Small Gains

Argon moved stealthily through the forest, his grip on the spear unyielding. His eyes, vibrant with determination, scoured the surroundings for his next prey—the mole rats. Their abundant presence here was his beacon of hope in an otherwise dire circumstance.

Methodically, Argon hunted each mole rat, his spear thrusts swift and accurate, a dance of death in the wilderness. He bore minor wounds from his confrontations, yet they did not dampen his resolve; instead, they were badges of his grit and perseverance.

Argon found himself engaged in his task: hunting mole rats. They were notorious pests, burrowing holes that could collapse under a person's weight and cause injury. They were also a good source of meat, a protein-rich supplement for their meals. And so, he dedicated a considerable chunk of his time to tracking and hunting these creatures.

Days turned into a monotonous routine of hunting mole rats. He'd wake up at dawn and prepare his gear. Walking through the forest, he would watch for disturbed earth, a telltale sign of their tunnels. He'd listen carefully for the faint sounds of their squeaks and the rustling of their fur against the foliage. His eyes, honed by the persistent pursuit, would scan the terrain for the unique pattern of scattered soil, the sure sign of a fresh burrow.

Catching mole rats required patience. They were small, fast, and expert burrowers. He would have to stand utterly; still, his breath slowed, his body relaxed, eyes focused on the burrow's entrance. When the critter would finally emerge, unsuspecting, Argon would strike. With swift and precise movements, he'd trap the mole rat before it could retreat into its underground sanctuary.

There was an art to this, a dance of patience and precision, of waiting and striking at the right moment. It was gruelling work, often leaving him covered in dirt and sweat, his muscles aching from the strain. But Argon was undeterred. The methodical task had a meditative quality to it, a simple routine that brought a semblance of normalcy to their otherwise uncertain life.

By the time he'd return, he would have bagged a couple of mole rats. He would expertly skin and clean them, the rich smell of roasting meat soon filling their dwelling. And sit down to a meal, tired but satisfied, basking in the day's experiences over mouthfuls of food.

His goblin search continued, but his mole rat hunts became a staple of his days, a task that provided them with sustenance and a strange sense of accomplishment. Through his routine, Argon became more attuned to the forest, his senses becoming sharper, his understanding of its inhabitants deepening. It was a long, often tedious process, but one that he embraced with patience and determination.

His rewards, the mole rat cores, piled up, a testament to his hunting prowess. 50 cores were a small fortune for someone in his situation. Opting to continue his hunt in the forest, Argon abandoned the inefficient routine of returning to Duskhaven. His survival necessitated this new way of life.

As weeks melded into one another, Argon delved deeper into the forest, his skills honing with every kill. His battles with the mole rats evolved from mere encounters to well-calculated hunts, his movements predicting theirs with uncanny precision. The spear ceased to be a mere weapon; it became an extension of his being, a conduit for his unwavering resolve.

A season had come and gone since Argon began his routine forays into the forest, turning into a couple of months. As the sun made its cyclic journey across the sky, the days grew longer, and the forest seemed to change its hue, adjusting to the passing of time.

The foliage took on a deeper green as summer rains nourished the soil, and the forest was filled with a symphony of new sounds, the forest creatures nurturing their young, the constant background chorus of insects, and the song of the wind as it rustled through the leaves. It was as if the forest itself was a living entity, breathing and thriving, adapting to the changing seasons.

Argon's trips became more frequent and longer. He learned to navigate through the maze of trees and the sprawling undergrowth, marking his path and memorizing the forest's patterns and quirks. He learned to read the forest, the signs of an approaching storm, the direction of the wind, and the calls of the forest creatures.

Every day, he would set off before the break of dawn, his senses alert, his armour gleaming under the soft morning light. He'd spend the day hunting, looking for signs of goblins, and exploring the forest's deepest recesses.

He noticed the changes in the forest, in its smells, its sounds, and in the behaviour of its creatures. He understood the importance of being one with his surroundings, of observing and respecting the forest and its inhabitants. He grew stronger, both physically and mentally, his daily tasks honing his strength, agility, and endurance.

His growing confidence, however, met a stumbling block one chilling day. An eerie howl sent a shiver down his spine, forcing him face-to-face with a snarling wolf. Its intense gaze seemed to bore into his soul, its feral instincts leaving no room for negotiations. As the snarling wolf approached, its sharp, menacing teeth bared, and Argon's grip on his spear tightened. The beast swiped at him with its massive paw, a move quick as a whip and equally lethal. Argon responded, using the length of his spear to keep the creature at bay, jabbing in a series of quick thrusts that aimed to deter rather than injure.

