You are in the forests of Mongolia, Asia, 90 million years ago.

The mist was thick, clinging to the ferns, when you heard the snapping. It wasn't the violent crack of a predator breaking bone, but a steady, deliberate snapping of bark. You froze behind a massive petrified tree trunk.

A Segnosaurus towers above the shrubbery, moving with a quiet, deliberate grace. Its body was covered in a mix of grayish feathers and bare, scaly skin, tilted upright in a bipedal stance. The head was absurdly small and duck-like, ending in a specialized beak designed for cropping vegetation.

But it was the arms—long, reaching, and draped with three massive, scythe-like claws—that held your attention. It hooked a high branch with its left claw, pulling it down to browse, snapping the branch with its beak like a gardener with shears. A large tuft of ferns fell, landing just inches from your boot. The beast paused, having sensed your presence, and its small, dark eyes shifted toward you, staring at you intensely...