Footprints on Foreign Soil

The path was a lie. It suggested purpose, a destination, a narrative leading from point A to point B. I knew better. It was merely a line, a random scar carved through an indifferent wilderness, leading from nothing to nowhere. Still, my body followed it. This vessel I inhabited operated on a simple, infuriating logic: survival. And survival necessitated forward motion.

I walked for an unknowable amount of time. The sun, a relentless eye in the painfully blue sky, shifted its position, marking the passage of hours I did not care to count. The forest was a suffocating wall of green on either side, its vibrant life a constant, mocking reminder of the emptiness I had been denied.

Then, a new sound intruded upon the monotonous birdsong: a discordant percussion of grunts, the sharp clang of metal on metal, and a guttural snarling that was distinctly inhuman.

Conflict.

My first instinct was to turn, to melt back into the woods and find another, quieter path. Conflict was an unnecessary variable, a chaotic equation that offered no logical benefit. But as I hesitated, a morbid curiosity took hold. Not of concern, but of academic interest. I was a spectator in a theater I had never asked to enter; I might as well observe the quality of the performance.

I moved silently, a ghost slipping through the undergrowth, until I reached the edge of a small, sun-dappled clearing. The scene was one of predictable, desperate struggle. A man and a woman, back to back, were fending off a swarm of small, green-skinned creatures. Goblins. Their faces were masks of snarling malice, their movements erratic and driven by base instinct.

The fighters, however, were the true subjects of my analysis.

The woman was a flurry of motion, her twin daggers a whirlwind of silver. But her movements were inefficient. She favored flashy, spinning attacks that looked impressive but left her open, wasting precious energy with every unnecessary flourish. She fought with passion, a fire in her eyes, but passion is a poor substitute for precision.

The man was her opposite: a mountain of muscle and steel. He wielded a greatsword that was nearly as large as she was, swinging it in wide, brutal arcs. A bulwark. But he was slow. For every goblin he cleaved in two, two more would dart in, chipping away at his defenses. He relied on brute strength, and his stamina was visibly draining, each swing slower and more labored than the last.

They were losing. Not because they were weak, but because they were fighting poorly. I watched their dance of death with the detached interest of a biologist observing flawed specimens. I deconstructed their movements, cataloged their errors, and calculated their remaining lifespan in seconds.

They will die, the thought concluded, flat and devoid of emotion. I should have turned and walked away then. Their fate was not my concern. Their existence was irrelevant.

And yet, I did not move.

An irritation began to prickle at the back of my mind. It was not pity. It was not empathy. It was the grating, intellectual offense of watching a simple problem being solved so clumsily. It was like listening to a musician play a beautiful instrument horribly out of tune. A dissonant note that demanded correction.

Furthermore, a secondary calculation presented itself with cold clarity: if they fell, the swarm would become my problem. Their numbers were a nuisance. Allowing these two to continue their inefficient struggle would only tire them out, leaving me to deal with the full horde. However, if I intervened, I could end the engagement swiftly, preserving their bodies as a potential—if temporary—shield against future threats.

It was the most logical, resource-efficient outcome.

A sigh, thin and weary, escaped my lips. I stepped out from the cover of the trees.

My entrance went unnoticed amidst the chaos. I scooped a handful of small, sharp stones from the ground. My first target was a goblin archer perched on a low-hanging branch, its bowstring drawn. With a flick of my wrist, a stone shot through the air. It was not a feat of strength, but of simple physics. The stone struck the goblin’s temple. It crumpled without a sound, tumbling from its perch.

The two fighters noticed this. The woman’s eyes widened in surprise. The man grunted, using the momentary distraction to cleave another creature.

I did not wait for their acknowledgment. I moved. My path was a straight line through the fray. Another stone disabled a second archer. I closed the distance to the main swarm, my movements economical, precise. I did not wield a weapon. I was the weapon. A sharp jab to the throat of one goblin, a redirected claw-swipe that sent another stumbling into its companion, a swift kick to a knee joint that buckled a third.

My actions were not heroic. They were a cold, brutal lesson in efficiency. I exploited every opening, every flaw in their primal tactics. The fight was over in less than thirty seconds. The clearing fell silent, save for the heavy panting of the two fighters and the soft dripping of green blood onto the forest floor.

The woman stared at me, her chest heaving, her daggers held loosely at her sides. Awe and confusion warred in her eyes. "Who... who in the blazes are you?"

The man stood his ground, his greatsword planted in the earth like a grave marker. He was wary, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He saw not a savior, but a new, unknown threat. A more intelligent assessment.

"Does it matter?" I replied, my voice flat. I turned my back on them, my gaze already set on the path that continued through the clearing. My purpose here was complete.

"Wait!" the woman called out, her voice sharp. I heard her quick footsteps on the damp earth behind me. "You can't just... You saved us!"

I paused but did not turn. "I corrected an inefficiency," I stated, my voice cold and clinical. "Your survival was a secondary, if convenient, outcome."

She stopped a few feet behind me. I could hear her catching her breath. "Look, I don't know what that means. But I'm Rovy, and the big lug is Bane. And you're... not from around here. That much is obvious."

Her approach was direct. Pragmatic. I remained silent, waiting for the proposition.

"We're heading to a town called Raven," she continued. "It's not far. There's food. A bed. Information. You look like you could use all three."

I considered the offer. My internal analysis was swift. Pros: Sustenance to address biological needs. Shelter for security. And most importantly, data acquisition regarding this new environment. Cons: Forced social interaction with inefficient, emotionally-driven variables. The conclusion was clear.

"Your offer is logical," I said, finally turning to face her. My gaze was steady, my expression unreadable. "The benefits outweigh the drawbacks. I will accompany you to this 'Raven'."

A flicker of relief, quickly masked by a tired smile, crossed Rovy's face. "Great. Just... try not to be so creepy about it." She turned and waved at Bane, who was watching us with a stoic, unreadable expression. "Come on, Bane! Our new friend is coming with us!"

Their continued existence was, for now, a tactical asset. Nothing more.