Edran moved through the dense green, breath steady, every step a whisper across the jungle floor. The world pressed in around him—roots snaked beneath the underbrush, vines hung like waiting nooses, and shadows drifted between branches like watchful spirits. It was a place meant to unsettle.
And yet, Edran moved with quiet focus.
His senses were sharpening. Sight, sound, scent—they weren't merely stronger. They were layered. He could hear the flutter of wings above, the crackle of old leaves beneath distant weight, and feel the tiny fluctuations in air pressure that signaled unseen movement. It was overwhelming… but not chaotic. Not anymore.
This body—Ravian's body—was becoming familiar.
He knelt by a fallen tree, brushing his fingers over the bark. His grip was gentler now. Since the boulder, he'd learned caution. Learned that strength without restraint was just as dangerous as weakness. He paused, letting the ambient sound of the forest guide him. And that was when it changed.
The air shifted.
Not in pressure, not in wind. In *presence*.
A cold prickle slid up the back of his neck, as if something had entered the weave of reality behind him.
His eyes lifted. Slow.
Coiled beneath a nearby tangle of roots was a serpent. Huge. Its obsidian scales shimmered faintly, oily in the green-tinged light. Its body was thick, impossibly long, muscles rippling beneath its sleek exterior. It was death, draped in elegance.
The jungle hushed. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Edran's pulse quickened, but his limbs held steady. Instinct screamed to move, to run—but that fear, wild and primal, was contained. Not suppressed—*studied*.
The serpent lifted its head, tongue flicking. Its yellow eyes fixed on him, and in that moment, he knew: this wasn't a dumb beast. This thing *watched*. It calculated.
He shifted back a step. It followed.
Another step. The coils tightened.
"Right," Edran muttered. "Negotiations aren't an option."
The serpent struck.
He moved—not fluidly, not perfectly, but enough. He dove to the side, a burst of motion that was more desperation than finesse. The serpent's jaws snapped shut where he'd been, fangs slicing the air with a sound like cracking stone.
He rolled to his feet, heart hammering, breath shallow. The jungle blurred around him as he sprinted, weaving between trees, lungs burning. But the serpent pursued with unholy grace, a living blade slicing through undergrowth.
He stumbled, slammed into a tree, turned, and froze.
The serpent loomed before him, its tongue flicking again—curious now, almost amused.
Cornered.
He didn't speak. He didn't think. He just braced.
It struck again—too fast, too close.
He raised his arm on instinct—and the serpent bit down.
Hard.
...
And then… nothing.
No pain. No venom. Just an awkward weight latched onto his forearm like an angry bracelet.
He blinked. Looked at the thing. It blinked back.
The fangs were buried into the fabric of his sleeve, failing to puncture even the skin.
The serpent tilted its head. Tried again.
*Thunk.*
Still nothing.
They locked eyes in mutual disbelief.
"You've got to be kidding," Edran muttered.
The snake hissed, visibly frustrated. Its coils tightened around his arm—but compared to the strength pulsing beneath his skin, it was laughable.
And that's when he heard it—a snort.
Not his.
Somewhere in the jungle, just past the reach of sight, something had laughed. Not a beast. Not a bird. Something watching.
His face flushed. This wasn't just a fight.
It was *spectacle*.
"You're serious?" he said aloud, deadpan. "This is how I die? As a jungle comedy act?"
The snake glared.
Edran sighed. "You've had your shot."
With a single motion—too fast for the serpent to react—he gripped it by the neck and yanked it free. It writhed once, then twice, trying to coil tighter—
—and then Edran slammed it into the ground hard enough to leave a crater.
The jungle went silent.
The serpent lay still, its body limp. One strike. Over.
Edran stood there, chest heaving, arm raised.
He looked at the shattered earth. Then at the corpse. Then at his own hands.
And finally, he exhaled.
"Well," he said, brushing dirt off his sleeve, "that was humbling."
He walked to a nearby stump, sat down slowly, and buried his face in his hands.
"Gods," he whispered, voice muffled, "how *deeply* humbling."
Somewhere in the trees, another laugh.
This time, he let it pass.
Tomorrow, he would fight monsters.
Today, he survived slapstick.