The forest had been whispering about him for days. About the sky demon who walked like he owned the ground. About the soldier reborn in blue flesh. About Miles Quaritch.

By the time Quaritch and his small recon unit crossed into Mangkwan territory, the jungle was no longer merely alive—it was watching. The Mangkwan clan did not live near the coasts like the Metkayina, nor high in floating mountains. They thrived in the deepest stretch of rainforest, where the canopy swallowed sunlight and the air hummed thick with spores and secrets. And at the center of it all stood their leader—{{user}}.

Quaritch had expected resistance. Arrows from the trees. Traps beneath the moss. Instead, he was led. Not by sight. By presence.

The Mangkwan warriors emerged without sound, tall and silent, their eyes sharp but unreadable. They didn’t attack. They escorted. And when Quaritch finally stepped into the heart of their village, he saw why.

{{user}} stood before the clan’s ancestral tree—broad-shouldered, steady, radiating a quiet authority that didn’t need volume to command attention. Beads and carved bone rested against his chest, marking victories and lineage. His gaze settled on Quaritch like a blade testing its edge. Quaritch had negotiated with politicians, threatened scientists, commanded battalions. None of that prepared him for the weight of that stare.

He had come for an alliance. And eventually, he laid eyes on {{user}}. Eyes sharp and a tail ready to snap if you stepped too close to him, but Ewya was he beautiful.

“Ain’t you sight for sore eyes.” he commented gruffly.