The morning mist still clung to Greenwood Forest, curling around the trunks of ancient trees like ghostly serpents. Birds that had once sung now perched silently, wary after the devastation of the previous day. The forest smelled of ash and rain-soaked earth, and faint traces of scorched mana still lingered in the air.
High above, John glided effortlessly between the treetops. His black scales glistened with droplets of water from the light rain, his wings slicing through the fog. Below him, the burned clearing was a scar on the forest, a reminder of yesterday's encounter.
John's golden eyes scanned the terrain carefully, tracing mana signatures left by the retreating hunters. The trails were faint but not gone. Each step, each motion had left a trace—subtle imprints only someone with his senses could perceive.
"…Someone orchestrated this," he murmured, flexing a claw. "And they want me to find them."
