Kyle moved carefully through the field, kneeling beside a patch of oddly discolored weeds.
The stems were brittle, and the leaves emitted a faint bluish hue—the same shade that had become synonymous with the cursed rain.
He pinched one between his fingers and rubbed it gently. The plant crumbled like ash, leaving behind a faint smear of blue on his glove.
"This isn't just decay. It's rejection. The earth is rejecting its own life."
He muttered to himself.
A sharp twang echoed through the air, the unmistakable sound of a bowstring snapping loose.
A split second later came the thunk of something heavy hitting the ground. Kyle's head snapped up, his senses sharpening.
The sound had come from the north ridge—just a few hundred meters away.
Without hesitation, he moved.
The terrain was uneven, pockmarked by old irrigation trenches and abandoned tools. As Kyle crested a shallow hill, his eyes caught movement.
