Archer followed the sound of water threading its way through the forest, letting the quiet rush of it guide him as surely as any compass. With no real sense of where he was or where he should be going, the direction seemed as good as any. The forest around him was still and calm, carrying the warm promise of morning. Above the treetops the sun sat low—golden, gentle, unobstructed enough that he could glimpse its position from the small clearing he had woken in. The air lacked the crisp bite of dawn; instead it carried the soft warmth of a summer day beginning. No chill brushed his skin. Clear skies stretched overhead. There was barely a shimmer of dew on the grass beneath his boots.
He wasn't sure if it was his new abilities—the strange senses that had begun awakening in him—or simply common sense that told him these things. But the certainty sat firm and confident inside him, as if the environment itself whispered facts into his mind.
The sound of water grew louder. Eventually the trees thinned enough for a narrow river to reveal itself: a small ribbon of running water maybe fifteen meters wide, flanked on both sides by a gentle slope of smooth pebbles stretching three or four meters to the tree line. Sunlight glinted on the ripples, turning the whole river into a wavering trail of silver.
Archer stooped and knelt at the water's edge. Thirst tugged at him, and his injured leg throbbed insistently. He cupped his hands, let the cold, fresh water pool into them, and drank deeply. The chill of it spread through his chest like medicine. Then he rolled up his trouser leg to inspect the wound the hedgehog-thing had left him. The torn flesh looked irritated and raw.
At the very least, he needed to wash it. After that… well, he'd try the Healing Gel. It was a mystery item and could, for all he knew, be acid disguised as helpful ointment, but he'd rather risk that than let some homicidal hedgehog's parting gift infect him.
He cleaned the wound carefully, letting the cold river water wash away the dried blood and grit. Then he willed the Gel into his hand—still feeling faint surprise that this strange new ability obeyed him as easily as breathing. A small, plain metal tin materialised in his palm. It had no writing, no instructions, not even a symbol engraved on the lid.
"Alright then… guess we're winging it."
He dipped a finger inside and scooped a small amount, enough to lightly coat the wound. It spread easily, absorbing quickly into the skin. The moment it touched his leg, the Gel released a pleasant cooling sensation. Moments later, numbness spread across the injured area—enough to ease the pain but not dull his ability to stand or walk.
Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.
Boot back on, he stood and scanned the river in both directions. Upstream lay thicker foliage and gradually sloping land; downstream the forest dipped before curving out of sight. No reason favored one way or the other, so he followed instinct—another new internal compass that seemed to quietly tug at him.
Upstream.
Five minutes passed in peaceful quiet. Then bushes rustled sharply to his right. Archer's bow dropped instantly into his hand, an arrow nocked, drawn, and loosed in one smooth motion driven more by instinct than thought. His Tactical Sense whispered a warning—hedgehog—but he had already fired.
A squeal split the air, followed by the faint chime of a notification.
You Have Killed (Hedgehog) x 1
Loot Now?
He approached the bush, parted the leaves, and triggered the loot ability without hesitation.
Looted Items In Inventory:
2 × Game Meat
2 × Healing Gel
"Must be a high drop rate for this stuff," he muttered, both amused and grateful. The Gel might prove to be his most valuable resource.
He pressed onward, angling toward higher ground. If he could get a look at the surrounding area, maybe he'd be able to figure out where the hell he was. His mind offered up the thought with a calm, tactical phrasing—establish a vantage point, assess terrain—that made him pause.
That doesn't even sound like me…
The change in him was subtle, but every now and then, thoughts appeared in his head that didn't feel entirely his own. Useful, certainly, but unfamiliar. Had the System altered him more than he realized?
The forest gradually thinned until a wide break in the trees revealed a great open valley ahead. The sight reassured him—open sky, high ground, and a sense of direction beyond endless trees. But before he could take it in fully, a scream tore across the air from somewhere to his left.
Archer pivoted sharply toward the sound. Near the edge of the valley, maybe three hundred meters away, a small figure tumbled down the slope—arms flailing, body rolling helplessly down the incline. A young girl.
And cresting the rise behind her came a creature unmistakably hostile: green skin, squat frame, moving with cruel excitement.
A goblin.
Archer's bow was in his hand before he consciously decided to draw it. He nocked another arrow, drew back, and waited—letting the moments stretch just long enough for a clean shot.
"Here!" he called, voice carrying across the valley. "To me! To me!"
The girl staggered to her feet at the sound of his voice and changed course, limping and scrambling toward him.
More goblins crested the ridge—six total.
As the first passed within two hundred meters, Archer exhaled, released, and his arrow pierced the skull of the goblin at the very rear of the group. He didn't wait to see it fall. The next arrow was already drawn, already loosed, already flying.
He worked forward from the back of the formation, denying them the chance to scatter or retreat. Six targets. Six arrows. Six seconds.
