Dawn came not with a gentle light, but with a creeping, grey pallor that did little to lift the shadows from Chen Mo's rocky shelf. He had slept in fits, the Sovereign's Tusk a comforting, deadly weight in his hand. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the ferns below had jolted him awake, heart hammering. But no predators had come. The combination of smoke, the lingering scent of goblin blood, and perhaps the subtle, arcane hum of his new blade had kept the deeper forest terrors at bay.
He rose stiffly, every muscle protesting the butchery of the previous day. His first act was to check the smoking meat. The strips had darkened and shrunk, taking on a glossy, hardened exterior. A tentative taste revealed a strong, smoky, jerky-like flavor. It was edible. It would last. A profound, quiet relief settled over him. He had food security, if only for a week or two.
He spent the morning in methodical labor, his movements slower but more deliberate than the previous day's frenzy. Using the Sovereign's Tusk, he found he could process wood with terrifying efficiency. The blade sheared through green branches as if they were paper, its edge undulled. He reinforced his smoking rack, built a low windbreak from stones and woven branches around his sleeping area, and even managed to fashion a crude waterskin from a section of the boar's stomach, cleaned and sealed with pine resin over a low heat—a technique suggested by his Field Processing Manual.
The blade was more than a tool; it was a force multiplier. It cut his labor time by seventy percent. Yet, with every effortless swing, he felt the weight of the contract. Material Debt Active. Duration: 29 days, 23 hours... A timer now glowed faintly in the corner of his interface, a constant reminder.
His Keen Eye and Wilderness Survival skills pinged with minor proficiency increases as he worked. The system was a harsh teacher, rewarding only concrete, practical application. He learned that certain mosses made better tinder when dry, that a particular vine could be used as rough cordage, and that the grubs from the goblin pouch, while disgusting, were pure fat and protein. He roasted them on a stone. They tasted like crunchy, earthy butter. He ate them without relish, but with gratitude.
By midday, with his immediate camp secured, a new, restless energy took hold. He needed to scout. He needed to understand what lay beyond his tiny, bloody foothold. The river was a barrier to the east. The mountains loomed to the north and west. Downstream, southeast, was his logical path to potential civilization—and potential recapture.
He decided on a short reconnaissance downstream, following the riverbank but staying within the tree line. He took his blade, a length of jerky, his waterskin, and the smooth, holed stone he'd taken from the goblin.
The forest here was different from the deep pine woods he'd first escaped into. It was older, with massive, broad-canopied trees whose roots formed great, mossy buttresses. The river's constant roar was a backdrop, masking his own sounds but also masking what might be approaching. He moved with painstaking care, his Keen Eye constantly scanning for tracks, disturbances, or the telltale yellow glow of useful resources.
He found more tracks—cloven hoofprints larger than his head, the distinctive, padded prints of the Forest Lurker, and, ominously, more of the three-toed, splayed footprints of goblins. A small group, moving with purpose parallel to the river. Fresh, from this morning.
He followed them, a cold knot in his stomach. The tracks led him to a place where the river shallowed slightly, tumbling over a series of rocky steps creating a wide, noisy rapid. And there, on the opposite bank, clear as day, was a path. Not a game trail, but a proper, beaten-earth path about a meter wide, following the river's course.
His breath caught. Civilization. Or at least, a route used by someone with consistency.
As he watched, hidden in the ferns, two figures emerged from the trees downstream on the far side and started walking up the path. They were humanoid, but taller and broader than goblins, dressed in rough leather and wool. From this distance, his Keen Eye could only give a fuzzy readout: 'Humanoids – Presumed Civilized. Gear: Basic. Threat Level: Low-Moderate.' They carried spears and had packs on their backs. Traders? Hunters? Guards?
A fierce debate raged in his mind. Should he reveal himself? Try to cross the rapids? The water was fierce, but maybe crossable with care. These people might help. Or they might enslave him on sight, a ragged, armed stranger emerging from the monster-infested woods.
