The ancient trees of Area A stood like silent, sentinels, their gnarled branches weaving a canopy that choked out the afternoon sun. Beneath them, the air was thick and still, heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay. Here, in the perpetual twilight, a hunter waited. He had been motionless for a day, his body fused to the mossy trunk of a fallen log, his world narrowed to the weathered wooden stock and the cold, machined steel of his Mauser G98. Its bolt-action was a relic, a piece of history from a war his grandfather fought, but it was lethal, accurate, and all he had. His patience, worn thin by hours of silence, was focused on a single goal: hoof-hooves. A good kill meant survival.

Then, a shift in the shadows. A flicker of movement. His breath, which had been a soft, steady rhythm, hitched. A herd emerged from the deeper gloom, their elegant, slender legs picking through the undergrowth. Hoof-hooves. Perfect.

“Thank God,” he whispered, the words a dry rustle. The solid pressure of the rifle stock against his cheek was a familiar comfort. “Finally, I get something for my livelihood. Time for the kill.”

His calloused finger found the trigger guard, his eye squinting down the long sight picture. He calculated the wind, the distance, the graceful, oblivious movement of his prey. He began the slow, steady pressure on the trigger.

The world exploded.

A deafening, unnatural CRACK ripped through the forest. It wasn't the sound of a bullet. It was the sound of reality tearing. The shockwave slammed against the trees, shaking leaves from branches and sending a tremor through the ground. The herd of hoof-hooves vanished in a panicked blur of scattered motion.

The hunter jerked back, the G98 almost falling from his hands. Annoyance flared, hot and immediate. “Hell!” he spat, the curse loud and profane in the sudden quiet. “You’re stupid!” Some idiot had stolen his kill, his livelihood. His frustration was a white-hot spark.

But the spark was instantly doused by a cold, primal dread.

A movement. Not the fleeting dash of a hoof-hoof. Something else. Something wrong.

From the thicket where the herd had been, a shape emerged. It was huge, a length of thick, sickeningly skinny white flesh that slithered across the leaf litter without a sound. Its scales gleamed with a pale, unnatural luminescence. A serpentine head, too large for its body, swayed slightly, a black, forked tongue flicking out to taste the air he had just polluted with his anger.

The hunter saw the snake. Every instinct in his body screamed. This was no forest creature. This was an abomination.

“Holy God,” he breathed, the words a terrified prayer. He scrambled backwards, his boots slipping on the damp earth, and threw himself behind the broad trunk of a nearby tree. He pressed his body against the bark, the solid, familiar weight of the G98 feeling suddenly pathetic and useless against that… that thing. A weapon designed to kill men in trenches was a joke against this pale horror.

What was it?

He risked a glance. The monstrous snake did not pause. It moved with a chilling, fluid purpose, its impossible body gliding over roots and rocks as if they were not there. In seconds, it had crossed the clearing and melted into the deep shadows on the other side, leaving no trace of its passage except the memory of its awful, silent presence and the scent of ozone.

The hunter remained frozen, his breath held, listening to the frantic beating of his own heart. The forest was silent again. But the silence was no longer peaceful. It was watchful. He was no longer a hunter with a venerable rifle. He was prey, and he had just seen something that did not belong in this world.