When the last goblin fell, tumbling lifelessly halfway down the slope, Archer jogged toward the girl.
She reached him and collapsed to her knees, trembling, breath hitching in sobs. Tears streaked down her dirty face.
"It's OK," he said softly. "You're safe now."
But his voice sounded… wrong. Echoing, as if spoken into a hollow metal pipe.
Language Assimilation Beginning.
The notification flickered at the edge of his vision. He ignored it, focusing instead on the girl's voice. Her words came out distorted and garbled at first, almost musical in their unfamiliarity—then, slowly, like tuning a radio, they began to resolve. Her tone remained emotional, but he could finally understand her.
"Thank you… thank you… thank you…"
Archer turned toward the bodies. He already knew what they were, but the confirmation appeared anyway.
You Have Killed (Goblin) x 6
Loot now?
He obliged.
The goblins carried little of value—around fifty copper coins and a few silver pieces. Their crude blades, filthy tunics, and grimy scraps of leather armor held little appeal, but he looted them anyway. If nothing else, removing them prevented their bodies from becoming a hazard… or attracting other scavengers.
Once looted, each body dissolved into motes of light that faded into nothing.
He returned to the girl. She had steadied herself enough to stand but still looked fragile, swaying slightly as adrenaline began to ebb.
"Let's get back into the forest," Archer said gently. "Away from this spot."
He helped her to her feet and supported her as they walked several hundred meters back toward the riverbank he had visited earlier.
Near the water, they stopped.
Archer noticed at once the numerous cuts and deep scratches covering her arms and legs—signs of a desperate escape through rough underbrush, possibly while pursued.
"You're hurt," he said, reaching into his inventory. "Take this for your injuries."
He handed her a tin of Healing Gel.
She accepted it cautiously but with gratitude. "I will clean my wounds at the river. Thank you again."
She disappeared just beyond a cluster of reeds. While she tended to herself, Archer removed the goblin clothing and armor from his inventory to inspect it properly—and blinked in surprise.
The items were spotless. Clean. Repaired. The shirts and trousers looked freshly washed, without rips or stains. The leather tunics, too, were in excellent condition—supple, polished, and pleasantly scented.
The System even does laundry? he thought. Good to know.
He gathered a few pieces and walked to the river. The girl stood knee-deep in the water, fully clothed, rinsing dirt and dried blood from her skin and garments.
He didn't get close—didn't want to intrude. Instead, he called out, "I'm leaving clean clothes on the bank for you!"
Then he retreated to a nearby patch of flat ground where he started gathering sticks and arranging them into a neat fire lay. He built a good firepit, but as he stared at the stack of wood, it occurred to him that he had no idea how to light it. He sighed. Matches had not magically appeared in his inventory.
Whoever he was becoming, apparently he wasn't a wizard.
Or so he thought.
The girl approached a moment later, now looking far healthier and cleaner than when he had found her. The healing Gel had clearly done its job—scratches that had looked angry and deep now appeared nearly healed.
He smiled. "It's good to see you looking a lot better. I'd have some food cooking by now, but I'm having a bit of trouble lighting the fire."
She examined the unlit pile of sticks. Then she knelt, extended her hand, and focused. An orange glow began at her fingertips, spreading slowly up her arm to her elbow. A warm hum filled the air. Smoke curled from the center of the firepit. Then flames burst upward, crackling eagerly.
The glow faded from her skin. She looked at Archer nervously, watching for his reaction—fearful, perhaps, that he might recoil from her ability.
But after goblins, murderous hedgehogs, magical inventory, healing Gel, and whatever was happening to his language skills… magical fire barely registered as unusual.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "that sorts that problem out."
Relief washed over the girl so visibly that her shoulders sagged.
"Now," he continued, "we can get dinner started."
He snapped off a few straight branches from a nearby tree to use as skewers. While walking back, he pulled out two portions of Game Meat from his inventory. He handed one branch and one piece of meat to the girl.
She stared at him for a moment—silent, still—as if uncertain whether to accept food that wasn't stolen, demanded, or part of some cruel bargain.
"You're not vegetarian, are you?" Archer joked. "Because if so, I'm afraid I haven't fought any aggressive vegetables today."
Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. She threaded the meat onto her skewer and held it over the fire.
"You wanna tell me your story?" Archer asked gently. "If you're feeling up to it."
The girl gazed into the flames as they cooked their meal, her breathing steadying. Food, warmth, and safety did wonders.
"The beasts were trying to recapture me," she said quietly. "I escaped their enslavement."
Archer's grip tightened around his skewer. A mix of sadness and anger churned inside him—sadness for her suffering, anger for the goblins who had caused it.
"Well," he said, "those goblins got what they deserved. And you don't have to worry about them anymore. How long were you their slave?"
She looked at him with haunted eyes.
Then, slowly, she told him.