We didn't stop running after the boar.
We stopped because our legs started failing.
The tribe pushed deeper into the forest until the smell of fresh blood thinned and the moth-light faded behind layers of leaves. Boss chose a hollow between three massive roots that formed a crooked wall—good cover, one narrow approach, damp ground that would hold footprints poorly if it rained again.
The goblins collapsed like dropped sacks.
Some immediately tore into the boar meat, raw, hands shaking with hunger. Others sat with their backs to roots and stared at nothing, exhausted. A few quietly cried in goblin half-sobs for friends who hadn't made it out. No speeches. No names spoken loud. Just small broken sounds swallowed by the canopy.
Boss didn't allow fire. Not even a small one.
"No smoke," he growled when a scavenger tried to spark a flame with flint. "Smoke is eye. Smoke is metal-men."
The scavenger muttered and put the flint away.
So we ate raw.
The meat was warm and metallic and too fresh. It stuck between my teeth. My stomach clenched like it didn't know whether to accept it or fight it.
But hunger didn't ask permission.
Mogrin gnawed at a strip of meat with the determination of a starving puppy. He still had the slingshot tucked into his belt like a badge, and every so often he'd glance at it and grin faintly, pride flickering through fatigue.
"You did good," I told him quietly, keeping my voice low.
Mogrin's ears perked. "Mogrin good?"
"Yeah," I said. "Your call saved Boss."
Mogrin puffed up so hard he almost choked on meat. He coughed, eyes watering, then recovered and whispered, "Big-think teach Mogrin."
I didn't correct him.
Boss prowled the edge of the hollow, sniffing the wind, listening. Scouts returned in ones and twos, dropping from branches with silent landings. They spoke in short bursts to Boss, then vanished again.
After the worg and the boar run, Boss's calm had an edge to it—like a blade that had been sharpened on fear.
Ear-Torn didn't stop watching me. Every time the tribe shifted or a goblin muttered about bad luck, his eyes slid to me like I was the easiest answer.
I tried not to look back.
Looking back felt like inviting him closer.
My leg stung where a tusk had grazed it. It wasn't deep, but the skin was torn and sticky. I pressed a wad of damp moss against it and hoped infection wasn't a thing here.
The system window hovered faintly if I let my eyes go unfocused. Level 1. EXP 15/50. Still the same. The numbers didn't care how close I'd been to dying.
I forced myself to focus on the world instead.
Because the world was starting to feel like it had rules, even if I didn't know them yet.
Hours passed. Or less. Time was a slippery thing under the canopy.
Then Boss stiffened.
He lifted a hand.
The tribe fell quiet instantly, even the chewing stopping mid-bite.
I held my breath.
At first I heard nothing.
Then I smelled it.
Smoke.
Not goblin smoke—there hadn't been any. Not forest fire smoke.
Cook smoke.
Greasy, sharp, human smoke.
Boss's lip curled. "Metal-men," he whispered.
My stomach tightened.
The smoke was faint, carried on wind, but it was there. And it wasn't the only scent. I caught a hint of something sour and chemical—oil, maybe. Leather. Metal.
Humans were close.
Boss didn't order a direct confrontation. He ordered eyes.
Two scouts signaled and slipped away. Mogrin started to rise with them, eager, but Boss's gaze snapped to him.
"Mogrin stay," Boss ordered. "You too loud."
Mogrin's ears drooped. "Mogrin quiet now," he protested weakly.
Boss didn't care. "Stay."
Mogrin sat back down, sulking, but his eyes followed the scouts like he wanted to leap after them anyway.
Boss's gaze shifted to me.
"Vark," he said.
My gut clenched again.
"You go. You look," Boss said. "But you not do stupid. You come back."
Ear-Torn made a displeased noise. "Weird-head—"
Boss's good eye cut him off. "Vark have eyes," Boss said. "We need eyes."
I didn't know if Boss trusted me or was simply using me because I was expendable.
