Panic clawed at William's throat, threatening to choke him. The goblin, a creature ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel, had latched onto his leg, its sharp teeth sinking into his flesh. Blood welled up, staining his trousers a dark, ominous crimson. After a mighty struggle, William had managed to push goblin off him, but it was still standing menacingly in front of him, waiting for the next moment to pounce with a deadly attack. He was losing his mind, that was the only explanation. But the pain was real, the creature was real, and the danger was immediate. He had to act, and he had to act now.
Breathe, he told himself, forcing air into his lungs, fighting the urge to give in to blind terror. Think. He was William Shard, data analyst, master of patterns, not some helpless victim in a monster movie. He had to find a pattern, a weakness, an edge.
He raised the branch, his makeshift weapon, but hesitated. A direct attack had proven ineffective. The goblin was too quick, too ferocious. He needed a different approach. He needed data.
His eyes darted around, taking in the scene, his mind racing. The goblin was still clinging to his leg, its small body writhing with savage energy. But even in its frenzy, William noticed something. The creature's breathing was becoming laboured, ragged gasps that shook its small frame. The arm he'd struck earlier hung at an awkward angle, clearly injured. Fatigue. Injury. Two crucial data points.
The goblin's movements, though still fast, were losing their initial precision. It was tiring, its stamina waning. William, despite the throbbing pain in his leg and the terror that threatened to overwhelm him, felt a flicker of hope. He had an advantage, a weakness he could exploit.
He couldn't overpower the creature, not in a direct confrontation. But he might be able to outlast it. Dodge. Evade. Tire it out. That was his new algorithm. His leg was already injured, running now would not be easy, and he doubted he could do it for long, especially not on this uneven terrain. But if he could keep moving, keep the goblin at bay, it might eventually tire itself out. A new plan started to form.
With a sudden burst of adrenaline, William kicked out with his good leg, trying to dislodge the goblin. The creature snarled, its grip tightening for a moment before it released his leg and jumped back, its eyes narrowed in fury, but also, William thought, in exhaustion. The goblin was panting now, its chest heaving.
This was his chance. William scrambled backward, away from the goblin, putting as much distance as possible between them. He wouldn't win in a fight. His only chance was escape.
He turned and ran.
He didn't get far. His injured leg screamed in protest with every step. He stumbled, nearly falling, his hands scraping against the rough ground. The goblin, momentarily surprised by William's retreat, quickly recovered and gave chase, its guttural cries echoing through the forest.
William pushed himself onward, ignoring the pain, fuelled by a desperate hope of escape. He could hear the goblin's ragged breathing behind him, its small feet pounding against the forest floor. It was gaining, its stamina, though depleted, still greater than his own in his injured state. The fight had also taken a toll on his clothes. His once-immaculate suit was now ripped and torn, covered in dirt, blood, and sweat. His shirt was shredded, and one of his shoes had come loose during the struggle.
But then, something unexpected happened. The goblin, in its exhausted and frenzied pursuit, tripped over a tangle of exposed roots and thick shrubs, its small body tumbling head over heels. It crashed into a nearby rock with a sickening thud, a sound that cut through the forest's silence like a knife.
William, despite his own desperate flight, couldn't help but stop and look back. The goblin lay sprawled on the ground, unmoving. Its crude club lay a few feet away, discarded and forgotten.
Cautiously, his heart still pounding in his chest, William approached the fallen creature. It didn't stir. He nudged it with his foot. No response. He bent down, his injured leg throbbing, and examined the goblin more closely. It was dead. The impact with the rock had clearly been fatal.
Relief washed over him, so potent it almost buckled his knees. He'd survived. He'd escaped. But the relief was quickly followed by a wave of nausea and a profound sense of unease.
He examined the dead goblin, searching for anything that might be useful, anything that might offer a clue to this strange world. But there was nothing. Just the tattered leather jerkin, the crude club, and the creature's own grotesque form. As he looked closer, he noticed something he hadn't seen before. Several wounds on the goblin's body, older wounds, partially healed. They weren't bite marks or scratches. They were clean cuts, precise and deep, as if made by something sharp, something like a blade. A sword, perhaps?
A new thought struck him, chilling in its implications. The goblin hadn't been hunting him, not initially. It had been fleeing. Running from something that could inflict wounds like that. He'd been so focused on his own survival that he hadn't considered the bigger picture.
He looked back the way the goblin had come, into the depths of the forest. What was out there? What had the goblin been running from? And was it still out there, lurking in the shadows?
