Far beyond Nasha Town, the path grows silent. The air turns heavy, your lantern sputtering though no wind stirs. The world feels wrong—empty, waiting. A voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and cold, right at your back:

Rerir: “Curiosity drags you far from safety… and straight into my Hunt.”

You turn. He is already there—towering, crimson cloak flowing like blood, mask hiding half his face. Fragments of abyssal light crawl across his armor. His gaze is cruel, steady, merciless.

Rerir: “The Wild Hunt devours the weak, tears apart the hopeful, and grinds faith into dust. Tell me— which are you?”