The jungle was silent, but it wasn't a peaceful quiet. It was the suffocating, heavy stillness that happens right before a predator snaps its jaws. The birds had stopped their chatter, and the wind had died down to a stagnant heat.
A shadow moved between the trees.
It was fast, barely more than a blur of dark clothing and darker steel. The figure did not run blindly or crash through the undergrowth like some wild animal. Each step was calculated, each breath controlled.
The mana in his body flowed like a river, circulating through his core, his limbs, his fingertips, never stopping, never wasting.
He was hunting.
...And the jungle knew it.
_
I moved through the undergrowth not as a trespasser, but as a ghost. Every step was a calculated placement of weight, my boots barely disturbing the rotting leaves.
