Encounter

He slipped back into his makeshift shelter, heart still settling from the earlier encounter. The fire had died to embers. His cloak—now slightly torn at the hem—hung from a branch nearby, drying in the faint moonlight.

He crouched, elbows resting on his knees, eyes scanning the dark treeline as he muttered, “Alright. Boar physics, vegetation logistics, improvised hydrodynamics… Am I missing anything?”

His fingers absently sketched something in the dirt. A triangle. A path. An escape route.

He sighed. “No wonder I’m single. I date problems like they’re people.”

Then—

Rustle.

A low, deliberate sound. Not the chaotic scramble of a rabbit. Something aware. Calculated.

He froze.

Another rustle. Closer.

“Oh, come on,” he hissed under his breath. “Can’t even get one peaceful night without the forest filing a complaint.”

Grabbing a branch he had whittled earlier into a crude spike, he snuck out the side of his shelter. His Φ eye flickered to life, illuminating the world in faint overlays of data and distorted waves. The mana shimmer was faint, but present—swirling again near the forest's edge.

He crouched low behind a bush, setting a trip-snare with a vine he’d braided earlier. It wouldn’t kill another boar, but it might slow one down or buy him a few precious seconds.

The distortion thickened.

He narrowed his eyes, adjusting the focus. "Based on the growing distortion of my vision, It is coming here. "

From the foliage, figures emerged—four of them. Human silhouettes. Boots. Cloaks. Practical gear. One wore partial iron armor, its plates dull and slightly dented, not polished for ceremony. Another carried a longbow slung over his back, while the third—possibly a scout—moved with the relaxed caution of someone used to unknown terrain. the last would be a mage, judging by the staff with an orb, just like a typical fantasy with magic.

Their gait was steady. No raised weapons. No signs of hostility or tracking.

He whispered to himself, “Group formation—triangle spread. Not in combat mode. They're not looking for me…”

His gaze shifted to the armored one. “That guy’s the anchor. Heavy kit, slower movement. He’s their wall if something charges.”

Then to the archer. “Rear support. Hunting posture. Definitely tracking something.”

The mage, seems like a fast chanter,walks slowly compared to the rest. maybe it is because he is a support or a ranged type of personel.

And finally, the lead—lightest gear, most agile.

“Forward recon. Hmm…”

His mind clicked through conclusions.

“Behavior indicates a pursuit. But they’re not scanning the terrain constantly. Not paranoid. So either they’re pros, or…”

His eyes widened slightly.

“…They’re tracking the boar.”

Never show the ace on the first hand, he reminded himself.

Instead, he slid silently back toward his camp, quietly undoing the trap he’d set just minutes before. The last thing he needed was his first social encounter here ending with someone faceplanting into vines and calling him a forest gremlin.

Still, he kept a safe distance—watching. Listening. Gathering data.

If they were hunting that boar, maybe they'd seen it up close. Maybe they knew what it was. Or better yet, how to not get gutted by one.

He crouched behind the brush, one eye active, watching the adventuring party move through the undergrowth like seasoned predators.

Okay. Four of them. Sword wall in the front, robes with a stick in the middle, ranger in the back. Definitely adventurers. Not boar hunters. Probably.

He squinted through the shimmer of mana distortions around them. The big guy in front was practically a walking iron slab. Full plate armor. Heavy build. Carried his weight like a soldier. The mage beside him hummed faintly with active mana, like a kettle right before boiling. But it was the ranger—lean, silent, sharp eyes—who made him nervous.

“Shhh... wait... Do not move.”

The voice was low, cautious. Too cautious.

He froze. Breath held. "Wait—was that aimed at me or something else?"

Before the thought could complete, the archer’s body twisted—fluid and ruthless. Her eyes locked onto his position.

Then—thwip.

The arrow cut through the air like a whisper of death.

His pupils shrank. The corners of his mouth twitched downward. Jaw clenched. Eyebrows shot up, heart jamming against his ribs like a broken metronome.

Fast. Too fast. That’s not a warning shot. That’s a headshot.

His right eye lit up—Φ flaring like a flashbulb from within.

Whump.

The arrow stopped. Suspended. Just inches from his forehead, trembling in midair.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

His expression was locked in pure disbelief—mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. Then confusion crept in.

“Huh?”

A long, blank second passed. His heart was beating fast. he almost gasped and his breath stopped for a moment.

He looked at the arrow—then slowly crossed his eyes to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

Well, It wasn’t.

“…Okay,” he muttered. “That just happened.”

He blinked at the hovering arrow, still quivering in the air like it hadn’t yet accepted that it had failed its job.

From behind the trees, he heard a sharp exhale of frustration.

“I missed,” the archer said.

Before he could call out or even decide on his next move, another voice barked from the brush.

“Target fleeing. I’m on it!”

He barely had time to blink before footsteps thundered toward him. His heart rate is on maximum. Pushing every bit of adrenaline to all over his body.

“Oh, come on,” he hissed, bolting.

Branches slapped against his face as he plunged into the underbrush. He zig-zagged between trees, using every ounce of instinct and spatial awareness he could muster, Φ-eye flickering to life again.

Behind him, the scout was gaining.

“He's fast. Really really fast. There is a slight distortion on both of his legs. It must be buffed up by magic, otherwise there is no way it could sprint that fast.”

He cursed under his breath, ducked under a fallen log, and skidded down a slope. Rocks and roots tore at his legs.

“All I wanted was a nap and maybe not dying for one night. ONE SINGLE NIGHT!!”

The scout’s voice rang out, sharp and closing in. “Stop running! Surrender now!”

“Great. Another NPC that assumes I’ve got a bounty on my head.”

His lungs burned. His legs felt like wet noodles being asked to do calculus. He could feel the chase unraveling—the scout was closing the distance, and he was running out of terrain.

Then it happened.

His foot hit a slick patch of moss—he stumbled, careened sideways, and fell hard. Before he could scramble back up, something slammed into him from behind.

He rolled over, groaning. A knee planted itself on his chest.

The scout loomed above him, with a hood to hide the face and expression. The blade was drawn, held low but firm—one motion away from silence.

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