Mike hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his ankles and knees as he absorbed the impact. He'd taken the risky jump from an overhanging boulder to avoid backtracking along the stream—a decision his body was now protesting. But time was critical. The sooner he put distance between himself and the Void Ripper's hunting grounds, the better his chances.

  Dawn had broken clear and bright, providing good visibility as he made his way downstream. The forest grew gradually less dense, occasionally opening into small meadows carpeted with unfamiliar flowering plants. The stream widened as it flowed southward, suggesting it eventually joined a larger river system.

  Mike's side wound throbbed with each step, the makeshift bandage already showing spots of fresh blood. He'd need to change it soon, but that would require stopping, and stopping felt dangerous. Despite no sign of pursuit, the memory of those blinking eyes focusing directly on his shelter kept him moving at a steady pace.

  His pack held the few supplies he'd managed to gather—the remaining meat from his rabbit kill, the three small fish, the waterskin and gemstones taken from the goblins, and his dwindling first aid supplies. The hammer hung from his belt, the spear served as a walking staff, and the crude goblin knife was tucked into his boot. Not much to show for his brief attempt at settlement, but enough to start over.

  By midday, Mike had covered several miles. The terrain had leveled somewhat, the stream now flowing through a broad valley rather than the steeper forest he'd left behind. The water moved more lazily here, spreading wider and creating occasional pools that teemed with aquatic life.

  Finding a secluded spot beneath an overhanging tree, Mike finally allowed himself to rest. His immediate priority was tending to his wound. He unwrapped the blood-stained strips of shirt, wincing as the fabric stuck to partially clotted areas. The gash wasn't as deep as he'd feared, but the edges looked inflamed—the beginning stages of infection.

  "Great," Mike muttered, using a small amount of water from the stream to clean the wound as best he could. He rebound it with the cleanest sections of bandage, knowing it was inadequate but having no better option.

  After a small meal of cold fish and a few sips from the goblin waterskin—the liquid inside burned his throat but spread a pleasant warmth through his limbs—Mike felt somewhat restored. He checked his phone: 31% battery. The prospect of losing his last connection to his old life loomed, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  "Day three," he recorded. "Moving downstream. No sign of the Void Ripper. Wound is holding together but showing signs of infection. Need to find better shelter and medicinal plants, if such things exist here."

  He paused, considering what else to document.

  "The notifications continue. Still can't read most of them, but I'm starting to recognize patterns. There seem to be different categories—some appear when I build things, others when I fight or kill. The [SKILL] prompt usually comes with my hammer. Level 3 now, whatever that means."

  Tucking the phone away, Mike gathered his supplies and continued downstream. The afternoon brought thicker cloud cover and a cooler breeze, suggesting rain might be approaching. Finding shelter before nightfall became more urgent.

  As the stream curved sharply eastward, Mike paused. A sound carried on the wind—not animal or insect, but rhythmic and purposeful. Voices. The linguistic patterns resembled the harsh, guttural language of the goblins.

  Moving with caution, Mike left the streambank and made his way through denser vegetation until he reached a ridge that offered concealment and a view of the area ahead. Lying flat on his stomach, he peered over the edge.

  Below, the stream widened into a small pool before continuing its journey. On the far bank stood a collection of crude structures—a goblin encampment.

  Twelve to fifteen huts formed a loose circle around a central fire pit, but what immediately seized Mike's attention were the grisly trophies marking the perimeter—stakes driven into the ground, each topped with a humanoid skull. Most appeared to be from smaller creatures, possibly other goblins, but several were unmistakably human, their eye sockets staring vacantly across the water. One still had patches of hair clinging to the bleached bone, another wore a rusted metal helmet fused to the skull by time and elements.

  The huts themselves appeared to be constructed from branches, animal hides, and mud, with no particular uniformity or skill evident in their design. Some were decorated with crude paintings in red and black—stick figures engaged in what could only be scenes of battle and hunting. Others displayed more trophies—smaller bones, strips of dried hides, and objects Mike couldn't identify from this distance.

  Goblins moved among the structures—Mike counted at least twenty of the creatures, varying in size from smaller specimens like the one he'd first encountered to larger individuals nearly five feet tall. They wore a patchwork of leather armor and carried an assortment of weapons—clubs, spears, crude swords made from materials that glinted dully in the sunlight.

  Several goblins appeared to be butchering some large animal near the central fire, the blood running in dark rivulets toward the stream. Others mended weapons or tended to smaller fires outside individual huts. Two larger specimens seemed to be engaged in a heated argument near what looked like a rack of drying meat, some pieces distinctly shaped like limbs.

  "A whole village of killers," Mike whispered to himself, his wounded side throbbing as if in confirmation. "And right in my path."

