Chapter Thirteen

"Right. Okay," Barnaby muttered, a new habit he was picking up: talking to himself. Definitely not standard guard procedure. He looked back at the two players. The one who'd removed his helmet was still staring, that same blend of confusion and awe on his face. The other one, the one who'd been downed, was back on his feet, looking shaky but mostly recovered. Good.

The standing player opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. More player-speech came out, likely more questions. Questions Barnaby couldn't answer, questions he certainly didn't have pre-programmed responses for.

He gave another nod, a quick jerk of his head, hoping it conveyed something: acknowledgment, perhaps, or maybe an apology. He wasn't sure. Then, he turned and walked away, leaving the players, the dead boars, and Boar Den West behind.

Time to go, he thought. There was no grand plan, no specific destination, just away. Boar Den West felt finished. He'd fought. He'd helped, in a way. He'd broken the rules, drastically. It was time for something new.

He could hear the players talking behind him, their voices rising and falling, probably still trying to process what had just happened. He didn't look back. Looking back felt like staying, and he wasn't staying.

He walked past the broken section of the wall, where the last boar had broken through. The wood was splintered, the ground churned up – evidence, proof of something. He wasn't just scenery anymore. He was a participant, a disruptor. That thought felt oddly satisfying.

The path out of Boar Den West wasn't clearly marked like the ones near Oakhaven. It was more of a suggestion, a slightly less muddy track winding through the trees. He followed it, not knowing its destination, but trusting that anywhere was better than here.

He kept walking, putting distance between himself and the incident. The sounds of player combat faded, replaced by the usual Grimshark ambience: wind rustling the trees, the distant roar of some unknown creature, the crunch of his boots on the uneven ground.

He considered the players and the way they'd looked at him, the questions they'd asked. They'd been surprised, confused, like he'd broken their understanding of everything. Was that a bad thing? He wasn't sure, but it felt significant, like he'd triggered something, a new variable in the equation of Grimshark.

He flexed his hands, still feeling the phantom ache from punching those boars. He'd punched boars and won. It still felt unbelievable, illogical, but it had happened. He was different, changed, and that change felt like it needed exploration.

He wasn't sure how long he walked. Time was a strange concept now. It flowed differently. Before, it was just there, a constant, unchanging backdrop. Now, it felt measured by steps, by decisions, by changes.

The trees began to thin. The path, still barely a path, sloped upwards. He could see something ahead, a break in the trees, a different kind of landscape.

He continued walking, driven by that same internal pull that had led him out of Oakhaven, that had made him fight the boar, that had compelled him to help the players. It was curiosity, perhaps, but more than that. A need to know, a need to understand.

He reached the edge of the trees and stopped, looking out. It wasn't Oakhaven. It wasn't Boar Den West. It was something new, something different. He was definitely leaving, and leaving was best. As the saying went, the best defense is a good offense.

What Barnaby saw was a valley, not a gentle, green valley like the ones he'd occasionally glimpsed from Oakhaven's walls, all soft grass and peaceful streams. This was a Grimshark valley. Jagged rocks jutted out at sharp angles, resembling broken teeth in a monstrous jaw. The ground was a mix of coarse gravel and patches of sickly-looking, yellowed grass. A narrow, fast-flowing stream cut through the center, its water a murky grey-brown. It didn't look inviting; it looked challenging.

Good, Barnaby thought. Challenging was precisely what he needed. Easy was Oakhaven. Easy was standing still. He wasn't pursuing easy anymore.

He started down the slope, his boots crunching on the loose gravel. The air here felt different also, drier, with a faint metallic tang he couldn't identify. He scanned the valley, his gaze sweeping from one rocky outcrop to the next. There were no boars, at least none that he could see, but that didn't mean it was empty. Grimshark rarely offered empty.

He kept moving, following the stream. It seemed like the most logical path, even if it didn't appear particularly logical. Water flowed downhill, and downhill led somewhere. And somewhere was his current destination.

He hadn't gone far when he heard a sound, not the roar of a boar, or the shouts of players, but something different: a sort of clicking, scraping noise, like rocks grinding. He stopped, listening. It came again, closer this time, definitely originating from within the valley.

He moved cautiously, using the larger rocks for cover, just as he'd seen the rogues do back in Oakhaven. This act of concealment felt natural, like a new instinct. He peeked around a particularly large boulder and saw the source of the noise.

It wasn't a boar. It was something else, something smaller, but not something he wanted to approach. A cluster of creatures, about the size of large dogs, but with hard, rocky shells instead of fur. Their legs were thin and spindly, ending in sharp claws that scraped against the stone as they moved. They were clustered around a carcass, something large and furry, definitely not a boar. And they were eating.

The clicking, scraping sound was the noise of their claws and beaks tearing at the flesh and bone of the dead creature. It wasn't a pleasant sound, and the smell was worse than the boars, a sharp, acrid odor that made his non-existent nostrils twitch.

He watched them for a while, observing their behavior. They moved in a jerky, erratic fashion, constantly shifting and jostling. They didn't seem particularly organized, more like a chaotic swarm, driven by a single, overwhelming hunger.

Predators, he thought. Not the apex predators, like the presumed Grimshark itself, but predators nonetheless, part of the ecosystem, the cycle of eat or be eaten. He wondered if players hunted these creatures. They didn't appear particularly rewarding, with no obvious "loot" potential. But then, he was beginning to realize that his understanding of "rewarding" was limited.

He decided to avoid them. Confrontation didn't seem wise. He wasn't equipped to fight a swarm. He needed more information and more experience. He backed away slowly, keeping the boulder between himself and the creatures.

He continued his trek down the valley, keeping a wary eye out for more of the clicking, scraping things. He saw a few more clusters, always at a distance, always around some unfortunate carcass. He learned to recognize the signs: scattered bones, patches of stained ground, the faint but persistent acrid smell. Avoidance became his strategy.

As he walked, he began to experiment, not with fighting, not yet, but with movement. He tried to mimic the agility he'd witnessed in the rogues, practicing quick sidesteps, and short bursts of speed, attempting to use the uneven terrain to his advantage. It was clumsy. He stumbled frequently, his guard-programmed body not designed for such maneuvers. But he kept trying, pushing himself, testing the limits of his capabilities.

He also started to pay more attention to his internal readings. The "health" bar, which had always been full and irrelevant, now seemed important. He focused on it, attempting to understand its fluctuations and its relation to his actions. He noticed a slight dip after a particularly strenuous climb up a rocky slope, a small, almost imperceptible decrease, but a decrease nonetheless.

Interesting, he thought. So, exertion affects it. He filed that information away, another piece of the puzzle, another variable in the equation of survival.

The sun, or the game's approximation of one, began to set. The sky turned a bruised purple, casting long, distorted shadows across the valley. The air grew colder, that metallic tang becoming more pronounced. He needed to find shelter or something. He wasn't sure what beings like him were supposed to do at night. Guards, he knew, just stood there, but he wasn't just a guard anymore. He felt a difference, a fundamental difference from those others back in Oakhaven, those… unmoving ones. He couldn't quite put his finger on what they were, but he knew he wasn't entirely like them.

He spotted a small cave, a dark opening on the side of a rocky cliff. It wasn't inviting; it looked damp and probably occupied. But it was better than nothing. He approached cautiously, spear held ready, his senses alert. That was a new word he was applying to himself: alert. Aware. Prepared.

He peered into the darkness. He could hear something, a soft, rustling sound. And a smell, different from the acrid scent of the predators, something musty, organic.

He took a deep breath, even though he didn't require breath. It was a habit, a comfort. And then, he stepped inside.