Before he could decide, the choice was taken from him. A guttural shout echoed from the trees behind him, on his side of the river.
The two men on the far path froze, crouching, spears at the ready.
Chen Mo dropped lower into the ferns. He turned his head slowly. Coming down a game trail toward the riverbank, utterly unaware of him, was another Forest Goblin. This one was smaller, a scout perhaps. It carried a waterskin made of a bladder and was chittering to itself.
It hadn't seen him. Its beady eyes were fixed on the water. But the men on the far bank had seen it. One of them nocked an arrow to a short bow.
The goblin scout reached the water's edge, twenty yards from Chen Mo's hiding spot. It knelt to fill its skin.
The archer on the far bank loosed his arrow. It was a good shot. The arrow took the goblin high in the shoulder, punching through with a wet thunk. The creature shrieked, a sound of pure agony and surprise, stumbling back from the water.
Chaos erupted. From the trees behind the scout, answering chitters and snarls burst forth. Four more goblins surged onto the bank, their eyes locking not on their wounded kin, but on the men across the river. They brandished their stone-tipped spears and shrieked in challenge.
The two men—now clearly guards or frontiersmen—fell into a defensive stance, the archer firing another arrow (which missed), the spearman readying his weapon. They were shouting to each other, their voices carrying over the rapids. "Damn greenskins! Thought they were further north!" "Forget it, Jorik! Back to the post!"
The goblins, enraged, were scrambling along the bank, looking for a place to cross. Their wounded comrade was forgotten, bleeding out on the stones.
Chen Mo watched, paralyzed by the tableau. This was not his fight. He could slip away. But his eyes were on the wounded goblin. It was trying to crawl, dragging itself towards the trees, leaving a slick trail of dark blood. Its chitters were weak, pathetic.
An idea, cold and ruthless, formed. An experiment. A test of his contract, and of his own resolve.
The goblin was a "hostile." It was dying, but not dead. If he killed it, would the system grant PP? More importantly, the goblin had gear. Simple, yes, but what if it carried something that fell under "naturally occurring arcane-conductive materials"? The contract would claim it automatically. He would see the process. He would understand the price more clearly.
It was a cruel calculus. But this world was cruel. The Protocol was cruel. He needed data.
As the four healthy goblins found a narrow, treacherous crossing point downstream and began to splash into the rapids (the two men were already retreating swiftly up the path), Chen Mo moved.
He emerged from the ferns like a ghost, the Sovereign's Tusk held low. The wounded goblin saw him, its black eyes widening with a final surge of terror. It tried to raise a claw. Chen Mo didn't hesitate. He drove the point of the tusk-blade down, through the creature's throat, ending its suffering and its life with a single, efficient motion.
[Hostile Eliminated: Forest Goblin Scout. Experience Gained.]
[Protocol Points Awarded: 25 PP.]
The notification was expected. He knelt quickly, his hands moving over the goblin's sparse possessions. The waterskin. A small belt pouch. He opened it. More grubs. A few shiny, colorful pebbles from the river. And one item that was different: a sliver of crystal, cloudy and opaque, about the size of his thumbnail. It had a faint, internal warmth.
The moment his fingers touched it, the system reacted violently.
[Material Debt Contract: Enforcement Triggered.]
[Arcane-Conductive Material Detected: Low-Grade Earth-Aspected Quartz Fragment.]
[Claiming for Protocol…]
A blue light, identical to the one that had taken the boar tusk, enveloped the crystal shard. It vibrated in his palm for a second, then vanished. A new, secondary notification appeared:
[Material Debt Fulfillment: +1 Unit. Contract remains in effect for 29 days, 22 hours.]
[Analysis: Earth-Aspected Quartz. Common mineral with minor energy-storage capacity. Utility: Low. Refinement value: Low.]
He stared at his empty hand. So that was it. The system hadn't just taken the boar tusk as a one-time payment. It had a lien on all such materials he found. For a month, he was a prospector for the Protocol, allowed to use the finished products but never to own the raw materials. The "Sovereign's Tusk" was his wage. A generous one, perhaps, but the terms were stark.
