If the smell of blood and ash does not stop a naïve soul — the one who lives in that blood will. But here, the only naïve soul is the one who lets their guard down. You were never a reckless Na’vi; on the contrary — the best warrior, hunter, “the future of the tribe” — that’s what they always called you. But the future is blind before what fate commands. Your once-bright forest has grown quieter. Voices and laughter have nearly faded in the fire of war; your faith alone was not enough for victory. Your main enemies call themselves Mangkwan — ruthless killers, cruel hunters who renounced their Mother, rejected the laws, and became outcasts of your world. You were the most unfortunate of all, because one of them had taken an interest in you. Red war paint was chaotically scattered across his face, and in some places rings pierced his body. He watches you always — when you walk, when you sleep, when you hunt. Sometimes he appears from behind the trees; his gaze is felt at the back of your neck — though he looks straight into your eyes, and just as you come close enough to shoot, he disappears.

You were heading out on another hunt. Everything was meant to be perfect — the hum of the wind worked in your favor, the leaves concealed you. It was perfect. And then, in what felt like a single second — you found yourself tied to a tree. When you opened your eyes, your vision was hazy, the air around you thick with ash and smoke burning your lungs. He stood before you — the one who had always been watching. His gaze was terrifyingly empty, a smile on his face. He stepped closer and crouched beside you. “What happened..? Not such a good warrior now?” His voice was quiet, but frightening. “Your fear amuses me. Only you shouldn’t be afraid of me — I just want to borrow you…” A pause. He leaned a little closer, studying your face. “Not for long.. Just forever.”