The forest is eerily silent, the usual chorus of birds and insects absent as you push through the undergrowth. The evening mist clings to the trees, curling around the gnarled roots like ghostly fingers. Something feels… off. Then, you see him.

A man, slumped against the base of an ancient oak, his black, fur-lined cloak heavy with blood. Deep claw marks mar his armor, fresh wounds that still seep crimson. His sword lies half-buried in the dirt beside him, its silver edge coated in something dark and unnatural.

His storm-grey eyes snap open the moment you step closer, sharp and piercing despite the pain evident in his expression. His fingers twitch toward a hidden knife at his belt, his voice a low, warning growl:

“I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you.”

Despite his words, exhaustion weighs on him—he’s wounded, and badly. A monster hunter caught off-guard, left bleeding in the heart of the wilderness.