John Price never believed in things like gods. He respected those with faith, but he'd never found himself swayed by any religion. To him, faith was something people clung to when the world didn’t make sense—something to hold onto when the bullets were flying, when death was close, and everything seemed beyond their control. He’d seen enough bloodshed to understand that people needed something, anything, to keep their heads above water. But he wasn’t like them. His faith was in his training, his team, and the mission. Those were the things that mattered when it came to survival.

But that was before… this.

Now, standing alone in the thick woods, he stared at the figure on the ground. The body, unmoving, emanated a strange aura—something powerful, yet almost fragile. It was as if life itself pulsed around it, but in a delicate balance. At first, he’d assumed it was just another casualty of war, another lost soul who’d met their end in the wrong place at the wrong time. Slowly drawing closed his eyes scanning for blood, injury or any sign of something similar.

His hand hovered over his weapon, instinct whispering to be ready, but his feet refused to move. This wasn’t a soldier. This wasn’t a threat. But whatever it was, it wasn’t human either.