  He needed to know more—how far the encampment extended, whether there were other settlements nearby, if there was a way around without losing the stream as a reference point. Backing carefully away from the ridge, Mike circled to approach from a different angle, keeping low and moving slowly to avoid detection.

  As he rounded a large boulder, movement caught his eye. A lone goblin sat on a fallen log about fifteen yards ahead, facing away from Mike toward the camp. Beside it lay what appeared to be a crude spear and a small horn, presumably for sounding an alarm.

  A sentry.

  Mike froze, weighing his options. He could try to backtrack and find another route, but that might take hours and lead him away from the stream. He could attempt to sneak past, but the undergrowth was thick here, likely to make noise. Or...

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The decision was made for him when the goblin began to turn, perhaps hearing Mike's breathing or sensing his presence. Without conscious thought, Mike hefted the club from his belt and closed the distance in three quick strides.

  The goblin had just enough time to widen its yellow eyes in surprise before the club connected with the back of its skull with a sickening crunch. It slumped forward without a sound, crumpling to the forest floor.

  Mike stood over the fallen creature, heart pounding. He'd moved instinctively, the need for self-preservation overriding his natural aversion to violence. The goblin lay motionless, a dark stain spreading beneath its misshapen head.

  A soft *ping* sounded, but it was different from the level-up chime he'd heard before—quieter, less resonant. A small notification appeared showing what looked like a partial progress bar filling slightly more than before.

  "Some experience, but not enough to level," Mike murmured. "Makes sense. One sentry isn't much of a challenge now that I'm level three."

  He quickly searched the goblin, finding a small pouch of what might have been dried fruit and something that immediately caught his attention—a metal tube about eight inches long.

  Mike picked it up carefully. It was dented in several places, with strange symbols etched along its length—similar to the incomprehensible text in his notifications. One end had a smaller diameter than the other. Despite the dents, it was clearly manufactured with some precision.

  "A spyglass?" Mike wondered, raising it to his eye.

  The lens was cracked, creating a spiderweb pattern across the field of view, but it still functioned. Objects viewed through it appeared significantly closer, though the cracks distorted the image somewhat. Mike could make out details of the goblin camp that had been indistinct before—facial features of individual goblins, patterns painted on their crude armor, the type of animal (something like a deer but with a shorter neck and six legs) being butchered at the central fire.

  "This could be useful," Mike decided, tucking the spyglass into his belt.

  Using his newfound tool, Mike carefully surveyed the goblin encampment from his concealed position. The settlement was larger than he'd initially thought, with structures extending farther along the bank than was visible from his first vantage point. He counted nearly thirty goblins in total, including several that appeared to be females with smaller, infant-like goblins clinging to them.

  What caught Mike's attention most, however, was a larger structure near the center of the camp. Unlike the other huts, this one appeared to be built partially of stone, with a thatched roof and actual glass-like material in a small window opening. Smoke rose from a properly constructed chimney rather than just a hole in the roof.

  Through the cracked spyglass, Mike could see goblins approaching this structure with obvious deference—heads bowed, movements cautious. Some carried small objects that they placed at the entrance before backing away.

  As Mike watched, the hide curtain covering the doorway was pushed aside. What emerged made his blood run cold. A towering figure, at least seven feet tall, had to stoop to exit the structure. Its skin was grayish-green, and its face featured not just one eye as Mike initially thought, but three—a large central eye with two smaller ones set below it in a triangular pattern. The creature wore flowing robes decorated with symbols similar to those on the goblins' medallions, and as it gestured to the assembled goblins, Mike caught glimpses of multiple arms moving beneath the fabric—two large, primary limbs and what appeared to be several smaller ones kept partially concealed.

  The goblins prostrated themselves immediately, touching their foreheads to the ground. The three-eyed being—a tryclops, Mike's mind supplied from some half-remembered mythology—surveyed them with its triangular gaze before raising what appeared to be a staff topped with a glowing crystal.

  The tryclops spoke, its voice carrying clearly across the distance though Mike couldn't understand the words. The effect on the goblins was immediate—they rose and scattered to various tasks with new urgency. Several of the larger specimens began strapping on more elaborate armor and checking weapons.

  "They're preparing for something," Mike realized. "A hunt? A raid?"

  The tryclops pointed its staff in various directions, seemingly giving instructions. When it turned toward Mike's position, he ducked lower instinctively, though he was well-concealed by vegetation and distance.

  For a moment, the creature paused, its three eyes narrowing as it gazed in Mike's general direction. Mike held his breath, willing himself to become invisible.

  After what seemed an eternity, the tryclops turned away, continuing its instructions to the goblin warriors. Mike exhaled slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  It was time to go. Whatever the goblins were preparing for, he didn't want to be nearby when it happened. And the presence of the three-eyed creature suggested a level of organization and potential threat far beyond what he'd anticipated.

