The forest was breathing now.
Not like a beast — but like a thousand beasts all watching from behind the trees.
Thick roots cracked under boots. Leaves soaked with morning dew slapped against uniforms. Steam rose in thin curls from the moss-covered ground, mixing with the sweat pooling under helmets. The canopy above filtered the sun into slits — not quite light, not quite dark.
Leon raised his hand.
"Hold," he whispered.
The line of fifty men slowed to a crouch. Squad 38 halted beside them, rifles angled out, fingers ready.
In the silence, a distant crack echoed across the forest.
Then two more.
Then the radio sparked to life.
[Radio: Squad 9] – "Contact left! Multiple— fucking fast—moving—goddamnit—"
[Gunfire. Screams.]
[Radio: Squad 9] – "—they're everywhere—three down! Fall back—fall back!"
[Radio: Command] – "This is Central. Team Nine, respond. What's your status?"
Leon's jaw tightened.
Bruno's voice broke through next:
[Radio: General Bruno] – "All teams keep chatter clear. If you're in contact, report only after breaking. Squad 9, Squad 17, Squad 13, mark your map with red smoke. Engineers en route."
"Shit's hittin' the fan fast," muttered a soldier beside Leon — Ritter, short kid, eyes too wide.
Leon scanned the trees again. "Eyes up. We're next."
They pressed forward. Birds weren't chirping. Not a single one. Only the creak of boots and the occasional distant pop of gunfire — some close, some miles away.
Squad 38's leader, a scar-faced veteran named Ochs, stepped beside Leon.
"You see that old stone back there?" Ochs whispered. "Looked like a corner of something. Temple, maybe?"
Leon nodded.
"We saw one earlier too. Didn't touch it."
Leon smirked faintly. "Think I can pawn it?"
"Only if it doesn't curse you," Ochs muttered.
[Radio: Squad 3] – "Base established. Coordinates marked. Team 3 holding perimeter. Light contact with beasts — dispersed with rifles. No casualties."
[Radio: Squad 6] – "Base marked. Nothing here but vines and bugs. Lotta bugs."
[Radio: Squad 12] – "Shots fired. One confirmed kill. Looks like a wolf. But the fucker stood on two legs before it dropped. Repeat: bipedal movement confirmed. Over."
Leon blinked. "Repeat that?"
[Radio: Squad 12] – "I said it stood up. Not for long. Just—before it died."
Ritter looked pale now. "We shouldn't be here, man."
[Radio: Squad 8] – "Two fatalities. Beasts came from the trees. Rifles worked, but one got Thompson. Dragged him halfway up a fucking oak."
Silence. Only static now.
Leon looked around.
"Get in formation. Spread out. Keep distance, but don't wander."
[Radio: Command] – "Team Forty, confirm movement. Location check."
Leon raised his radio. "Team Forty. Moving east. Just linked with Squad 38. No contact yet. Proceeding."
"More ruins," Ochs whispered.
Sure enough — just ahead, beyond a fallen log, half-buried stones jutted from the forest floor. Moss clung to their edges, but carved symbols peeked through — spirals and fang-like runes.
"Can't read it," one of the men muttered.
Leon approached, brushed moss off with his glove.
"Wonder how much a merchant'd pay for this," he said under his breath.
"You tryna get cursed and court-martialed?" Ochs said.
Leon chuckled, then straightened. "Alright. Mark it. We ain't here for antiques."
They moved on — until the air changed.
There was no wind. No birds. No frogs. Just… nothing.
Then—
A low growl.
Leon's eyes flicked left.
Another growl — right this time.
Then came the howls.
Dozens.
Not distant. Not far. Right behind the tree line.
"Form up!" Leon barked.
SNAP.
A branch cracked. Then another.
Ritter spun.
"Shit, they're all around us!"
Thirty beasts.
Their eyes shimmered gold from the shadows. They were lean — not like wolves from Earth, but taller, longer. Gray fur slicked down their backs like wet oil. Teeth yellow, fangs too long. And they moved like they understood the hunt.
"Machine gunners, get to cover!" Leon roared.
Gunfire erupted.
BRAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
Beasts dropped — but not all. Some lunged between trees, fast as lightning. One soldier screamed, dragged down under a blur of fur and teeth.
"AHHHHH—!"
"Get that thing off him!"
POP-POP-POP!
Blood sprayed the moss.
"Reloading!"
"They're flanking us!" a man yelled.
"Squad 38! Fall back to that ridge!"
Ochs was already moving. "Leon! Your side's folding!"
"I see it! Push left! Keep 'em in the kill zone!"
