Dawn found Mike sitting cross-legged on a flat rock overlooking the river, his hand-drawn map spread across his knees. The night had passed without incident, his makeshift shelter within the tree grove providing adequate protection against the elements. His body still ached from the plunge off the cliff, but the worst of the injuries had begun to heal thanks to his enhanced recovery abilities.
Now, with a clearer mind and the safety of daylight, he carefully studied his route options. The river continued flowing eastward from his current position, eventually bending south according to the rudimentary topography shown on his map. If he followed it far enough, it would eventually pass relatively close to Crafter's Haven—perhaps within a day's journey overland from some point downstream.
"Could save a lot of time," Mike muttered, tracing the river's course with his finger.
The alternative was striking out overland immediately, retracing his steps through the mountain pass and back through the valley. Neither option was risk-free, but the river route offered several advantages: a consistent water source, generally downhill travel following the watercourse, and terrain that was likely more hospitable than the volcanic region and mountains he'd traversed to reach the obsidian source.
"River it is," he decided, carefully refolding the map and returning it to his pack.
His supplies had dried overnight, laid out carefully around a small fire he'd maintained for both warmth and protection. Food remained a concern—much of his perishable provisions had been lost during the plunge into the river, leaving him with only a few tuna fruits and strips of dried meat. The journey back to Crafter's Haven would take at least four days, possibly longer depending on the terrain and any obstacles he encountered.
"Have to forage along the way," Mike noted, dividing his remaining rations into meager daily portions.
With his pack secured, weapons in place, and the precious cargo of all three trap components carefully protected at the center of his belongings, Mike set out along the riverbank. The morning was pleasant, the air noticeably fresher than the sulfurous atmosphere of the volcanic region. Vegetation grew more abundant with each mile as he moved further from that blasted landscape, transitioning from stunted, heat-resistant varieties to more lush growth feeding on the river's moisture.
The going was easier than Mike had anticipated. The canyon walls had diminished to gentle slopes in most places, and game trails paralleled the river, providing relatively clear paths through the growing undergrowth. He maintained a cautious but steady pace, alert for potential dangers but encouraged by the apparent lack of immediate threats.
Mid-morning brought an unexpected bonus—a cluster of bushes laden with purple berries similar to those he'd found edible near Crafter's Haven. Mike harvested as many as he could comfortably carry, sampling a few to confirm they were indeed the same variety. Their tart sweetness was a welcome change from the increasingly tough dried meat and somewhat bruised tuna fruits that had comprised his recent diet.
"Things are looking up," Mike said to himself, popping another berry into his mouth as he continued downstream.
By late afternoon, Mike had covered considerable distance, his pace aided by the generally favorable conditions. The only significant obstacle had been a section where a recent landslide had obliterated the bank entirely, forcing him to climb over a jumble of earth and fallen trees before rejoining the water's edge. His hands were scratched and bleeding by the time he made it across, but the delay had been minimal compared to what he'd feared.
As evening approached, Mike began searching for a suitable campsite. The river had turned more southerly, matching the general direction shown on his map. If his estimates were correct, he had covered nearly a third of the distance back to Crafter's Haven in a single day—far better progress than he had dared hope for.
"One more day along the river, then cut overland," Mike calculated, studying the landscape ahead.
Mike made camp on a small rise overlooking the water, using fallen branches to construct a simple lean-to against a large boulder. The night passed peacefully, the rustling of vegetation in the night breeze occasionally drawing his attention but presenting no real concerns. His dreams, for once, were undisturbed by terrors or memories of home, his exhausted body and mind demanding complete rest.
The second day of river travel dawned clear and warm. Mike set out early, eager to maintain his good progress. The terrain continued to favor his journey, the forest receding slightly from the riverbank to create a natural path that required minimal bushwhacking. As he rounded a bend in the river, the water suddenly widened considerably, spreading into a series of interconnected pools before reforming into a single watercourse beyond.
"Not swimming across that," Mike decided, eyeing the deep, still water with suspicion.
