The camp existed.
That alone made it dangerous.
Victor watched from the trees, ribs aching, breath shallow, aware that every minute he stayed still increased the chance his injuries would decide things for him. Blood loss did not care about caution. Infection did not wait for certainty.
Neither did people.
He needed to know if this was a place where stopping meant dying slower.
Victor waited for the camp to prove it was real.
Not because he doubted what he saw, but because repetition mattered. One glance could be exhaustion. One sound could be imagination filling gaps. Patterns kept you from dying twice to the same mistake.
So he stayed half hidden in brush and shadow.
The camp did not change.
Smoke rose thin and controlled from a small fire. No panic. No frantic motion. People moved with the rhythm of routine. One figure passed between a wagon and stacked crates. Another crouched near the fire, hands busy with something ordinary. A third stood apart.
Still.
Alert.
A watcher.
Victor cataloged spacing. Sightlines. Where the fence dipped lower. Where the road curved just enough to hide approach. How often the watcher shifted weight.
They were not soldiers.
But they were not careless.
His ribs flared as he adjusted position. He stilled until the pain dulled enough to ignore. The bandage on his forearm itched. His leg throbbed with patient insistence.
Staying hidden cost time.
Revealing himself cost risk.
Neither was acceptable.
That meant choosing the option that produced information.
He waited until the watcher's attention drifted down the road.
Then he stepped out of the trees.
He did not rush.
He did not shout.
He walked.
Heel. Toe. Posture upright. Hands visible. Fingers relaxed at his sides. Nowhere near the knife at his belt.
The watcher noticed him halfway across the open ground.
The reaction was immediate but controlled. The watcher straightened. One hand shifted to rest on something at their side.
Signal.
Not threat.
A voice called out.
Victor did not understand the words.
He stopped.
That mattered.
He raised his hands slightly, palms forward. Enough to show intent without theatrics. His ribs protested. He ignored it.
"I'm hurt," he said clearly. "I need water."
The language felt wrong in his mouth. He doubted it carried meaning.
The watcher spoke again, sharper.
Victor shook his head once. He pointed to his forearm, to the darkening bandage. He let pain show briefly across his face. Then he pointed toward the camp. Then to himself.
Need.
The figures near the fire had gone still.
An older woman stepped closer to the fence. Hair bound back. Eyes assessing.
She looked at his injuries.
His stance.
His distance.
She said something to the watcher.
The watcher hesitated.
Lowered their hand slightly.
The woman gestured.
Not welcome.
Permission.
Victor waited until the gate opened fully.
Then he approached.
Inside the camp, the smells hit him first. Smoke. Boiled grain. Animals. Sweat. People managing proximity without pretending otherwise.
He was directed toward the fire and shown where to sit.
Victor lowered himself carefully. Every movement negotiated. He kept his posture upright despite the ache. Collapse invited assumptions.
The woman knelt before him and gestured to his arm.
He extended it.
She cleaned the wound with water that burned like flame. Wrapped it tighter and cleaner than he had. Efficient hands. No wasted motion.
This was not kindness.
It was maintenance.
She checked his leg next. Nodded once.
Finished.
A cup was pressed into his hand.
Water.
Victor drank slowly. Every swallow deliberate. Eyes remained on him. Not hostile.
Evaluating.
When the cup emptied, he returned it and said the only word he trusted.
"Thank you."
It still sounded foreign.
The woman studied him briefly, then nodded and stood.
No smiles.
No questions.
That told him enough.
They were helping because an injured stranger bleeding near their route was a liability. Blood attracted predators. Unresolved variables created risk.
Victor was being managed.
He accepted that.
The camp resumed movement, but differently now. Conversations lowered. Movements adjusted to keep him within sight. The watcher remained alert.
Victor rested his hands on his knees and breathed shallow.
The ache in his ribs dulled from sharp to constant. His forearm felt hot but stable.
Then the world flickered.
A flat overlay appeared at the edge of his vision.
Faint.
Almost ignorable.
[CONDITION: STABLE]
No sound.
No warning.
Just record.
For a heartbeat, more information threatened to form beneath it. Ghosted lines. Partial structure.
Then it collapsed.
Victor did not react outwardly.
The system had noticed.
Not rewarded.
Not guided.
Observed.
He let it fade without acknowledgment. Attention moved both ways. He did not yet know the cost of responding.
After some time, the woman returned and gestured toward the road. Slower speech. Hands indicating direction. Movement. Soon.
Temporary camp.
Not settlement.
Victor nodded.
Leaving was useful.
Ropes were checked. Crates secured. Animals guided into position.
Victor stood carefully and tested his weight.
His body protested.
It held.
The world flickered again.
This time the overlay remained.
[STATUS UPDATE REGISTERED]
Text assembled without ceremony.
[INJURY: PARTIALLY MITIGATED]
[FATIGUE: ELEVATED]
[MOBILITY: COMPROMISED]
[ENVIRONMENTAL RISK: VARIABLE]
Victor's jaw tightened.
Not because of the information.
Because of the implication.
The system was not reacting to what he had done.
It was reacting to where he was positioned.
He shifted his weight slightly.
The overlay adjusted in real time.
No advice.
No warning.
Documentation only.
The watcher studied him more closely now.
Victor met their gaze briefly.
Then looked away.
He was not here to test authority.
He was here to survive long enough to understand it.
When the caravan formed and the road opened ahead, Victor took a place at the edge. Not central. Not leading. Just another body moving forward.
People ahead. People behind. Structure. Route. Rules he did not know.
The forest receded behind them. Smoke thinned. Wagon wheels creaked against packed dirt.
Voices carried rhythm even without meaning. Coordination. Mild frustration. Routine life.
The system did not comment on them.
It commented on him.
[OBSERVATION CONTINUING]
No timer.
No endpoint.
Victor felt something settle beneath his ribs.
Recognition.
The system did not care about justice.
It cared about persistence.
Conditional mercy had kept him alive.
Movement would determine what it cost next.
Ahead, where the road bent and vanished into distance, Victor knew with the same certainty he had felt when the wolves closed in,
Standing still was no longer an option.