A furious shout from downstream pulled him from his thoughts. One of the goblins, halfway across the rapids, had spotted him standing over the dead scout. It shrieked, pointing a clawed finger.
Three pairs of black eyes now fixed on him from the churning water. The fourth goblin had been swept off its feet and was flailing downstream.
He was outnumbered, but they were in the worst possible position—mid-river, fighting the current. The two men were gone. It was just him and them.
The lead goblin, bolder than the others, lunged forward, using its spear as a staff against the current. It was within ten yards of his bank.
Chen Mo didn't run. He felt the perfect balance of the Sovereign's Tusk in his hand. He had a defensible position on solid ground. He had just killed cleanly. A cold, focused anger settled over him—anger at his situation, at the system's contracts, at the endless, mindless violence of this world. He channeled it.
"Come on, then," he whispered.
The goblin scrambled onto the stones at the river's edge, dripping and snarling. It raised its spear.
Chen Mo didn't wait for the throw. He charged.
It was the goblin's undoing. Expecting a cautious human, it was unprepared for the ferocity of the assault. Chen Mo closed the distance in three long strides. The stone spearhead thrust at his chest. He didn't parry with the blade—he couldn't risk chipping his only real weapon on stone. Instead, he sidestepped, letting the spear shaft slide past him, and brought the heavy, blunt back of the Sovereign's Tusk down on the goblin's wrist.
Bone crunched. The goblin screamed, dropping the spear. The curved, sharp edge of the blade followed in a reverse swing, opening the creature's throat with a spray of dark blood. It fell.
The second goblin was just reaching the bank. It saw its companion die and faltered. The third was still struggling in the knee-deep water.
Chen Mo stood over the second corpse, blood dripping from his blade, his breath coming in steady clouds in the cool air. He looked at the remaining goblins, his expression empty. He took one step towards the one on the bank.
It was enough. With a panicked chitter, the goblin turned and flung itself back into the rapids, scrambling desperately for the far side. The third one followed suit.
In less than a minute, the bank was clear again, save for two more goblin bodies and the roaring river.
He stood there, panting slightly, the adrenaline singing in his veins. The fight had been short, brutal, and decisive. The blade had performed flawlessly. He felt powerful. And then he felt the hollowness that followed.
[Hostiles Eliminated: Forest Goblins (2). Experience Gained.]
[Protocol Points Awarded: 50 PP.]
[Skill Progress: Instinctive Combat Application detected. New Skill Unlocked: Close-Quarters Combat (Novice). Proficiency: 8%.]
No mention of materials. These goblins had carried nothing of value to the Protocol.
He quickly searched the bodies, taking their spears and another crude stone knife. No more crystals. He dragged the corpses to the river's edge and shoved them into the current, letting the water clean the evidence. He did the same with the first scout. The rapids would carry them far downstream.
He looked across the river. The path was empty. The two men were long gone. They had seen a goblin scout shot. They might have seen, through the spray and distance, a ragged figure fighting on the opposite bank. They would have questions.
He had confirmed the existence of a route to some form of settlement—a "post." He had tested his combat capabilities and his new weapon successfully. And he had learned the true, grasping nature of the Material Debt. The Protocol was not a partner. It was an investor, and it was collecting its due with relentless efficiency.
He turned his back on the river and the path, melting back into the forest. He wouldn't go to the post. Not yet. Not as a beggar or a strange wild man. He needed something to trade, something to make him valuable, or at least, not a target. He needed to understand the rules of this world beyond just survival.
As he walked back toward his smoky camp, a new objective crystallized in his mind, unspoken but clear. He needed to find a resource the Protocol couldn't—or wouldn't—take. Something purely his. And he needed to do it before the thirty days were up, and the true value of what he was forfeiting became apparent.
The foothold was secure. Now, the real game began.