Max stood among the ruins of the goblin camp, chest still rising and falling with each breath. His robes were singed. His hands were filthy. But the goblins were gone.

  Then, with a soft ding, the System window appeared in front of him, flickering into place:

  [Combat Summary – Tutorial Forest Instance]

  Goblins Defeated: 48

  Elite Units Defeated: 2

  Goblin General Defeated: 1

  Experience Gained

  Credits awarded: 2290

  Loot Collected:

  ? Crude Goblin Daggers ×11

  ? Wooden Clubs ×8

  ? Rough-Bound Shields ×3

  ? Goblin Crossbows ×2

  ? Bolt Bundles (×20, ×17)

  ? Goblin Warhorn (Damaged – Salvageable)

  ? Chainmail Undershirt (Uncommon)

  Max exhaled through his nose. “Forty-eight,” he muttered, running a hand back through his hair. “Not bad for a guy in a bathrobe with a stick.”

  He crouched by one of the intact supply crates and began sorting through what was usable. Most of the goblin weapons were junk—splintered handles, rusty blades—but a few pieces stood out. The crossbows were rough, but intact, and the bolts were neatly bundled. One shield had crude metal reinforcement. It looked heavy but might be useful later.

  He packed as much as he could into the storage ring. Daggers, bolts, and both crossbows vanished with a shimmer of blue light. The shields were too large to store all at once, so he strapped one across his back. The damaged warhorn went in, too—maybe it could be melted down or repurposed.

  Then he spotted it.

  Buried beneath the remains of what used to be the goblin general’s lean-to was a scrap of metal armor. He tugged it free and shook off the debris.

  It was a chainmail undershirt—dented in spots, but surprisingly well-made for goblin gear. The links were interwoven with dark iron and held together by thin bands of treated leather. When he held it up, the System chimed again:

  [Chainmail Undershirt] (Uncommon)

  A fitted shirt of reinforced links designed for flexibility under outer robes or leathers.

  +8 Physical Resistance

  +2 Endurance

  “It won’t stop a warhammer, but it’ll keep your guts inside where they belong.”

  He slid it on beneath his robes. It was snug, but it fit.

  The weight settled on his shoulders like a promise. He wasn’t some lost office worker anymore. He was a survivor. A mage… in armor.

  Satisfied, Max turned toward the forest and began making his way back to camp. Time to consolidate his gains, sort the loot, and plan the next step.

  The forest should’ve been peaceful.

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  After what Max had just done—forty-eight goblins dead, their camp reduced to splinters and smoldering ash—he expected some kind of silence. A reward of stillness. Maybe even satisfaction.

  But halfway back to his shelter, with the weight of loot in his ring and the chainmail still pressing against his ribs beneath his robe, something shifted.

  It wasn’t a sound. Not really.

  It was… instinct. A crawling sensation across his skin, like icy fingers brushing the back of his neck.

  Max stopped mid-step. His eyes scanned the tree line. Nothing. But then—movement.

  A shadow, just on the edge of his vision. Not shaped like a goblin. Taller. Leaner. Quieter. He turned, trying to focus.

  It moved again. Not toward him. But alongside him.

  Max’s breath caught in his throat. “What the hell is that thing…?”

  Whatever it was, it was fast. It darted through the underbrush like smoke slipping through cracks. It didn’t make a sound—not even the crunch of leaves.

  He increased his pace, boots crunching faster against the damp earth. His heartbeat picked up, thudding in his chest like a war drum.

  The fire from the goblin fights still hadn’t left him, but this… this was different. He didn’t feel adrenaline. He felt hunted.

  As he weaved between trees, he debated his options.

  Should I stop? Confront it? Face whatever this is now? Or…Run.

  His mind raced. “What if it’s the Beast?” he whispered. “The one I’m supposed to hunt? What if it’s been hunting me this whole time instead?”

  If that was true, Max definitely didn’t want to lead it back to his shelter.

  He slowed near a thick patch of underbrush, choosing his steps carefully. “Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s play a different game.”

  He veered off course, deeper into the jungle. Instead of heading directly for the coast, he looped left, then backtracked in a half-circle, doubling over his tracks. Along the way, he broke branches at odd angles and stepped deliberately in patches of moss and soft earth—clear, obvious trails. Decoys.

  He pushed closer toward a field of jagged coastal rocks—half-buried boulders and slabs that jutted like broken teeth from the jungle’s edge. Just before reaching them, Max bent low and carved a long drag mark in the dirt, like someone wounded had stumbled toward the trees.

  He paused at the base of the rocks and glanced over his shoulder.

  Nothing.

  Still… he felt it. Watching. Waiting.

  He climbed quickly, using the uneven stone to reach the higher ridge. A short scramble later, Max crouched at the edge where the rocks sloped toward the sea. The wind hit him -cool, briny, and sharp with salt. The open water stretched wide and empty before him, waves crashing against the cliffs below.

  Without a word, he slipped off his boots, tucked them into his satchel, and crept down to the water’s edge.

  Then he slid into the sea.

  The cold hit him like a slap, but he grit his teeth and pushed forward, arms slicing through the water. He didn’t swim directly to his shelter—he curved wide around the cliffs, letting the current help mask his approach.

  Only when he was near the familiar shoreline did he let himself surface.

  He crept from the surf like a soaked shadow, scanning the jungle line before moving toward the rear of his shelter. The same route he’d marked before—quiet, covered, concealed.

  Only once he ducked into the hollow beneath his tent did he finally let out a long breath.

  He hadn’t seen the thing again.

  But he knew it was still out there.

  Watching. Waiting.

  Before settling in for the night, Max knelt down and opened his storage ring, letting the shimmer of compressed space unfold like a breath held too long. One by one, he pulled out the loot he’d collected from the ruined goblin camp—daggers, clubs, a few rough-edged shields, two clunky crossbows, and bundles of mismatched bolts. The pile grew quickly, forming a small, uneven mountain of crude weaponry in the corner of his shelter.

  He sat back on his heels, eyeing the heap with a mix of exhaustion and disappointment.

  “Kinda underwhelming, honestly,” he muttered. Most of the gear looked like it had been cobbled together from scrap—bent nails for rivets, frayed leather straps, blades that barely counted as sharpened. “No enchanted blades. No gold. Not even a decent pair of boots.”

  Still, loot was loot.

  “When I get that damn store unlocked,” he said, tossing a cracked goblin dagger on top of the pile, “I’ll make a pretty penny off this junk. Somebody out there’s bound to buy it.”

  He gave the stash one last look, then turned away and began setting up his sleeping area—still damp from his earlier swim, but better than being dead.