The Scion of Kyo-Shang
Flynn, ever the vigilant leader, pressed onward, his gaze fixed on the dense, suffocating treeline of Zone C. The forest seemed to lean in, the grey branches intertwining like skeletal fingers overhead.
The group moved with a practiced caution, but the heavy atmosphere of the zone was broken when they stumbled upon another survivor navigating the treacherous roots. A new figure emerged from the gloom, standing with an ease that seemed out of place in this graveyard of trees. This was Jett Lee. George watched him curiously; the boy had short, dark hair that remained neatly styled despite the humidity, and light green, slightly upturned eyes that lent him a gentle, almost mischievous expression. His fair complexion and the confident, steady smile on his face highlighted a well-defined nose, giving him the air of someone who viewed danger as merely a spirited challenge.
George took in Jett's distinctive attire, which stood in stark contrast to their tattered Harvester uniforms. He wore a traditional, stylized Kyo-Shang hanfu. A high-collared black inner garment peeked out from beneath a richly decorated green and yellow outer layer. The sleeves were wide and flowing, edged with striking golden trim that shimmered even in the dim light. Black gauntlets protected his forearms, and small red decorative tassels dangled from his right shoulder, dancing with every step. Dark trousers completed the ensemble, and his lithe physique suggested a disciplined, artistic quality—moving more like a dancer than a brawler.
"may i ask, where is it that we are traveling to," Jett asked, his voice smooth and untroubled.
"We? Just because you where among the candidates fighting that Golem doesn't mean you're with us," Flynn snapped, his guard still raised, "who are you anway."
Jett offered a small, graceful bow. "I am Jett Lee. I suspect we are all heading toward the same center, though the path seems to be getting... restless."
No sooner had Jett spoken his name than the ground beneath their feet began to betray them. They had stepped onto a patch where the forest floor gave way to a pocket of fine, silt-like earth. What started as a silent, rhythmic tremor quickly escalated into a violent shaking that rattled the very roots of the ancient trees.
"The sand..." George muttered, feeling the familiar, insidious vibration he had encountered in the basin. "It's following us. It shouldn't be here, this far into the forest!"
The ground began to ripple like the surface of a disturbed lake. A low, grinding roar echoed from beneath the soil—the sound of the Sand Golem reassembling itself from the grains carried in the wind and tucked into the crevices of the earth.
"Guys, we need to leave, now!" Flynn's shout tore through the sudden, heavy stillness.
The group didn't hesitate. They scrambled, feet slipping on the churning earth as the forest floor began to sink into a massive, swirling maw. Jett moved with surprising fluidity, his flowing sleeves trailing behind him as he leapt over a collapsing root. George gripped Ascalon, the blade pulsing with a warning heat, as they fled the awakening hunger of the shifting earth.