Chapter 3: The Hunt
The memory of strength was a ghost that haunted him. Every ache, every shiver, every pang of hunger was now amplified by the stark contrast of the ten minutes he had felt whole. That memory became his fuel. The quest, A Roof Over Your Head, wasn't just a set of objectives; it was a promise. A path back to that feeling.
First, he had to get down. The leap up had been a desperate, adrenaline-fueled scramble. The descent required something new: thought. He crawled to the edge of the roof, peering down into the alley. It was a twelve-foot drop. Not impossible, but dangerous. A broken ankle would be a death sentence.
[Risk Analysis Initiated] [Action: Drop from current height.] [Probability of Injury: 68% (Minor), 21% (Severe).] [Recommendation: Seek alternative egress.]
The crisp, logical text confirmed his fears. He wasn't just a desperate kid anymore; he was a player in a game with terrifyingly real stakes. He began to think like one. He scanned his environment, his eyes searching for advantages, for paths. He noticed a thick, gnarled vine of ivy clinging to the brick wall a few feet away. It ran all the way down to a large refuse bin.
[Analyzing Object: Ivy Vine] [Structural Integrity: Moderate. 75% chance to support host's weight.] [Analyzing Object: Refuse Bin] [Contents: Discarded straw, rotten vegetables. Offers a softened landing zone.]
The path was clear. It wasn't glorious, but it was smart. He carefully shimmied over to the vine, his bare feet finding purchase on the rough bricks. He tested the vine with his weight, his heart pounding. It held. Slowly, hand over hand, he lowered himself down, the rough bark scraping his skin. He let go the last few feet, landing with a soft thud in the stinking bin. He had done it. No injuries. No wasted energy.
He clambered out, brushing the filth from his rags. The first part of his hunt was for shelter. He knew all the usual spots: the alcove behind the Drunken Sailor tavern, the half-collapsed fishing crate by the pier, the space under the bridge where the beggars slept. He mentally reviewed them, and as he did, the System offered its own cold analysis.
[Location: Drunken Sailor Alcove. Threat Analysis: High probability of City Watch patrol (2 AM). High probability of aggressive drunkards.] [Location: Fishing Crate. Threat Analysis: Poor shelter from wind/rain. High probability of vermin infestation.] [Location: Beggars' Bridge. Threat Analysis: Territorial inhabitants. High probability of theft/violence. CHA: 1 is insufficient for negotiation.]
His usual havens, seen through this new lens, were revealed for what they were: traps. Death sentences waiting to happen. He needed somewhere better. Somewhere secure.
His mind drifted to a place he, and every other stray in Silverport, avoided: the old Tide-Gut warehouse. It stood on a rotting pier at the far end of the docks, abandoned for years after the owner had gone bankrupt. The local children whispered that it was haunted, that the ghost of Old Man Hemlock still stalked the floors, searching for the debtors who ruined him.
[Analyzing Location: Tide-Gut Warehouse] [Threat Analysis: Supernatural presence unconfirmed (Probability < 0.1%). Human presence unlikely. Structural Integrity: Moderate. Primary Risk: Vermin (Non-aggressive).] [Conclusion: Optimal location for objective (1/2).]
The ghost was a lie, a story to scare children. The real threat was people, and the warehouse had none. Objective one had its solution.
Now for the harder part: a full, clean meal. His stomach twisted with a hunger so sharp it felt like a physical blow. The memory of the stale bread was a distant dream. He needed real food. And real food cost money.
He made his way toward the night market, a chaotic river of humanity flowing through the city's main square. The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat, spilled ale, and sweating bodies. Torches cast flickering shadows, making the crowd seem like some great, multi-limbed beast. He saw merchants hawking their wares, guards keeping a lazy peace, and nobles in fine clothes slumming for a bit of local flavor. And everywhere, he saw coins changing hands.
How could he get one? He could try to steal. The thought was a familiar one. He saw a merchant with a purse hanging loosely from his belt.
[New Skill Path Unlocked: Stealth] [Skill: Pickpocket (Level 0)] [DEX: 4. Probability of Success: 12%] [Consequence of Failure: Beating (90% probability), Arrest by City Watch (45% probability).]
The numbers were a splash of cold water. A 12% chance of success wasn't a chance; it was a fool's hope. He dismissed the idea. The risk was too high for the reward. He needed a different way.
He began to observe, not as a hungry boy, but as a hunter studying his prey. He watched the flow of commerce, looking for a weakness in the system, a niche he could exploit. He drifted towards the back alleys, where the taverns received their goods.
There, he found it. A single, burly dock worker named Gregor, a man Kaelen knew by sight, was struggling to unload a cart of provisions for the Salty Siren Inn. Barrels of ale, crates of salted fish, sacks of flour. The man was sweating profusely, his face a mask of frustration. He heaved a crate onto his shoulder, staggered a few steps, and set it down, breathing heavily.
