.
Klein didn't wait to see the effect. He was already moving, sprinting toward the male Cat's position with desperate calculation.
Smoke blocks their vision and scent. Creates chaos. The male will hesitate—instinct says investigate the unknown threat. That gives me maybe five seconds.
Five seconds to get past him before the female recovers.
Klein covered fifteen meters in three seconds, his baseline optimization pushing his untrained body harder than it should move. The male Cat appeared through the undergrowth ahead, crouched and ready.
Klein didn't try to fight it. He threw his second smoke canister—not at the Cat, but past it. The smoke erupted behind the predator, blocking its retreat and creating a wall of confusion.
Then Klein dove left, abandoning his spear, scrambling over rocky terrain with pure survival instinct overriding tactical thinking.
The male lunged—claws raked across Klein's left shoulder, tearing through wool and canvas and skin. Pain exploded, white-hot and immediate.
[PHYSICAL INTEGRITY: 75% → 64%]
[EMOTIONAL DAMPENING FIELD: 84% → 89%]
The Dampening surged, compressing the pain before Klein could freeze. He kept moving, half-running half-crawling over stone that tore at his hands and knees.
Behind him: sounds of confusion. The two Cats calling to each other through the smoke, their coordination disrupted by sudden chaos.
Klein used the window.
He scrambled upslope, abandoning everything—the prepared positions, the equipment, the tactical advantage. Pure retreat, burning his emergency supplies just to create enough confusion to escape.
Fifty meters. The smoke was thinning behind him.
Seventy meters. He could hear pursuit resuming—not frantic, but methodical. The Cats knew the terrain better than Klein. They could afford to be patient.
Klein's analytical mind processed coldly even through adrenaline:
They're not chasing aggressively because they don't need to. I'm wounded, exhausted, moving through unfamiliar territory. Time is on their side.
I can't outrun them. I need to break line of sight and hide.
A hundred meters upslope, Klein found a dense thicket of undergrowth beneath a fallen log. He crawled into it, forcing his body into the smallest profile possible, and went absolutely still.
His left shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat. Blood soaked through his torn tunic, warm and slick. His hands were scraped raw from climbing over stone. His breathing was ragged, too loud, impossible to completely suppress.
[Stamina: 68% → 51%]
Through gaps in the undergrowth, Klein watched.
The two Cats emerged from the smoke maybe thirty seconds later. They moved with practiced coordination, scanning the terrain with systematic precision. The female sniffed the air, tracking Klein's blood trail.
Klein's hand moved slowly to his backup knife—the crude blade he'd bought this morning. Fifteen copper. His last weapon.
If they find me, this is all I have.
The Cats circled Klein's hiding spot. Closer. Closer.
Ten meters away. Eight.
The female's four eyes scanned the thicket where Klein hid. She crouched, muscles coiling for the final pounce.
Then something changed. She froze.
Her posture shifted—not in aggression, but in uncertainty. Her ears swiveled, head tilting as if trying to process a sound Klein couldn't perceive. The male mirrored the posture, a low growl rumbling in its chest.
They exchanged some communication—a subtle shift of weight, a flick of an ear, body language Klein's observation trait cataloged but couldn't fully interpret—and then both Cats moved away.
Not fleeing. Just... leaving. Abandoning the hunt with methodical purpose.
[Forest Cat observation: 24% → 31%]
Klein stayed frozen in his hiding spot for a full ten minutes after they disappeared. His mind tried to process what had just happened.
They left. Why? They had the blood trail. They were closing in. Something else took priority.
Territory? Another threat? Mating season behavior I don't understand?
The observation data was clear: they detected something that changed their threat assessment from "easy prey" to "unacceptable risk." But what? There was no sound. No other scent on the wind.
It doesn't matter, Klein's analytical mind cut through the speculation. I'm alive because they made a calculation I don't understand.
Klein's shoulder throbbed. His hands ached. His entire body felt wrung out from adrenaline crash.
I lost my spear. Lost my rope. Used both smoke canisters. Got wounded. And learned absolutely nothing useful except that my model was completely wrong.
Complete tactical failure.
Klein forced himself to move, climbing slowly out of the thicket. His left arm protested every movement, blood still seeping from the claw wounds.
The trek back to Thornhaven took three hours—twice as long as the outbound journey. Klein moved with extreme caution, checking every shadow, treating every sound as potential threat. His baseline optimization kept him functional, but the blood loss and exhaustion accumulated with each step.
[Physical Integrity: 64% → 61%]
The sun was setting when Klein finally saw Thornhaven's walls.
The western gate guards noticed him immediately—bloodied, limping, disarmed. The dwarf's expression shifted from suspicion to grim acknowledgment.
