Panic, cold and constricting, clawed at William's throat. He was on the damp earth, the coppery tang of his own blood sharp in his nostrils, his left leg screaming from the goblin's bite. The creature itself, momentarily shoved back, was already recovering, its small, wiry body coiled, eyes blazing with undiminished fury, readying another pounce. System alert: Immediate threat proximity. User health: Compromised. Probability of successful defence from current position: <15%.
This couldn't be real. Yet the searing pain, the torn fabric of his trousers dark and wet, the snarling green thing gathering itself, the data points were undeniable, brutally consistent. Rationalization protocols failing. Accepting current reality parameters. He had to act. Now. He forced a ragged breath into his protesting lungs, fighting the primal urge to just curl up and wait for the inevitable system crash. Think. He wasn't just helpless prey. He was William Shard, analyst, pattern-finder. There had to be a variable he could exploit.
He shifted, dragging himself back slightly, raising the branch clutched in his hand. But a direct counterattack? He replayed the last few moments, the goblin's speed, its relentless ferocity, its disregard for the hits he'd already landed. His branch against its club was a losing equation. "I'm pretty sure they don't teach 'Goblin Combat 101' in data science curriculum," he thought, a flicker of morbid humour cutting through the fear. "Though, arguably, dealing with Harrison had its own hazards." Think. Different approach required. Analyse the available data.
His eyes, sharp and analytical despite the terror, darted to the goblin. It was circling now, a predator testing defences, but even in its aggressive frenzy, William detected new data points. Its breathing was harsh, ragged, its small chest heaving violently. Respiration rate elevated beyond standard combat exertion. The arm he'd struck hung at a slightly unnatural angle, movements favouring the other side. Motor function impairment detected. Fatigue. Injury. Two critical variables. Performance degradation noted in hostile unit.
"Great. It's wounded, running on fumes, and still prioritizing 'maul the analyst'." William grimaced. "Talk about an overachiever." Despite the relentless, throbbing alarm clock of pain in his leg, a new calculation sparked. Variable shift: Attrition potential introduced. Goblin condition: deteriorating. User condition: critical, but mobile (barely). Direct confrontation forecast: high probability of user termination. Prolonged engagement via evasion: increases probability of goblin error or exhaustion due to cumulative damage and fatigue. New algorithm selected: Strategic retreat. Objective: Outlast.
His leg screamed in protest as he pushed himself, scrambling awkwardly to his feet. The pain was a blinding white static, but the surge of adrenaline provided temporary override. He turned, abandoning any pretence of fighting, and ran, or rather, hobbled frantically, deeper into the alien woods, hoping sheer distance could become his shield. The goblin let out an enraged snarl, momentarily startled by the shift in tactics, but recovered instantly. Its beady eyes locked onto William's retreating back, burning with feral determination. It gave chase.
This was the gamble. He pushed himself, ignoring the jolting agony that shot up his leg with every uneven step, the wetness spreading down his calf. "Of all the times to be underprepared for cross-country running…" He stumbled on a root, catching himself with hands scraped raw against the dirt. Desperate hope warred with rising despair. Behind him, he could hear it, the frantic pounding of small, clawed feet on the forest floor, the harsh, snarling gasps growing undeniably closer. Auditory data indicates hostile unit closing distance. Evasion effectiveness lower than projected. "Maybe I should have signed up for that mixed martial arts weekend course instead of debugging legacy code…"
Just as he felt the creature was almost upon him, fate, or perhaps simple physics acting on an exhausted, injured combatant, intervened. The goblin, in its frenzied pursuit, eyes locked solely on its prey, failed to account for a thick, gnarled root snaking across its path. It tripped, its small body tumbling head over heels in an uncontrolled, almost comical arc. The comedy ended abruptly as it crashed headfirst into a moss-covered outcrop of rock with a sickening, wet thud.