The detour around the pools added hours to his journey, forcing him to navigate through increasingly dense vegetation as he moved away from the river's edge. Thorny vines snagged his clothing, and the ground became boggy in places, each step requiring careful testing before committing his weight. By the time he rejoined the river beyond the pool system, the sun had passed its zenith, and much of the day's potential travel time had been lost.
"Could be worse," Mike reminded himself, pausing to empty his boots of accumulated mud and water.
The river narrowed again beyond the pools, its current quickening as it flowed through a more confined channel. The banks became steeper, limiting viable pathways to a narrow strip between the water and increasingly vertical walls. In places, rockfalls had obliterated the path entirely, forcing Mike to wade through shallow sections of the river itself, the cold water numbing his feet and adding to his physical discomfort.
By evening, it was clear he hadn't covered nearly as much ground as on the first day. The pools and subsequent difficult terrain had significantly slowed his progress. According to his map, he should have reached the point where he needed to turn southwest, away from the river and toward Crafter's Haven. Instead, he estimated he was still several miles short of that critical juncture.
"Tomorrow," Mike told himself as he set up another riverside camp. "One more day, then overland."
The night brought the first real challenge since leaving the volcanic region. Dark clouds rolled in from the north, bringing with them a sudden, drenching rainfall that quickly overwhelmed Mike's hastily constructed shelter. Lightning split the sky in jagged patterns, followed almost immediately by thunder that shook the ground beneath him. The temperature dropped precipitously, leaving Mike shivering in soaked clothing as he huddled beneath the minimal protection of an overhanging rock face.
Sleep proved impossible under these conditions. Mike passed the night in miserable wakefulness, watching as the river rose steadily with the influx of rainwater. By dawn, it had overflowed its banks in places, transforming parts of his intended route into submerged marsh. The rain continued unabated, reducing visibility to mere yards and turning the already difficult terrain into a treacherous quagmire.
"Perfect," Mike muttered, surveying the flooded landscape in the gray light of morning.
With no choice but to continue, Mike packed his sodden belongings and set out once more along the river. Progress was painfully slow, each step requiring careful consideration to avoid hazards hidden beneath muddy water or loose stones made slick by constant rainfall. Several times, he slipped and fell, coating himself in mud and further soaking his already drenched clothing. The cold began to seep into his bones, his teeth chattering despite the physical exertion of the difficult travel.
By midday, Mike faced a critical decision. The river had risen enough to make further progress along its banks increasingly dangerous, with deeper waters now covering much of his route. According to his map, he still hadn't reached the ideal turning point for his overland journey to Crafter's Haven. But continuing along the river in these conditions risked not just delay but genuine peril.
"Cut losses," Mike decided, studying his map through the curtain of rain. "Head southwest from here."
The overland route would be more difficult than following the river but staying near the increasingly flooded watercourse was becoming untenable. Mike adjusted his course, turning away from the river and beginning the climb up toward higher ground where he hoped the flooding would be less severe.
The terrain immediately became more challenging. Without the relatively level path provided by the riverbank, Mike found himself tackling increasingly steep slopes covered in vegetation made slippery by the continuous rainfall. The ground seemed to liquefy beneath his feet in places, creating small mudslides that threatened to carry him back down toward the swollen river below.
Using his axe as an improvised climbing tool, Mike hacked handholds in the earth and vegetation, creating a series of anchors that allowed him to make slow but steady progress upward. His hands, already scratched and bruised from previous exertions, developed fresh injuries as he grappled with sharp rocks and thorny plants. Blood mixed with rainwater, stinging his palms with each new handhold.
By late afternoon, Mike had reached higher ground, a rolling landscape of low hills that offered better drainage and somewhat firmer footing than the riverside route. The rain continued undiminished, but at least here the water ran off rather than accumulating in treacherous pools. According to his map, Crafter's Haven now lay directly southwest, perhaps two days' journey across this hill country.
"Two days in good weather," Mike corrected himself, surveying the stormy landscape. "Three or four in this."