[Analyzing Subject: Gregor (Dock Worker)] [Status: Fatigued, Stressed, Overwhelmed.] [Objective: Transport goods from cart to tavern cellar.] [Problem: Load exceeds single-worker capacity for timely delivery.]
Here was an opportunity. Not for theft, but for trade. His labor for a coin. He approached, his heart hammering. This was a test of his abysmal Charisma.
"Mister?" he squeaked, his voice barely audible over the market din.
Gregor didn't even look at him. "Get lost, rat. I've got no scraps."
[Social Interaction Failed. CHA check unsuccessful.]
The rejection was expected, but it still stung. The old Kaelen would have scurried away, tail between his legs. But the old Kaelen didn't have a quest log. He didn't have a +1 Attribute Point on the line.
He backed away, his mind racing. A direct approach had failed. The System didn't offer a solution, but it had given him the data: Gregor was overwhelmed. He didn't need a beggar; he needed help.
Kaelen changed his strategy. He didn't ask again. He waited until Gregor had hoisted a heavy barrel onto his shoulder and disappeared into the tavern. Then, Kaelen darted to the cart. He didn't try to lift the big crates. He grabbed a small, manageable bundle of dried herbs. It was light. He scurried to the tavern's back door and placed it neatly on the top step, then retreated into the shadows.
Gregor emerged moments later, grumbling to himself. He saw the bundle of herbs. He paused, a flicker of confusion on his face, before grabbing it and taking it inside.
When he came out again, Kaelen was already moving. He grabbed a string of onions this time, placing it in the same spot. He became a silent, efficient helper. A ghost in the alley. He moved sacks of potatoes, small wheels of cheese, and bundles of firewood, never taking anything heavy, but always moving something. He was creating a rhythm, making the pile on the cart shrink at a faster rate than Gregor's single-handed efforts could account for.
After the fifth trip, Gregor came out and stopped. He looked at the cart, then at the doorway, then into the shadows where Kaelen was hiding.
"All right, kid," he grunted, his voice no longer hostile, merely tired. "I see you. Come out."
Kaelen stepped timidly into the torchlight.
Gregor squinted at him. "You're the one. Been helping." It wasn't a question. He reached into a small pouch on his belt and pulled out two small, grimy copper coins. He tossed them on the ground in front of Kaelen.
"Here. You earned it. Now scram before the Watch thinks we're up to something."
Kaelen stared at the coins, his breath catching in his throat. They seemed to glow with a light brighter than the torches. He snatched them up, the metal cool and heavy in his palm. It was more money than he had ever possessed in his life. He mumbled a "thank you" and fled before the man could change his mind.
He clutched the coppers like they were the crown jewels. He didn't run to the nearest gambling den or trinket shop. He walked, with a purpose he'd never felt before, to a stall selling hot meat pies. The smell was intoxicating.
"One," he said to the vendor, his voice still quiet but firm. He placed the two coppers on the counter. The woman looked at him, then at the coins, shrugged, and handed him a steaming hot pie wrapped in a piece of parchment.
It was the first time he had ever bought food. Not begged for it, not stolen it, but bought it. The transaction felt momentous, a rite of passage.
He didn't devour it on the spot. He clutched his prize and navigated the labyrinthine alleys to the abandoned pier. The Tide-Gut warehouse loomed before him, dark and silent. He slipped through a broken board in the wall.
The inside was vast and smelled of old salt and decay. Moonlight streamed through grimy, high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It was quiet. It was safe. He found a corner, sheltered from drafts, and sat down on a pile of old, dry netting.
He ate the pie. Every bite was an explosion of flavor. The savory meat, the flaky crust, the rich gravy. It was warmth and sustenance and victory all rolled into one. He drank deeply from a waterskin he filled at a public well on the way.
He was safe. He was full.
A familiar, beautiful chime echoed in the silent warehouse.
[QUEST COMPLETE: A ROOF OVER YOUR HEAD] [OBJECTIVE (1/2): Find secure shelter. - SUCCESS] [OBJECTIVE (2/2): Acquire one full, clean meal. - SUCCESS]
The interface shimmered, the text glowing with triumph.
[REWARD ISSUED: 10 EXP, +1 ATTRIBUTE POINT]
The EXP bar at the bottom of his vision filled a little more. [EXP: 15/100]. But his eyes were fixed on the true prize. The text pulsed, awaiting his command.
[You have 1 Attribute Point to allocate. Please select an Attribute to increase.]
[STR: 2] [DEX: 4] [CON: 3] [INT: 6] [WIS: 7] [CHA: 1]
The choice felt heavier than any barrel on Gregor's cart. Strength, to fight back? Constitution, to endure the cold? Or Charisma... to never be dismissed as a "rat" again? He leaned back against the wall, the warmth of the pie spreading through his belly, and faced the first real decision of his new life.