The wolf, undeterred, circled him, its eyes glowing with feral intelligence and a cold, predatory focus. The two combatants moved in a dance of death, a deadly ballet under the thick forest canopy.

Suddenly, a noise echoed through the forest, a rustle of leaves, a distant animal's cry. The wolf's ears twitched, its attention momentarily diverted. Argon, seizing the opportunity, lunged forward, the spear aimed at the beast's side. The weapon sank into the beast's flesh, evoking a gut-wrenching howl of pain and rage from the wolf.

Enraged, the wolf, its eyes flaring with fury, launched itself at Argon, aiming for his exposed neck. Every instinct screamed at him to dodge, but it was too late—the beast was too fast, too furious. In the face of imminent death, Argon's artefact hummed to life, a formless barrier springing forth from it, shielding him from the fatal attack. The wolf's jaws snapped shut inches from his throat, its lethal intention thwarted by the artefact's timely intervention.

Argon didn't waste the opportunity. With a swift, precise movement, he drew the rusty sword from his side and drove it deep into the wolf's eye. The beast let out an ear-piercing howl, its body going rigid before it collapsed to the forest floor, dead.

As he panted heavily, leaning on his spear for support, Argon reflected on the fight. He was victorious, but the victory was hollow. The artefact, once again, had been his saving grace. Without it, he would have been the wolf's meal.

The realisation sank deep within him, a cold, bitter truth. He had grown too reliant on the artefact. It had become a crutch, a shield that protected him from the harsh realities of his battles. But such reliance was dangerous. He needed to become stronger, to be able to defend himself without relying on the artefact.

As Argon wiped the blade clean, he made a silent vow. He would hone his skills, refine his instincts, and become a true warrior of the wild, with or without the artefact.

The encounter was a humbling experience, a reminder of the constant dangers lurking in the forest. Argon learnt that the artefact's power was a double-edged sword—it provided him protection, but it also demanded vigilance and respect.

Regaining his composure, Argon ensured no other dangers lurked in his vicinity. The forest was a place of survival—mole rats were his chosen prey, and he had to be aware of potential predators. His subsequent hunts reflected this newfound understanding—his senses were heightened, movements calculated, and his vigilance unwavering.

Argon pressed on, deeper into the wilderness, where darkness reigned supreme and untamed beasts were the law. His unwavering resolve and survival instincts kept him safe amidst the lurking shadows. The forest was his proving ground, his battle against poverty and desperation playing out in its depths.

Accumulating beast cores became a routine, each successful hunt reducing the weight of his poverty. But Argon was aware that his journey was still long and filled with uncertainties.

The rhythm of the hunt became a solace, a respite from his bleak existence. The adrenaline rush, the thrill of the chase, and the satisfaction of a successful kill—these fleeting moments were his refuge from harsh realities.

As the forest transformed with the changing seasons, Argon transformed with it. His frail body grew sinewy and lean, forged by survival's relentless demands. His instincts were sharper, his senses heightened, and his resolve deeper. He became a predator, an embodiment of the forest's unforgiving nature.

Argon decided in the forest's heart, surrounded by the creatures he had hunted and conquered. He would gather his hard-earned wealth and collection of precious cores and return to Duskhaven. He had accumulated over 100 cores. The time had come to face the city again, armed with his newfound skills, a glimmer of hope, and the desire for a better life.

The forest bid him farewell with a whispering breeze, a chorus of leaves rustling in approval. It had been his sanctuary and training ground, shaping him into the survivor he had become. With a mixture of gratitude and determination, Argon set off on the journey back to the city that had birthed him, vowing to navigate its treacherous streets with newfound wisdom and resilience.

As he emerged from the forest's embrace, the once-familiar silhouette of Duskhaven greeted him. The town stood unchanged, its crumbling walls a testament to the decay that permeated its every corner. But Argon was not the same lost soul who had left its confines months ago. He had evolved, grown more muscular, and now possessed the means to forge his destiny.

With his pouch of precious cores clutched tightly, Argon ventured into the depths of Duskhaven once again. This time, he was not a beggar or a mere survivor. He was a hunter, armed with the spoils of his conquests and the determination to transcend his impoverished past.