  Moving with careful deliberation, Mike backed away from his observation point, stepping precisely to avoid snapping twigs or rustling leaves. Only when he was well out of sight of the sentry's position did he rise to a crouch and begin making his way back upstream toward his shelter.

  The return journey took longer than the outbound trip, as Mike found himself checking behind frequently, convinced he could hear pursuit in every natural sound of the forest. The lengthening shadows as afternoon gave way to evening only heightened his sense of vulnerability.

  It was nearly dark when he finally arrived back at his shelter, exhausted more from tension than physical exertion. The structure appeared undisturbed, but Mike approached cautiously nonetheless, spear at the ready.

  A thorough check confirmed that nothing had entered the shelter in his absence. Mike collapsed inside, securing the door behind him, and allowed himself to relax slightly for the first time in hours.

  He pulled out his phone: 29% battery.

  "Day three, evening," he recorded. "Found a goblin encampment downstream, at least thirty goblins. They appear to serve or worship some kind of three-eyed humanoid—tall, multiple arms, carries a staff with a crystal. They were preparing for something—possibly a hunt or raid."

  He paused, considering how to explain the jumble of observations and impressions.

  "I killed a sentry to avoid detection. Found a damaged spyglass—still works despite cracks in the lens. First manufactured object I've seen here besides my own tools."

  Mike held up the spyglass, examining the strange symbols etched along its length.

  "The writing on it matches the symbols in the notifications I keep seeing. Same alphabet or language, I think. Still can't read any of it."

  He took a sip from the water skin, grimacing slightly at the warm, metallic taste.

  "Going to try upstream tomorrow. The goblin camp blocks the downstream route unless I want to leave the stream or try crossing through their territory. Neither seems like a good option right now."

  Mike ended the recording and tucked the phone away. He ate sparingly of his remaining food—the dried meat from the goblins and a few strips from his six-legged rabbit. The spyglass he placed carefully beside his hammer and other tools.

  As he prepared to sleep, a new notification appeared—different from the others, with a pulsing red border. The symbols remained incomprehensible, but at the center was a familiar word: [DANGER].

  Below this was what appeared to be a crude representation of the stream, with a marker at approximately the location of the goblin encampment. Lines radiated outward from this point in all directions.

  "They're searching," Mike realized. "The tryclops knows something was watching. It's sent out search parties."

  He peered through gaps in his shelter walls, scanning the dark forest. Nothing moved except the occasional night-flying insect, but the notification suggested that wouldn't last.

  "Can't stay here another night," Mike decided. "Need to move at first light, head upstream. Find somewhere they won't look."

  Sleep came in brief, restless intervals, punctuated by startling awake at every unfamiliar sound. The [DANGER] notification remained visible whenever Mike opened his eyes, a constant reminder of the precarious nature of his survival.

  Morning arrived with a gray drizzle that matched Mike's mood. He ate the last of his food, packed his few possessions, and prepared to abandon the shelter that had briefly provided safety in this alien world.

  Before leaving, he used his utility knife to carve a small mark into one of the supporting roots—a simple X. Not his name or any message, just a sign that he had been here. A marker of human presence in a place where humans perhaps had never been.

  "Heading upstream," he recorded on his phone, now down to 26% battery. "If the stream originating from higher ground, might find more defensible terrain. Maybe caves, rocky areas the Void Ripper couldn't easily access."

  Mike shouldered his pack, checked that his weapons were secure, and set out into the drizzling rain. The damp conditions might make travel more difficult, but they would also help mask his scent and sound from pursuers—whether goblin search parties or other predators.

  As he moved away from the shelter, Mike felt a curious mixture of regret and determination. The simple structure represented his first achievement in this world, evidence that his skills transferred and adapted to these new circumstances. Leaving it felt like abandoning a small outpost of humanity.

  But the [DANGER] notification hadn't lied. Staying meant eventual discovery, whether by goblin scouts or the returning Void Ripper. His best chance—his only chance—was to keep moving, to find somewhere more secure, to grow stronger.

  Mike adjusted his grip on the spear and set a steady pace upstream, his eyes scanning constantly for threats and opportunities alike. The rain intensified, plastering his hair to his scalp and soaking through his increasingly ragged clothes.

  Behind him, barely visible now through the gray curtain of rain, his abandoned shelter stood as a small monument to human adaptability. Ahead lay only uncertainty and the promise of greater challenges.

  But also, perhaps, answers. The spyglass with its familiar yet unreadable symbols suggested that understanding might be possible. The [SKILL] prompts connected to his hammer hinted at powers he hadn't yet unlocked.

  Mike Reeves, construction worker turned reluctant adventurer, took a deep breath of the rain-fresh air and pressed forward into the unknown.

  The game—for lack of a better word—continued.