Clawing their way onto the muddy bank felt like breaching the surface after drowning. They collapsed in a heap of sodden, shivering misery, the roar of Hammer Falls a fading thunder upstream, replaced by the gentle murmur of the now-manageable river beside them. For long moments, only the ragged sound of desperate gasps for breath filled the air, mingling with the steady drip of water from soaked clothes onto the damp earth. Bruised, battered, chilled to the bone, but undeniably alive.

  A shaky, almost hysterical giggle escaped Caspian, quickly turning into a coughing fit. Julia sagged against a moss-covered tree root, eyes closed, simply breathing. Relief, potent and overwhelming, washed through William, a system diagnostic confirming. Survival Probability: Updated to Non-Zero.

  But Roland allowed only moments for this raw relief. “Status!” he rasped, pushing himself upright despite his own visible exhaustion, sword still in hand, scanning their precarious position. “Injuries? Gear?”

  A quick, fumbling assessment followed. Miraculously, no broken bones, though scrapes, deep bruises, and wrenched muscles were abundant. Their hastily secured packs were present, thanks to Roland's foresight, but utterly waterlogged. Roland immediately directed an inventory. Packs were opened, spilling soaked contents. Oilskin wraps had saved bedrolls and spare clothes from the worst, but food rations were sodden, likely starting to spoil. Roland meticulously wiped down his sword, inspecting for damage, while Jett grimly assessed his bow and sodden arrow fletchings. Caspian frantically checked his leather satchel, breathing a sigh of relief as his core notes, wrapped in waxed canvas, seemed mostly intact. William ran a quick EMMA inventory. Resources: Foodstuffs (Integrity Compromised), Ammunition (Jett - Functional after drying), Medical Supplies (Sealed - OK), Rope (Present), Repair Tools (Present). Critical Asset Loss: Herbert's Boat. They had the essentials, but were running on limited supplies deep in hostile territory.

  “We’re exposed here,” Roland stated, his gaze sweeping the dense woods. “We need shelter, warmth. Now.” He scanned the area, then nodded towards Jett. “Find us a defensible campsite. Concealed.”

  Jett, moving with less of his usual ghost-like grace due to exhaustion but still with practiced efficiency, scouted briefly and led them a short distance inland to a dry hollow, screened by thick bushes and overshadowed by ancient pines. A large, fallen log offered some windbreak.

  The immediate priority was fire. Gathering truly dry tinder proved difficult in the damp forest, but Roland, demonstrating his practical upbringing again, patiently shaved dry slivers from the inside of a dead branch until he had enough to catch the spark from his flint and steel. He carefully nurtured the tiny flame, feeding it twigs until a small, smokeless fire crackled merrily in a pit Jett cleared, a vital beacon against the encroaching chill.

  They huddled around it, stripping off wet outer layers, draping soaked clothes and gear on nearby branches, hoping the meagre heat would dry them before night fully fell. As the warmth began to seep into their chilled bones, conversation started, subdued, fragmented.

  “Your shield held remarkably well, Julia,” Roland commented quietly, examining a deep score mark on his own armour that hadn't penetrated. “Impressive control under that kind of pressure.”

  Julia just managed a tired nod, rubbing her temples. “The cost was… significant, Sir Roland. My reserves are low.”

  Caspian, carefully applying a salve from their medical kit to a nasty scrape on William's forearm, looked up. “William… the jump itself… how could you possibly anticipate the trajectory off that rock?”

  William met the prince's curious gaze, opting for calculated vagueness. “Analysis of the water flow, Your Highness, combined with… assessing the likely interaction dynamics based on the boat's velocity and hull angle.” Translation: EMMA ran the numbers on a desperate gamble. “Mostly educated guesswork and luck,” he added truthfully.

  Jett, returning silently from checking the perimeter, added only, “River read was good. Call was right time,” before settling down to meticulously dry his arrow fletchings near the heat.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  While Jett took first watch, melting into the shadows. As the small fire crackled, driving back the worst of the chill, conversation remained subdued but present, punctuated by the sounds of gear being checked and minor wounds being tended. Cuts were carefully cleaned with precious fresh water saved from their skins. Julia, her expression focused, gently applied a thin layer of antiseptic salve from their meagre medical kit to the worst of the bleeding scrapes on Caspian's arms where he'd hit the gunwale during the landing. She bandaged the wound sparingly with clean cloth. “Save the rest,” Roland murmured, watching her careful work. “Supplies are limited. We don't know what lies ahead.” Other minor cuts and bruises were simply cleaned or left to nature's care, their resources wouldn't stretch to treating every scrape.