Finding shelter became the immediate priority as darkness approached. The hills offered few natural options, with no caves or significant overhangs visible in the immediate vicinity. After an hour of increasingly desperate searching, Mike located a depression on the leeward side of a hill, partially protected from the wind and rain by a stunted tree whose branches grew almost horizontally in response to the prevailing weather patterns.
Using his axe, Mike expanded the depression, digging into the hillside to create a shallow cave. The work was exhausting after a full day of difficult travel, but the prospect of even minimal shelter drove him to continue despite his fatigue. Eventually, he had excavated enough space to lie down, using branches from the tree and his own pack to create a barrier against the worst of the rain.
The night passed in fitful discomfort, the makeshift shelter proving only partially effective against the continuing storm. Mike's clothing remained soaked, chilling him despite his body's enhanced resistance to environmental extremes. Food had become a serious concern, with much of his remaining supplies spoiled or ruined by water damage. He rationed what little remained, knowing he faced at least two more days of travel before reaching Crafter's Haven.
Morning brought no relief from the storm. If anything, the wind had intensified overnight, driving the rain horizontally across the hillsides. Visibility remained limited to a few dozen yards at best, forcing Mike to navigate primarily by compass direction rather than landmarks. He set out southwest, using his map as a general guide while relying on his innate sense of direction to maintain course through the featureless gray landscape.
The day that followed tested Mike's endurance beyond anything he had yet experienced in this world. The constant rain turned every depression into a potential hazard, concealing holes and unstable ground beneath seemingly solid surfaces. Multiple times, Mike found himself waist-deep in suddenly yielding earth, struggling to extract himself from the clinging mud while protecting his precious cargo of trap components from damage.
The hills themselves, smooth and rolling from a distance, proved deceptively difficult to traverse. What appeared to be gradual slopes often concealed sharp drop-offs or unstable scree fields that collapsed beneath weight. Making matters worse, small streams had formed in every valley between the hills, swollen by the continuing rain into fast-flowing obstacles that required either fording in dangerous conditions or lengthy detours to find narrower crossing points.
By nightfall, Mike had covered less than half the distance he had hoped. His body ached with fatigue, and hunger had become a constant gnawing presence. The rain showed no signs of abating, the low cloud ceiling occasionally illuminated by distant lightning. Finding shelter proved even more challenging than the previous night, with no suitable depressions or trees available in his immediate vicinity.
Mike eventually settled for creating a minimal windbreak from the largest rocks he could gather, supplemented by branches broken from scattered shrubs. It provided almost no protection from the rain but did reduce the impact of the wind somewhat, allowing him to conserve marginally more body heat as he huddled against the stones.
Sleep came in brief bursts, each period of unconsciousness ended by some new discomfort—water pooling beneath him, sudden gusts of wind driving rain through gaps in his shelter, or simply the bone-deep chill that had settled into his body despite his enhanced resilience. During these wakeful periods, Mike found himself dwelling on the components in his pack, mentally reviewing the trap blueprint and reassuring himself that the special wood, crystals, and obsidian remained secure despite the punishing conditions.
The third day away from the river dawned with the first sign of improvement in the weather. The rain had diminished to a steady drizzle rather than the driving downpour of the previous days. Wind still gusted across the hills, but with reduced force, and visibility had improved enough that Mike could see features of the landscape beyond his immediate surroundings.
Most importantly, he could now make out what appeared to be the edge of the hill country ahead, where the rolling terrain gave way to the more level ground surrounding Crafter's Haven. According to his map, he was now perhaps a day's journey from his destination—assuming reasonable travel conditions, which remained far from guaranteed.
"Almost there," Mike told himself, ignoring the hunger pangs that had become a constant companion.
His provisions were now entirely depleted, leaving him no choice but to continue without food. Water, at least, remained abundant thanks to the storm, though drinking directly from puddles and streams carried its own risks. Mike pushed these concerns aside, focusing entirely on making progress toward Crafter's Haven and the security it represented.