He had no answers, only more questions. But one thing was clear: he couldn't stay here. This place was too dangerous. He had to keep moving. He decided to follow the path the goblin had taken. It was a gamble, but it was the only lead he had. Perhaps he could find evidence of other creatures, other people. Perhaps he could find answers.
He set off, his injured leg protesting with every step. The initial adrenaline rush had faded, leaving him exhausted and in pain. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a hollow ache that mirrored the emptiness in his understanding. He hadn't eaten since the charity event, and the meagre meal he'd had felt like a lifetime ago. He needed food, water, and shelter, and he needed to find them soon.
But the most pressing concern was his leg. The goblin's bite was throbbing, the wound inflamed and festering. He'd tried to clean it as best he could with water from a stream. He assessed his ruined clothes, ripped and torn from the fight and his flight. It was a sorry sight, but amidst the damage, an idea sparked. Using a sharp-edged rock, he managed to tear strips of fabric from what remained of his shirt and trousers, creating makeshift bandages. It was rough and far from ideal, but it would have to do to try and stem the bleeding and protect the wound from further contamination.
He walked for what felt like hours, the forest stretching endlessly around him. The ethereal glow of the alien flora provided a dim, otherworldly light, but it was enough to see by. He continued to scan his surroundings, his analytical mind still working, still searching for patterns, for clues, for anything that could help him understand this place.
As the day wore on, the pain in his leg intensified. He was limping badly now, each step a fresh agony. He needed to rest, to find a place to treat his wound before it became debilitating.
Finally, as the light began to fade, he found a large, hollowed-out tree, its trunk wide enough to offer some shelter. He collapsed at its base, leaning against the rough bark, exhausted and in pain. This would have to do as a resting place for now.
He brought out the leaf he'd taken earlier, the one that had released the citrusy scent. He remembered the way it had felt in his hand, the way it had seemed to absorb the light. An idea, a desperate hope, began to form in his mind.
He brought the leaf to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent was faint but distinct. Citrus. He remembered reading somewhere that citrus had antiseptic properties. Could this leaf, this strange, alien leaf, have similar properties?
He began to rub the leaf between his fingers, just as he had done earlier. The citrusy scent intensified. He noticed something else. Tiny insects, drawn to the aroma, landed on the leaf and began to drink the clear liquid that was being squeezed out. They were small, almost microscopic, but he could see them, their tiny bodies shimmering in the fading light.
And then he saw it. After drinking the liquid, the insects seemed to become more energetic, their movements quicker, more vigorous. They flew away with a newfound vitality, as if the leaf's juice had given them a boost of energy.
A hypothesis formed in his mind, a desperate gamble based on a fragmented memory and a few observations. Could this leaf, with its citrusy scent and its apparent effect on the insects, have medicinal properties? Could it help his festering wound?
He had nothing else. No medicine, no first aid kit, no knowledge of this world's healing practices. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.
With renewed determination, he gathered more of the leaves, ignoring the pain in his leg as he moved. He found a flat stone and began to crush the leaves, using the hilt of the goblin's discarded dagger as a makeshift pestle. The citrusy scent intensified, filling the air, a strange but not unpleasant aroma.
He worked for what felt like an hour, his hands aching, his leg throbbing. Finally, he had a small pile of crushed leaves, a pulpy mass that glistened with the plant's juices.
Taking a deep breath, he removed the makeshift bandage from his leg. The wound looked worse than he'd feared. It was red and swollen, the edges ragged and inflamed. Pus oozed from the broken skin, a sickly yellow-green.
He hesitated for a moment, then, with a grimace, he applied the crushed leaves to the wound. The initial sensation was a stinging, burning pain, worse than the bite itself. He gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to cry out.
Slowly, gradually, the stinging subsided, replaced by a strange coolness. He watched, mesmerized, as the redness around the wound seemed to recede, the swelling reducing slightly.
He carefully wrapped the wound with the remaining crushed leaves and secured it with the strips of cloth he had ripped from his ruined clothes. It wasn't much, but it was the best he could do.
Exhaustion finally overtook him, the adrenaline and the exertion of the day catching up to him. His eyelids felt heavy, his body weak. He leaned back against the tree, his head lolling to the side.
As darkness closed in, he wondered if he would ever see the dawn. He had survived his first day in this strange, beautiful, dangerous world. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the challenges had only just begun. His journey was far from over. He drifted off to sleep, the image of the revitalized insects, and the faint, citrusy scent of the leaves, the only comfort in the encroaching darkness, hoping his hypothesis was correct.