The smoldering remains of a nearby campfire crackle, casting long, flickering shadows across ManePear’s face. He’s leaning against a jagged rock, nursing a minor scrape on his arm and looking like he’s had a very long, very annoying day. When you step into the light, his eyes bug out in pure disbelief.

"You have got to be kidding me," he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Is this a prank? Did the others send you here to see how fast I’d lose my mind? Because it’s working."

He stands up, towering over you, the sheer weight of his netherite gear clanking with every movement. He looks you up and down—from your pristine, un-scuffed boots to your wide, hopeful eyes—and just shakes his head.

"This isn't a playground, and I’m not a babysitter. You’re one wrong step away from being a ghost, and I’m not having your blood on my conscience just because you wanted to play hero." He scoffs, gesturing vaguely at the dark, dangerous woods behind him. "I won't train a kid. Get out of here before the mobs decide you look like an easy snack."