Either way, I nodded. "I look. I come back."
Mogrin grabbed my sleeve immediately. "Mogrin go too."
"No," I said.
"Mogrin scout," he insisted, puffing up. "Mogrin good."
"You're loud," I said bluntly.
Mogrin's face scrunched up. "Mogrin… not loud."
I leaned closer and lowered my voice. "If humans see us, they kill. Not like boar. Not like wolf. They kill smart."
Mogrin swallowed, eyes flickering with fear, but stubbornness stayed.
"Mogrin still go," he whispered. "Mogrin want help Vark."
I hesitated. Leaving him behind meant he'd be safer, but it also meant he might do something stupid out of boredom. Bringing him meant risk… but also control.
I made a choice that felt like signing a bad contract.
"Fine," I hissed. "But you follow. No touching shiny. No noise."
Mogrin nodded so hard his headband almost fell off. "Yes! Mogrin follow."
We slipped away from the hollow, moving low and quiet through ferns and roots. Mogrin's excitement made him bounce slightly, but he tried to suppress it. Every time his foot snapped a twig, he froze with wide eyes like the forest might punish him instantly.
I kept us downwind of the smoke, following its faint trail.
The forest changed subtly as we moved—more trampled ground, more broken branches. Signs of human passage that goblins might miss but my old brain caught automatically.
Straight lines where there shouldn't be. A snapped sapling cut cleanly rather than broken. A small scrap of cloth caught on thorn.
Humans left mess behind them without even trying.
Or maybe they simply didn't care.
The smoke grew stronger.
Then we heard voices.
Human voices.
Not goblin half-words. Real speech. Controlled. Calm.
Mogrin froze behind a root, eyes huge.
I pressed a finger to my lips. He nodded, trembling.
We crawled closer until the trees opened into a small clearing.
And there they were.
A human camp.
Not a permanent base—more like a staging point. A circle of trampled ground with a low fire pit at the center, smoke rising through the canopy in a thin thread. Tents were minimal—just oilcloth stretched between poles. Packs stacked neatly. A lantern hung from a branch, hooded to keep the light low.
There were six humans.
Maybe seven. Hard to count through leaves.
They moved with purpose, each person doing a job.
One sharpened a blade on a stone, the scraping sound steady. Another inspected a bundle of monster parts—teeth, claws, something like a strip of hide—laying them out to dry. A third wrote on a board or parchment, making marks while glancing at a pouch of coins.
Loot cycle.
My old office brain seized it instantly. It wasn't "adventurers camping." It was a worksite.
Roles. Division of labor. Inventory.
They weren't here for glory.
They were here to harvest.
A man near the fire—broad shoulders, leather apron—was cutting something with practiced efficiency. A monster limb, maybe. He sliced through tendon, separated joint, scraped off meat, then tossed the usable part into a labeled sack.
"Good condition," he said in a bored tone, like he was discussing office supplies.
A woman with a shortbow checked arrows, eyes scanning the trees every few seconds. Security.
A smaller man with a satchel moved around the edge, sprinkling something—powder, maybe salt or crushed herbs—likely to deter insects or mask scent.
Logistics.
I watched, fascinated and horrified.
This was my world again. Just with more blood.
Mogrin leaned closer, eyes shining despite fear. He whispered, "Metal-men have… many shiny."
He wasn't wrong.
Even from here I could see it: metal buckles, polished knife hilts, coins glinting faintly when caught by lantern light. A ring on one finger. A small chain. A pouch embroidered with thread.
Shiny.
Goblin poison.
I grabbed Mogrin's arm and squeezed hard. He flinched.
"No," I mouthed.
Mogrin nodded, but his eyes didn't leave the camp.
In the center of it all sat one man who didn't do much physical work.
He stood with his arms folded, watching the others like a calm storm. He wore a cloak that had been patched and re-patched, and under it a breastplate dulled by use. A short sword hung at his hip, but his posture said he didn't need it to feel dangerous.
