Kruger's eyes narrowed as the sound of a twig snapping under a heavy footfall drew his attention. The dense jungle canopy muffled the sound, but his trained senses were still able to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. He quickly unsheathed his knife and crouched low, ready to strike at any moment.

—Who are they?—he whispered.

Suddenly, a strange, blue mist began to rise from the ground, and the sound of eerie chanting filled the air. Kruger's heart began to race as he felt a cold chill run down his spine. He knew that he was in the presence of something dark and supernatural, something beyond his understanding.

As the mist cleared, he saw a group of hooded figures standing in a circle. They appeared to be performing some sort of ritual, their eyes closed, their hands raised to the sky. The chanting grew louder and more intense, and Kruger realized that he was in grave danger.

He steeled himself, took a deep breath, and carefully began to edge closer to the group, his knife at the ready. But just as he was about to strike, he felt a cold hand wrap around his wrist. He struggled to free himself, but it was no use. The hand held him fast, and the figures turned to face him.

They were not human. Their faces were twisted and contorted, their eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. They began to speak in a strange, guttural language that Kruger did not understand. But this person who touched him was different...