  Just as full darkness enveloped the forest, Jett reappeared as silently as he’d left, carrying the carcass of a young wild boar over his shoulders and a clutch of muddy tubers. Everyone’s face literally shone in anticipation, hot food would be an absolute luxury given their circumstances.

  They butchered the boar quickly and efficiently under Roland's direction, wasting nothing. The meat was tough and gamey, far from the delicacies Caspian was accustomed to, but it was sustenance, fuel for their weary bodies. Instead of roasting it over an open fire, a luxury they couldn't afford, they wrapped manageable portions of the meat in thick layers of large, damp leaves secured with wet twine, burying the packets deep within the fire's embers. The tubers Jett had also found went directly into the hot ashes beneath. This slow cooking method trapped the heat and minimized the smoke and revealing aroma.

  The slow cooking process enforced a period of quiet waiting. The adrenaline had faded completely now, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the mental echo of the roaring water. They sat huddled near the embers, the shared ordeal forging a fragile bond of mutual reliance.

  It was during this quiet lull, feeling the warmth seep back into his limbs and his mana slowly recovering (MP: 75/136 - Passive regen + Title bonus active), that William allowed himself a full internal system review. He accessed his EMMA status. Level 4. XP: 800/5000. And the notification: Unallocated Stat Points: 3.

  Three points. A significant buffer. His mind immediately started modelling allocation scenarios. Option A: Maximize Agility (currently 20)? Critical for stealth, evasion, potentially boat balance if needed again. Option B: Boost Vitality (currently 17)? Increases HP buffer (now 170), enhances endurance for the trek, improves resistance to injury/environment. Option C: Increase Magical Power (currently 26)? Expands Max Mana pool (now 136) for sustained EMMA use, potentially minor boost to Force Dart and other spell effects.

  Each path offered advantages tailored to different potential crises. But the mission parameters were too variable, the threats too unpredictable. Specializing now felt like betting heavily on a single, uncertain forecast. User Preference: Maintain resource flexibility for critical need deployment. He recalled his pre-trial reluctance to spend points. That caution felt amplified now. Better to have the points available to address a specific, immediate crisis, a sudden need for speed, resilience, or analytical power, rather than commit them based on current, incomplete data. Decision: Defer allocation. Maintain 3 unallocated points in reserve. Adaptability remains key. He dismissed the status screen.

  Later, after they had retrieved the leaf-wrapped boar meat, cooked tender and juicy in its own steam, and the soft, earthy tubers, and eaten in near silence, the shared meal replenishing some vital energy, William found himself recalling Herbert’s other warning. The fire was low embers now, casting flickering shadows.

  He cleared his throat. “Something else Herbert mentioned…” he began, keeping his voice low. He recounted the fisherman’s fearful whispers. The 'Black Pools' downstream, the area where the rapids supposedly ended, the missing fishermen, the rumours of something old, big, and hungry lurking in the deep, still water.

  A new silence fell, different from the forest's earlier unnatural quiet. This one was filled with uneasy speculation. Caspian shivered, pulling his cloak tighter despite the fire's warmth. Julia frowned, clearly searching her considerable knowledge of arcane fauna. Roland stroked his beard, his expression thoughtful, skeptical but not entirely dismissive. “Drunken tales often have roots in truth,” he mused quietly. “Tallenwood is old. We proceed with extreme caution near any deep water downstream.”

  Jett, who had been silently observing the fire, looked up, his eyes reflecting the embers like a predator's. “Black Pools,” he stated flatly, his voice a low rasp. “Bad water. Unlucky place. Things get lost there.” He offered no further explanation, but his terse confirmation lent Herbert's drunken terror a chilling weight. “Best skirt wide,” he concluded, before lapsing back into silence.

  The warning hung in the air, a new, unknown variable added to their already complex equation. They had survived the Hammer. But something else might be waiting further downstream. William banked the embers carefully, preparing for his own watch later, the silence of the woods no longer feeling empty, but watchful.