He spoke occasionally—short, precise commands. No yelling. No wasted words.
The others listened immediately.
Captain.
Pest control captain.
The antagonist, I realized.
Not because he was cackling or cruel. Because competence was a weapon, and he carried it like a blade.
He crouched by a pile of tracks near the edge of the clearing—a strip of mud where someone had pressed a boot into wet soil to examine the print. He studied it, then gestured to the parchment-writer.
"Confirm," he said. "Boar cut marks. Not beasts."
The writer nodded, scribbling.
Another human muttered, "Goblins?"
The captain's eyes narrowed slightly. "Possible. Keep watch. If they're nearby, they'll come for scraps."
My stomach tightened.
He knew.
Of course he did.
Loot cycles weren't just about harvesting monsters. They were about predicting who would come to scavenge after.
A human by the fire laughed. "Let them. Easy bounty."
Bounty.
The word hit something inside me. A cold click.
Boss had mentioned "pest control." A guild. Contracts.
These humans weren't random explorers. They were paid to reduce "monster problems." Which meant goblins weren't just obstacles.
We were targets with price tags.
The captain didn't laugh. He just nodded once, calm. "If we take goblin ears, we take them clean. No chasing into thick brush. That's how you die."
Efficient.
I hated him immediately.
Mogrin's breathing quickened beside me. His eyes darted between the humans and their shiny gear. Hunger and curiosity fought with fear.
Then the forest shifted.
A human stood and walked to the edge of the clearing, facing toward where we were hiding. My heart stopped.
He wasn't looking at us. Not exactly. He was scanning the trees, eyes narrowed.
Then he reached down and lifted something from the ground.
A moth.
A glimmer moth, caught in his fingers like a slow firefly.
He frowned, then flicked it away. "Moths again," he muttered.
The captain's head turned. "Blood nearby," he said immediately.
He stepped to the edge and sniffed the air like he'd learned from predators. His gaze swept the trees with slow certainty.
I pressed myself flatter behind the root, barely breathing.
Mogrin trembled.
The captain's eyes paused on our direction.
Not locked. Not focused. But lingering longer than chance.
My skin prickled.
Then he spoke, calm and certain. "We move in twenty minutes. Follow the boar run trail. Someone cut it up not far from here."
My stomach dropped.
He'd read the situation like a spreadsheet.
Boar migration. Blood. Cut marks. Goblin scavengers likely nearby.
He hadn't seen us, but he'd traced the pattern.
The humans began packing.
Quick. Efficient. No wasted movement. The powder-man swept their footprints partially, scattering leaves. The cutter doused the fire, smothering it to reduce smoke.
Loot cycle again: in, harvest, out—except now "out" meant deeper into the forest toward us.
Mogrin swallowed hard, eyes wide. He leaned close and whispered, "We tell Boss?"
"Yes," I breathed.
We began to retreat slowly, careful not to snap branches. My shoulder and leg throbbed with every move. My heart hammered loud enough I swore the humans could hear it.
We were almost clear when Mogrin froze.
His head turned sharply.
His eyes locked on something near the edge of the clearing.
A pouch.
Small. Dark leather. A drawstring pouch that had fallen near a pack, half-hidden by leaves.
The human who'd been packing had missed it.
The pouch sat there like bait.
Mogrin's pupils widened.
I felt his body lean forward.
"No," I hissed, grabbing his wrist.
Mogrin swallowed, eyes fixed, voice barely sound. "Shiny pouch."
"Mogrin," I whispered, forcing each word slow and hard. "Trap."
Mogrin licked his lips. "But… free."
Free didn't exist in this forest.
The pouch was too tempting. Too close. Too quiet.
And Mogrin was naive enough to believe the world sometimes offered gifts.
His fingers twitched in my grip.
He stared at the dropped pouch like it was calling his name.