The shrill alarm echoed through the forest, bouncing from tree to tree. The piercing wail stretched into a long, keening scream, tearing the night apart.
Wei's skin prickled. His hair stood on end.
He spun around.
Darkness.
Nothing.
He reached back instinctively.
Empty.
"Chun?"
No answer.
His chest sank.
No scream. No struggle.
She was gone.
Wei's mind raced. Chun wasn't some fragile girl who couldn't fight back. Even if the monster had touched her from behind, there was no way it could have taken her so silently, so quickly.
No thud of a fall. No cry of capture.
What had happened?
Heavy footsteps were still coming, fast, deliberate. Not toward him—but toward the source of the alarm.
Above them, high in an ancient tree, two black shapes crouched in the shadows.
They hung over the forest silently, observing everything below with careful attention.
The taller shadow leaned slightly forward, as if listening. Every rustle of wind, every trembling leaf in the forest, reached him without fail.
The smaller shadow clung close to the trunk, eyes glinting with a hint of amusement as they tracked the boy and girl who had split apart in the undergrowth.
The two figures blended almost perfectly into the night, silent as hunting leopards, patiently watching the prey below.
The taller one bent forward, lips nearly brushing the smaller one's ear, speaking in a voice so low it was almost swallowed by the darkness. Each word deliberate, measured, and coldly precise, like a knife drawn bit by bit from the shadows.
"That girl…"
"Maybe in her panic, she stepped on the alarm," the smaller one said, voice quiet, almost a whisper.
A pause. The taller shadow seemed to replay the scene in his mind, weighing possibilities.
"Maybe—"
"She tried to shake the boy off, escape alone… but accidentally triggered the mechanism."
He spoke slowly. Each word was chewed over, sharp and cold, cutting through the night like steel.
"Or maybe not."
He continued in a softer tone, though each syllable carried growing certainty.
"She panicked, yes—but not chaotically."
"She wanted to use herself to draw the enemy away."
The smaller shadow said nothing. He exhaled softly, barely audible, as though calculating his next move in the dark.
"She probably recognizes the traps in this part of the forest," the taller one continued, voice indifferent, almost clinical.
"She only triggered the ones that make noise."
"Not lethal."
"When the alarm sounds, the pursuers will naturally be drawn toward it."
He paused again, as if waiting for confirmation, or perhaps giving his judgment one last internal check.
"No matter which way it went," he said finally, voice calm, certain.
"The boy will get a chance."
"Only if he stays quiet."
"Only if he makes no more sound."
"Then he still has a chance—to escape."
The smaller shadow said nothing, only exhaled through her nose, a faint, deliberate breath. It was not irritation or scorn, but a quiet, mournful weighing of human stupidity and helplessness. The air seemed pressed out of her chest in a slow, sorrowful sigh.
-----------------
Wei's heart sank to the bottom of his chest.
But his actions always outran his reason.
He bent low, moving silently toward the source of the alarm.
One thought ran through his mind:
"This idiot—she actually triggered the alarm. I'm going to tease her about this later!"
He never imagined he would walk straight into danger.
He hadn't thought about whether Chun might have slipped away from him.
And he certainly hadn't considered—
What if it wasn't Chun who triggered the alarm?
Boing—
A faint sound echoed ahead, almost swallowed by the wind.
Wei froze.
A snapping grass rope.
Not a trap. Not exactly.
It was his father's unique warning—a subtle mark left behind to signal danger.
Ahead, a massive trap waited. And Chun was stepping right onto it.
A deadly trap.
One misstep, and it was over.
"Don't move!" Wei shouted, risking detection. "Chun, trust me—"
The footsteps ahead halted.
No response.
But Wei trusted his instincts. That had to be Chun.
The forest was suffocatingly quiet. It felt as if someone was waiting—and someone else was closing in fast.
Wei's heart hammered like a drum. His vision blurred.
He wiped tears from his eyes with his sleeve and focused fully. Every nerve, every fingertip, reading the forest: the humidity, the scent of soil, the faint tremor of fallen leaves.
Oddly, when Wei stopped relying on his eyes, his other senses sharpened.
The night air carried the scent of decaying leaves, wet earth, and a faint, sharp tang of blood.
He crouched, hands on the ground, reading the terrain, tracing the subtle marks his father had left.
He pressed his ear to the forest floor, catching every tiny sound.
Ahead, a faint breath.
To the side, no breath—but the sound of slow, careful steps. Like a lion stalking its prey.
His hands brushed cold, damp earth, and then something solid—a pair of legs.
Young. Strong. Muscular.
Chun's legs.
She tensed slightly, then froze.
Wei made no sound. Just tapped twice lightly, signaling: I'm here. Don't be afraid.
Danger was closing in.
He could feel the massive predator within three meters.
Any flash of light, and they would be nothing more than prey. Instant kill.
Then, a familiar hand gripped his.
Wet against his own, though he couldn't tell if it was sweat or tears.
A small reassurance. A spark of calm.
They moved like two cats crouching low, careful and silent.
They didn't run.
Instead, step by careful step, they walked straight into the trap.
Perhaps the most dangerous place was, paradoxically, the safest.
But Wei had forgotten one thing.
Bang—
A deafening roar shattered the night.
The trap triggered.
Wei froze, head snapping up.
A massive tree stump fell from above.
It slammed down with impossible force.
There was no time to scream.
No chance to react.
The forest below was instantly stained in blood and crushed flesh.