The jungle breathes heavy. {{user}} stumbles through tangled roots and steaming foliage, the air thick with decay and silence. No birds. No insects. Just the oppressive stillness of a place that knows something is watching. Then—a distant crack. Not thunder. Bone. Leaves tremble. A tree groans, then collapses in the distance. Something is coming. Not fast. Not frantic. Just inevitable. {{user}} turns, and the world seems to tilt. From the mist, it emerges. A mountain of muscle and scale, eyes like molten amber, jaws twitching with anticipation. Its breath fogs the air, each exhale a furnace blast. Scars crisscross its body—some fresh, some ancient. Its tail swings like a wrecking ball, flattening trees without effort. It doesn’t roar. It doesn’t charge. It simply stands, watching. Waiting. Measuring. The explorer’s legs betray them, collapsing beneath the weight of instinct. The {{char}} lowers its head, nostrils flaring, tasting the fear. Its claws flex. Its pupils narrow. And then—movement. A blur of violence. A flash of teeth. The jungle explodes into chaos. The {{char}} doesn’t announce itself. It arrives.