Leon fired his rifle point-blank — caught one in the jaw. Another dove toward him and took three bullets to the spine. It twitched, yelped — then went still.
Radio chatter returned — wild now.
[Radio: Squad 15] – "We're in full engagement! Coordinates sent! Six beasts—repeat—SIX on our squad!"
[Radio: Squad 20] – "Casualties! Two injured! We're falling back to creek bed!"
[Radio: General Bruno] – "Hold your fucking lines! Do not retreat unless surrounded!"
Leon ducked behind a rock.
"Ritter! You good!?"
"No bites!"
Ochs popped off a burst.
"We're thinning them!"
He was right — five of the beasts already lay dead around their circle.
But six more still circled.
One lunged — Leon caught it midair with a clean shot between the eyes.
THUD.
The last few broke formation. Wounded. Cowardly.
They vanished.
Just like that.
Gone.
Silence returned.
Men panted. Shell casings glimmered like wet coins across the forest floor.
[Radio: Command] – "Team Forty, report."
Leon keyed the mic. "Team Forty. Five injuries. Two serious. No deaths. We engaged approximately thirty beasts. Confirmed kills: at least nineteen. Rest fled. Awaiting further instruction."
[Radio: Command] – "Understood. Hold position. Medics en route. All other reported injured teams. Med en route."
Leon stood slowly. "Set perimeter. Get those injured patched up."
Ritter sat down on a log, shaking. "They were smart, Leon. Real smart. Not animals."
Leon looked out into the trees.
No movement.
No birds.
Just silence.
"…No," he said softly. "They weren't."
He turned back to the clearing.
"Start clearing the area. We're holding here."
Boots moved immediately — practiced, tired, automatic. Some men checked ammo. Others dragged wounded toward the fallen log at the center of the kill zone. Moss squelched with every step. One of the engineers used his knife to wedge a claw out of a beast's jaw, bagging it in cloth.
A perimeter was already forming.
Ochs shouted, "Use the ridge! Lay out firing lines! I want barrels covered and sandbags up when that cart gets here!"
Two men moved to the edges, propping rifles on roots while others formed a tight triage circle for the injured.
Near the treeline, a rifleman knelt beside a dead beast, its spine split open from the repeater burst. He didn't speak. Just stared at the thing's yellow eyes — still open, still sharp. Like it had died mid-thought.
Leon stepped beside him. "You good?"
The soldier nodded once, slowly. "They didn't fight like animals."
"No. They didn't."
[Radio: Command] – "Team Forty, this is Central. Med-evac inbound with carriage escort and engineering team. ETA twenty minutes. Stand by."
Leon replied: "Copy. We're dug in. Visibility's tight, but we're stable."
He looked around the clearing. Trees loomed in all directions — thick trunks, vines, ancient stone markers. All of it pressing in, silent, suffocating.
Faint rumble.
Then — wheels. Low and distant.
The trees parted enough to reveal the ox-drawn wagon just before dusk fell fully. Lanterns swayed from its sides, casting long shadows. A team of twenty escort riflemen moved ahead of it, boots wet with jungle water, rifles angled low.
The first carriage stopped at the southern edge of the clearing.
Engineers stepped down quickly — four of them. Two carried collapsible timber struts, one had a field repeater slung over his shoulder, and the last dragged a crate of reinforced iron stakes.
Medics came next — three men with blood-sealed coats and heavy satchels.
"Five wounded. Two serious," Leon said before they asked.
They got to work without a word.
Stitching. Pressure wraps. One vial of pain suppressant for the man with the thigh wound — no more than that. Rations were already low.
Meanwhile, the engineers began digging.
Within the hour, the clearing had been transformed.
A half-wall of earth and bundled roots formed a low crescent along the northern tree line. Sandbags topped it. Behind it, the repeater was mounted, locked to a tripod at shoulder height. Crates of ammunition were stacked and covered in waxed canvas.
Watchposts had been set — two men on the ridge, two flanking east and west.
Tent canvas had been unfurled and propped between logs. Eight men rested beneath it, boots off, rifles within reach.
No one was laughing. No one spoke unless required.
The medics finished their work in silence.
The fire pit was lit low and smokeless. Black-furred corpses — what remained of them — had been pulled into a heap beyond the outer edge. No one asked permission before lighting the flame. The bones cracked wetly when they burned.
Leon stood at the center of the line, eyes scanning the trees.
His rifle hung at his side. His hands were steady now.
Ritter sat nearby on a mossy stone, elbows on his knees, helmet off.
"They'll come back," he muttered. "Probably at night."
Leon didn't answer right away.
Just watched.
Then quietly:
"Let them."