Chapter 4: Downstream
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.
The mysterious healing he'd experienced after the goblin fight had left him physically restored, though phantom pain occasionally flared where his wounds had been—a psychological reminder of how close he'd come to serious injury or death. The memory of that warm sensation spreading through his body, knitting flesh back together before his eyes, still amazed him. Was it some property of this world? A benefit of the strange leveling system he seemed to be part of?
His pack held the few supplies he'd managed to gather—the remaining meat from his rabbit kill, three small fish, the waterskins and gemstones taken from the goblins, and his dwindling first aid supplies. The hammer hung from his belt, the goblin spear served as a walking staff, and the crude knife was tucked into his boot. Not much to show for his brief attempt at settlement, but enough to start over.
"Just need somewhere safer," Mike muttered to himself as he navigated around a fallen tree blocking part of the stream bank.
The decision to go downstream hadn't been carefully calculated. After the fifth day in this world—seeing the Void Ripper devouring the goblin corpses, surviving multiple attacks, and establishing his first shelter only to find it compromised—Mike simply needed to move. Upstream seemed too difficult with the rise in elevation, downstream more logical.
By mid-morning, 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. If he had time, these pools would make excellent fishing spots, but reconnaissance remained his priority.
Finding a secluded spot beneath an overhanging tree, Mike finally allowed himself to rest. Though his wounds had healed, his muscles still ached from days of constant physical exertion and insufficient rest. He took the opportunity to check his supplies, organizing everything for quick access in case he needed to move rapidly.
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 five," he recorded. "Moving downstream. No sign of the Void Ripper since last night. The mysterious healing after the goblin fight has left me without wounds, but I'm still trying to understand how it happened. Need to find better shelter and establish a more permanent base away from immediate threats."
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 orange symbols usually come 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.
The landscape changed subtly as he traveled—different tree varieties appearing, the underbrush growing thicker in places, thinning in others. Wildlife became more abundant, suggesting fewer predators in this area. Mike spotted several of the six-legged rabbits darting into the brush at his approach, and what appeared to be deer analogs drinking cautiously at a wide section of the stream. Under different circumstances, he might have tried hunting, but stealth and reconnaissance remained his priorities.
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 he'd killed earlier.
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. "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...
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, breathing heavily. 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 meat 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 before this being, touching their foreheads to the ground in obvious worship or fear. The three-eyed creature raised what appeared to be a staff topped with a glowing crystal, gesturing toward different areas of the camp while speaking in a deep, resonant voice that carried faintly to Mike's position.
"Some kind of leader," Mike whispered, watching the interaction with growing concern. "Definitely not a normal goblin."
The three-eyed being 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 three-eyed being 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.
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.
He chose a different route for his return, moving further from the stream to avoid any additional sentries the goblins might have posted. This made the travel more difficult—the terrain less even, the vegetation thicker, the navigation more challenging without the stream as a constant reference. But safety outweighed convenience.
As Mike pushed through a particularly dense section of underbrush, a distant sound froze him in place—a roar echoing through the forest, so deep it seemed to vibrate the ground beneath his feet. The sound was unmistakable—the Void Ripper—but it came from somewhere far to the east, away from his current path.
"Moving on," Mike whispered, grateful the creature seemed to be hunting in different territory. The roar wasn't repeated, suggesting the predator was traveling away rather than toward him.
Twilight was fading into true darkness by the time Mike finally reached the vicinity of his shelter. He approached with extreme caution, wary of goblins potentially tracking him back to his base. After a careful survey revealed no immediate threats, he slipped inside, securing the entrance behind him.
Exhaustion hit him like a physical blow as he collapsed onto his bed of leaves. The reconnaissance had been both informative and disturbing—confirming the presence of organized goblin society downstream and revealing the existence of more advanced beings in this world. The three-eyed leader suggested hierarchies and power structures Mike had not anticipated.
As he lay in the darkness, processing what he'd learned, floating symbols appeared before him. These seemed different from the usual notifications—more complex, with patterns that almost suggested a map or territory marking. Though still incomprehensible, the general meaning seemed clear: danger lay downstream.
"No kidding," Mike muttered to the shifting symbols.
Sleep claimed him despite his racing thoughts, his body demanding recovery after the tense day of reconnaissance. His dreams were troubled—yellow goblin eyes watching from darkness, the three-eyed being pointing its staff toward him, Sarah calling his name from somewhere he couldn't reach.
He woke suddenly in the pre-dawn darkness, fully alert. No sound had disturbed him, but a certainty had crystallized in his mind during sleep: he needed to move upstream, away from the goblin settlement, as soon as possible. The presence of the three-eyed leader and the organized nature of the goblin community made staying in this area too dangerous.
As the first gray light filtered through the woven branches of his shelter, Mike began gathering his possessions, preparing for immediate departure. The downstream reconnaissance had provided valuable intelligence, but it had also confirmed his worst fears. This world was not just populated by random monsters—it contained societies, hierarchies, organized threats.
"Time to go," Mike said to the empty shelter, slinging his pack over his shoulder. Upstream awaited, with whatever challenges it might bring.