The camp existed.
That alone made it dangerous.
Victor watched from the trees, ribs aching, breath shallow, aware that every minute he stayed still increased the chance his injuries would decide things for him. Blood loss didn't care about caution. Infection didn't wait for certainty.
Neither did people.
He needed to know if this was a place where stopping meant dying slower.
Victor waited until the camp proved it was real.
Not because he doubted what he'd seen, but because he needed the world to repeat itself.
One glance could be a trick of exhaustion. One sound could be memory playing games with him. Patterns mattered. Patterns were how you avoided dying twice to the same mistake.
So he stayed where he was, half-hidden in brush and shadow, and watched.
The camp didn't change.
Smoke rose steadily from a small fire, thin and controlled. No panic. No sudden movements. People moved in ways that suggested routine—one figure passing back and forth between a wagon and stacked crates, another crouched near the fire, hands busy with something mundane. A third stood slightly apart, posture different. Still. Alert.
A watcher.
Victor cataloged details without meaning to. Spacing. Sightlines. Where the fence dipped lower. Where the road curved just enough to hide an approach. How often the watcher shifted weight from one foot to the other.
They weren't soldiers.
But they weren't careless either.
His ribs ached sharply as he adjusted his position, and he stilled, jaw tightening until the pain dulled enough to tolerate. The bandage on his forearm itched. His leg throbbed in a slow, patient way that promised it would get worse before it got better.
Staying hidden cost him time. Revealing himself cost him risk.
Victor weighed the options and found neither acceptable. That meant he had to choose the one that ended with information instead of uncertainty.
He waited for a moment when the watcher's attention drifted down the road, then stepped out from the tree line into the open.
He didn't rush.
He didn't announce himself.
He walked.
Each step was deliberate, heel then toe, posture upright but unthreatening. He kept his hands visible, fingers relaxed at his sides, careful not to let them hover near his belt. His knife stayed where it was.
The watcher noticed him halfway across the open ground.
The reaction was immediate but restrained. The watcher straightened, weight shifting, one hand moving—not drawing, just resting on something at their side. A signal, not a threat.
A voice called out.
Victor didn't understand the words.
He stopped where he was.
That mattered.
He raised his hands slightly, palms forward, enough to show intent without looking theatrical. His ribs protested the motion but he ignored it.
"I'm hurt," he said, slowly, clearly. "I need water."
The language felt wrong in his mouth, like it belonged to a different version of him. He didn't know if the words carried meaning here. He suspected they didn't.
The watcher spoke again, sharper this time.
Victor shook his head once. Then pointed to his forearm, where the bandage was already darkening at the edges. He mimed pain with a small tightening of his expression, nothing exaggerated. Then he pointed at the fire, at the camp, and finally back at himself.
Need.
The figures near the fire had noticed now. Conversation stopped. One of them—a woman, older, hair bound back in a practical knot—stepped closer to the fence. Her eyes moved over him with practiced efficiency.
Injuries. Stance. Distance.
She said something to the watcher.
The watcher hesitated, then lowered their hand slightly.
The woman gestured.
Not welcoming.
Permissive.
Victor didn't move right away. He waited until the gate was opened fully, until the intent was clear enough to trust. Then he approached, steps measured, breathing shallow to keep his ribs from flaring again.
Inside the camp, the smells hit him first. Smoke. Boiled grain. Animals. Sweat. People living close together and managing it instead of pretending otherwise.
He was guided toward the fire and indicated a place to sit.
Victor lowered himself carefully, every motion negotiated. He exhaled through his teeth as he settled, keeping his posture upright despite the ache. Collapsing would look weak. Too weak invited questions.
The woman knelt in front of him and gestured toward his arm.
He held it out.
She worked quickly. Cleaned the wound with water that stung like fire. Wrapped it properly, tighter and cleaner than he'd managed himself. Her hands were firm, experienced.
This was not kindness.
This was maintenance.
She moved to his leg next, then nodded once, sharp and decisive.
Finished.
A cup was pressed into his hand.
Water.
Victor drank slowly, carefully, every swallow deliberate. He felt eyes on him the entire time. Not hostile. Evaluating.
When the cup was empty, he handed it back and said the only word he was sure of.
"Thank you." The words still sounding off.
The woman studied his face, then nodded once. She said something to the others, tone practical, and rose.
No one smiled.
No one asked his name.
That told him everything.
They were helping because leaving an injured stranger bleeding near their route was a liability. Predators followed blood. Trouble followed unresolved variables.
Victor was being managed, not welcomed.
He could live with that.
The camp resumed its quiet rhythm, but he felt the difference now. Conversations stayed low. Movements adjusted to keep him in sight. The watcher remained alert, eyes flicking back to him at regular intervals.
Victor rested his hands on his knees and breathed shallow, letting his body settle as much as it would.
The ache in his ribs dulled from sharp to constant. His forearm felt hot but stable.
Then the world flickered.
A flat overlay appeared at the edge of his vision, faint enough that he might have missed it if he hadn't been watching for it.
[CONDITION: STABLE]
No warning.
No sound.
Just a statement of fact.
For a heartbeat, more information threatened to resolve beneath it—ghosted shapes, half-formed lines—but the overlay collapsed in on itself before anything could fully assert.
Victor frowned slightly.
Not confusion.
Assessment.
The system had noticed him again. Not rewarded him. Not guided him.
Observed.
He exhaled slowly and let the overlay fade without acknowledging it further. Attention was a two-way street. He didn't know yet what acknowledging it cost.
After a time—he wasn't sure how long—the woman returned and gestured toward the road. She spoke again, slower this time, using her hands to emphasize direction. Movement. Soon.
A caravan, then. Or at least a stop that wouldn't last.
Victor nodded once.
Leaving was good.
As the camp began to prepare—ropes checked, crates shifted, animals coaxed into motion—Victor stood, testing his weight carefully. His body protested, but it held. That fact making the difference.
As he straightened, the world flickered again.
This time the overlay stayed.
[STATUS UPDATE REGISTERED]
Text assembled itself line by line, indifferent to his focus.
[INJURY: PARTIALLY MITIGATED]
[FATIGUE: ELEVATED]
[MOBILITY: COMPROMISED]
[ENVIRONMENTAL RISK: VARIABLE]
Victor's jaw tightened.
Not because of the information.
Because of the implication.
The system wasn't reacting to what he had done.
It was reacting to where he was going.
He shifted his weight subtly, testing balance, range of motion. The overlay adjusted in real time—numbers flickering, then settling back into text too abstract to be useful.
No recommendations.
No warnings.
Just documentation.
The watcher watched him more closely now.
Victor met their eyes briefly, then looked away.
He wasn't here to challenge authority. He was here to find real civilization.
When the line began to form and the road opened ahead of them, Victor took his place at the edge, not central, not leading. Just another body moving in the same direction.
People ahead. People behind. Structures. Routes. Rules he didn't know yet.
That was the shift.
The forest receded behind them. The smoke thinned. The road stretched forward, worn and patient beneath steady footfalls and the low creak of wagon wheels.
Victor walked with the others, listening to voices he couldn't yet understand. The language carried rhythm and intent even without meaning—questions, mild frustration, coordination. Life continuing.
The system did not comment on them.
It commented on him.
[OBSERVATION CONTINUING]
No timer.
No endpoint.
Victor felt something cold settle beneath his ribs—not fear, not anger, but recognition.
The system did not care about justice.
It cared about persistence.
Conditional mercy had kept him alive.
Motion would decide what it cost him next.
And somewhere ahead, where the road bent and vanished into distance, Victor knew—with the same certainty he'd felt when the wolves had closed in—
That standing still was no longer an option.