"Medical tent. Now. You look like you're going to collapse."
Klein didn't argue. He let the guards direct him toward a low building near the settlement center marked with a red cloth banner.
Inside: organized chaos. Three people occupied cots—one human with a leg wrapped in bloody bandages, one elf with facial burns, one dwarf unconscious with herbs packed into a chest wound. A tired-looking human woman with a golden Hail moved between them with practiced efficiency.
She looked up when Klein entered, assessed his condition with professional speed.
"Shoulder wounds. Blood loss. Sit."
Klein sat.
The healer—middle-aged, competent, obviously exhausted from a busy day—cut away Klein's ruined tunic and examined the claw marks.
"Forest Cat?"
"Two of them," Klein said.
"Two?" Her eyebrows rose. "That's unusual. They're solitary hunters."
"I noticed."
She cleaned the wounds with something that burned worse than the original injury, then applied the same pine-tar salve Brunhilde had used after Klein's first hunt. Fresh bandages followed, wrapped tight to prevent further bleeding.
"Thirty copper for treatment and supplies," the healer said. "And you're lucky—these are clean cuts. Your baseline healing should seal them in three days if you don't do anything stupid."
Klein paid from his pouch. 718 minus 30 equals 688 copper remaining.
He walked out into the evening twilight, wounded and disarmed and carrying the weight of complete tactical failure.
The settlement was still on high alert—he could see it in the patrol patterns, the way guards clustered near ward posts, the tension that permeated every interaction.
Near the eastern wall, Klein saw Synel returning with his patrol group. The elf looked exhausted—not wounded, but worn down by hours of intensive surveillance. Their eyes met briefly across the settlement square.
No judgment in Synel's expression. No "I told you so." Just a weary nod of recognition between two people too tired for words.
He has his crisis. I have mine.
Klein made it back to his room at the inn, paid Mira forty copper for tonight's lodging, and collapsed onto his bed.
648 copper remaining. No spear. No rope. Wounded shoulder that will take days to heal. Trait progression that meant nothing because I couldn't survive the engagement.
The mathematics of the day were brutal:
COSTS:
Equipment lost: 20 copper (spear value)
Supplies used: 30 copper (smoke canisters)
Medical treatment: 30 copper
Lodging: 40 copper
Food: 10 copper (breakfast + rations)
Total: 130 copper
GAINS:
Trait observation progress: Forest Cat +7%, minor progression in others
Lesson learned: Incomplete intelligence kills you
NET: Negative 130 copper, plus injuries, plus equipment losses, plus the cold certainty that his model had been completely wrong.
Klein lay in the dark, his wounded shoulder throbbing despite the salve and the Dampening's compression.
The settlement is unstable. The wards are compromised. Synel is too busy managing the internal crisis to provide complete intelligence. I tried to hunt on incomplete data and nearly died because my assumptions were wrong.
There's no safety. Not outside the walls—those Forest Cats proved that. Not inside the walls—the sabotage investigation proves that.
Nowhere is safe. And I'm still baseline vulnerable.
The Dampening held the panic at manageable levels, but Klein felt pressure building underneath. Not fear exactly. Something colder.
The recognition that I'm trapped between converging crises with insufficient capability to handle either one.
He thought about the two Forest Cats. Their coordination. Their intelligence. The way they'd identified his trap and neutralized it before engaging. The way they'd herded him away from prepared positions with tactical precision.
Seven percent trait progression. That's what I bought with 130 copper and a wounded shoulder. Seven percent closer to understanding predator behavior.
But understanding doesn't equal survival. I understood what was happening in that fight. I just couldn't do anything about it.
Klein closed his eyes, his body demanding rest despite the turmoil in his mind.
Tomorrow he'd need to buy a new spear. Replace his supplies. Figure out how to continue trait progression while recovering from injuries and operating in a settlement where everyone was too busy managing their own crisis to help with his.
The compound interest equation only works if you survive long enough for it to matter.
And right now, survival is looking increasingly uncertain.
[EMOTIONAL DAMPENING FIELD: 89% → 85%]
[PHYSICAL INTEGRITY: 61% - Declining. Rest required.]
[FINANCIAL RESERVES: 648 copper - Adequate short-term, declining trajectory]
[TRAIT PROGRESS: Multiple traits advancing, but acquisition threshold still distant]
[SETTLEMENT STATUS: High alert, investigation active, stability uncertain]
[OVERALL ASSESSMENT: Survival probability declining across multiple vectors]
Klein's last thought before exhaustion pulled him under:
Day six complete. The walls are closing in. Both literally and metaphorically.
And I still don't have the capability to break through them.
Sleep came eventually, accompanied by phantom sensations of coordinated hunters and the cold certainty that his safe haven had never been safe at all.