The improved weather allowed for better pace, though the terrain remained treacherous from days of constant rainfall. Mud made every slope a potential slide, and the saturated ground sometimes gave way unexpectedly, creating hidden sinkholes that could trap an unwary traveler. Mike moved with cautious determination, testing each step before committing his weight, using his axe as both walking staff and impromptu testing probe.
By midday, he had reached the edge of the hill country, the landscape gradually flattening as he descended toward the valley containing Crafter's Haven. With clearer visibility, he could now confirm his heading, making minor course corrections to align directly with his destination rather than relying solely on compass direction.
The weather continued to improve throughout the afternoon, the clouds thinning enough to allow occasional glimpses of blue sky. The drizzle faded to intermittent showers, and by late afternoon had ceased entirely. For the first time in days, Mike could remove his rain-soaked outer garments and allow them to begin drying as he walked.
As evening approached, the clouds parted sufficiently to allow the setting sun to break through, illuminating the landscape with golden light. In the distance, Mike could finally see it—the distinctive silhouette of the ruins, Crafter's Haven standing just as he had left it nearly two weeks earlier.
The sight gave him renewed energy, pushing aside the fatigue and hunger that had threatened to overwhelm him. Mike increased his pace, ignoring the protests of his battered body. Less than five miles separated him from shelter, from the underground chambers with their stored supplies, from the workshop where he would begin constructing the Void Ripper trap.
Night fell before he could reach the Haven, forcing one final camp in the open. But unlike previous nights, the sky remained largely clear, stars appearing in unfamiliar patterns overhead. The ground was still wet, but at least no new rain fell to soak Mike's gradually drying clothing. He made a simple camp, foregoing shelter in favor of open sky and the psychological comfort of being able to see the distant Haven throughout the night.
Sleep came more easily than it had in days, though hunger still gnawed at him and the damp ground leeched heat from his body. His dreams were filled with images of the components he carried—the special wood, the blue crystals, the obsidian—assembling themselves into the trap design he had memorized from the interface. In the dream, the completed trap glowed with internal power, ready to fulfill its purpose.
Dawn found Mike already awake and packing his meager camp. The sun rose in a clear sky, burning away the last remnants of mist that had settled in the valley overnight. The ruins of Crafter's Haven stood clearly visible ahead, no more than a few hours' journey at a normal pace.
Mike set out immediately, not even pausing to look for potential food sources. The hunger that had plagued him could wait a few more hours—reaching the Haven with its stored supplies and security took absolute priority. His pace was strong despite days of insufficient nutrition and difficult travel, his body drawing on reserves he hadn't known he possessed.
The terrain cooperated for once, the valley floor presenting relatively easy walking conditions now that the worst of the water had drained away. Occasional muddy patches and small streams required minor detours, but nothing compared to the challenges of the hill country during the storm. Mike maintained a steady rhythm, each step bringing him visibly closer to his destination.
By mid-morning, he had reached the outer perimeter of Crafter's Haven, the familiar stone structures rising before him like old friends welcoming his return. The damage from his earlier battles with the goblins and tryclops remained visible, but the core buildings stood intact, including the one housing the entrance to the underground chambers.
As Mike crossed the threshold into the Haven, a notification appeared—different from any he had seen before. The text was still largely incomprehensible, but three words stood out with perfect clarity: [WELCOME] [HOME] [CRAFTER].
For once, Mike didn't question the strange system that had guided and warned him throughout his time in this world. Those three words, whatever their intended meaning, felt right. Crafter's Haven wasn't Earth, wasn't his true home with Sarah and Jeremy. But it was shelter, safety, a place where he had built something from nothing and might yet build more.
Including, he reminded himself as he made his way toward the underground entrance, a trap for the most dangerous predator this world had yet shown him.
The components in his pack had been hard-won, each presenting unique challenges and requiring specific journeys to obtain. Now came the final test—transforming those raw materials into a functional device capable of neutralizing the Void Ripper. The blueprint waited in the underground chamber, the workshop stood ready for his use, and Mike's enhanced building skills had never been sharper.
It was time to begin construction.