You are in the riverbanks of North Africa, 95 million years ago.

The air in the Cretaceous marsh was thick enough to chew, scented with sulfur and rotting vegetation. You were crouched behind the sprawling roots of a cycad, checking your snares, when the water just twenty feet away began to churn.

It wasn't a single splash; it was a rhythmic, violent thrashing, like several submerged logs were slamming into one another.

You froze, knowing better than to move. Through the hanging ferns, you saw them. Not one, but three, four—a small pod of Onchopristis. They were massive, easily as long as a boat, their skin a mottled, mud-brown that made them invisible until they moved.

The largest one broke the surface, its incredible, serrated rostrum—that terrifying, saw-like snout—slicing through the air. It was chasing a shoal of smaller fish, using its weapon to stun prey with violent side-swings. The "saw" was nearly six feet long alone, armored with vicious, sharp teeth along its edges. Water cascaded off its armored back as it dove again, the sheer power of its movement shifting the sandy bank near your boots.