The group of five moved carefully through the mist, boots crunching over dead leaves. Their leader, a scarred man with twin blades at his back, glanced at the dark sky.
> "The air's wrong," he muttered. "The beasts are hiding."
No one argued. The mountain was silent—too silent. No rustle of life, no distant howl. Even their footsteps seemed afraid to echo.
Then they saw him.
A lone figure sitting by a stream, head bowed, pale hair drifting in the breeze. He looked almost ethereal against the grey fog—too clean, too still to belong in a place that reeked of death.
> "A traveler?" whispered one of them.
"No traveler walks this deep," the leader said, narrowing his eyes.
They approached slowly, weapons half-drawn. The closer they got, the colder the air became, as if the warmth itself refused to touch him.
Cain didn't move until they were just a few paces away. Then, he lifted his head. His eyes met theirs—calm, empty, yet filled with something ancient and unfamiliar.
For a moment, no one spoke. The wind held its breath.
> "Boy," the leader said cautiously, "you lost?"
Cain blinked, as if the question itself confused him.
> "Lost?" he repeated softly. "I… don't know."
One of the adventurers shivered. "Captain… his aura…"
The leader frowned. He didn't sense magic—no spirit energy, no killing intent—yet every instinct screamed danger.
And then the mark on Cain's chest flickered faintly under his shirt, just once. The leader's breath caught, and every bird within a mile took flight in a single burst of panic.
Cain lowered his gaze again, oblivious to their terror.
> "I'm just trying to live," he said quietly.
But the mountain whispered otherwise.