The sound sliced through the forest's hum, followed by an unnerving silence. William, stumbling onward for a few more painful steps, finally registered the lack of pursuit. He risked a glance back, chest heaving, every nerve screaming.
The goblin lay sprawled on the ground near the rock, utterly still, limbs at an unnatural angle. Its crude club lay a few feet away, inert and meaningless.
Heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, William forced himself to turn back, his analytical need for confirmation overriding his instinct to flee further. He approached cautiously, scanning the surrounding trees, listening. Nothing. He nudged the still form with the end of his branch. No response. Holding his breath, he bent down, his injured leg protesting violently. He examined the creature closely, the glazed eyes, the unnatural angle of the neck against the rock. Vital signs: Null. Termination confirmed.
"Well," he breathed out, the sound shaky. "Survived… somehow." A wave of potent relief washed over him, so strong his knees almost buckled. He leaned heavily against a nearby tree, taking deep, shuddering breaths. "Unplanned termination of hostile process. Root cause: environmental hazard combined with degraded motor function. Outcome: fortunate anomaly." He'd escaped. He was alive.
But the relief was immediately tainted, curdling into a cold nausea that churned in his stomach. A fine sheen of cold sweat broke out on his forehead. "Look at that," he thought, staring at the small, still form. "First time in a life-or-death engagement… and I indirectly caused a fatality." He'd killed countless virtual enemies, pixels vanishing from a screen. This was… different. Tangible. The creature had been trying to kill him, yes, but seeing it broken and lifeless because he chose to run… a strange, unwelcome weight settled in his chest. "Kill or be killed," he mused, the cliché suddenly feeling sharp, brutal, and personal. "What's next on the adaptation checklist? Emotional compartmentalization? Requesting a therapist to debug these conflicting protocols… Spoiler alert: probably not available in this reality." The stab of guilt was real, but the cold logic of survival quickly asserted itself, overriding the nascent ethical subroutine. Sentimentality was a liability he couldn't afford. This world operated on a different OS. Relentless adaptation was the only viable path. "Survival isn't an elective. It's the core curriculum."
Analyst habits died hard. Forcing down the revulsion, he knelt again, examining the goblin more closely, searching for… anything. Information. Data. That's when he saw them. Beneath the fresh scrapes and the dirt, on the creature's torso and limbs, were several older, partially healed wounds. But they weren't ragged tears from claws or teeth, nor the bruising expected from crude clubs. They were clean cuts. Precise, linear, some still showing faint signs of… cauterization? Data inconsistent with typical goblin weaponry or known inter-species conflict patterns. Edges suggest precision blade, possibly heated or magically treated. The inference struck him with the force of a physical blow: This goblin wasn't hunting me out of random malice. It was fleeing. It was already wounded, running from something far more dangerous, something with sophisticated weapons.
A chill, colder than the forest air, traced its way down his spine. He'd been so focused on his own survival, his own data points, that he'd missed the bigger picture entirely. "Way to maintain situational awareness, William," he muttered, shaking his head. "Focusing on the immediate error message while ignoring the cascading system failure."
He looked back the way the goblin had charged from, peering into the deeper, shadowed woods. What was back there? What kind of creature wielded precise blades and hunted goblins through this alien forest? And was it still nearby?
The relief of survival evaporated, replaced by a more profound, intellectual dread. He couldn't stay here. He was injured, exposed, and clearly in the hunting ground of something far more capable than a lone, desperate goblin. Following the goblin's original path, the direction it had been fleeing from, was a terrifying prospect. Risk assessment: High. But it was also the only data trail he had. Staying put felt like passively waiting for the next, potentially larger, threat. Acquiring more information is critical for long-term survival modelling. It was a gamble, a decision based on incomplete data, but it felt like the only logical choice.
He pushed himself upright, leaning heavily on his branch turned makeshift crutch. "Alright, forest," he whispered to the silent, watchful trees. "Let's see the next data packet you have in store. Hopefully, it's not another hostile process with a nasty bite function." He turned and limped cautiously towards the unknown.