"Trying!" his cousin replied, but even as he moved toward Jorghan, more creatures emerged from the forest, cutting off his path, forcing him to engage or be swarmed.

Jorghan made a decision. He stopped holding back.

Blood erupted from his body in a tidal wave, manifesting in forms he'd been practicing since the duel with El'ran.

Spears with a distinctive shape have been created from hemomantic force and hurled at the surrounding creatures with devastating precision.

All of the red spears shot towards all of the beasts and struck them with devastating force.

The chimaeras died.

Not one or two, but dozens, their bodies torn apart by attacks that moved faster than they could react to. Jorghan spun in place, his arms extended, blood magic streaming from his hands in continuous flows that sought out every life signature around him and systematically exterminated it.

[Bloodborne Rage: 23% activation threshold]

[Sanguine Sovereignty: Multiple simultaneous manifestations active]

[Warning: High energy expenditure - efficiency declining]

Within thirty seconds, the immediate area around Jorghan was clear.

Bodies of chimaeras lay scattered across the forest floor, their blood feeding back into his reserves, fueling continued combat.

But the victory was hollow because when he stopped to assess the situation, he realized what had happened.

The group was scattered.

Completely separated.

Sik'ra emerged from the trees to his left, breathing hard but apparently uninjured. "That was... intense. I've never seen you fight like that. You just... annihilated them."

"Where are the others?" Jorghan demanded, spinning to scan in all directions.

"Sarhita? Swana? Scarlett?"

"I saw Sarhita being driven south with Scarlett," Sik'ra said.

"The serpent-chimaera was herding them away from us. I tried to follow, but more of those wolf-things cut me off."

"And Swana?"

"I don't know. She was engaging the big one, got pushed into the deeper forest. I lost sight of her."

Jorghan's blood magic extended outward, searching for familiar life signatures. He found Sarhita and Scarlett—together, good—about two hundred yards south and moving further away.

But Swana...

There.

North-northwest, perhaps three hundred yards, but her signature was strange.

Muted somehow, as if something was suppressing it or masking it.

"Something's wrong," Jorghan said, the realization crystallizing.

"This wasn't a random attack. Those chimaeras were being controlled."

"Controlled?"

Sik'ra looked skeptical.

"Chimaeras can't be controlled. They're too chaotic, too unstable. Even the best beast-tamers can't manage them for long."

"I know," Jorghan replied.

"But watch."

He pointed to where several chimaera corpses lay near each other. Their positioning was too precise, too coordinated for random creatures. They'd been attacking in formation, supporting each other, and creating openings for their companions. That required intelligence and direction beyond what chimaeras naturally possessed.

"Someone is commanding them," Jorghan continued.

"Someone with the power to override their natural instincts and make them work together. And they specifically targeted us and specifically worked to separate our group."

Sik'ra's expression grew grim as understanding dawned.

"This was a trap. We were lured here."

"Or we stumbled into someone's territory, and they responded by trying to capture or kill us in a way that would prevent effective defense."

Jorghan's mind was racing through possibilities, through tactical assessments. "Either way, we need to regroup. Now. Before—"

A scream cut through the forest.

Female, terrified, coming from the north-northwest.

Swana.

"Go get Sarhita and Scarlett," Jorghan ordered.

"Bring them back to this position. I'll find Swana."

"Alone?" Sik'ra looked torn between following orders and staying to help.

"Jorghan, if there's someone powerful enough to control multiple chimaeras—"

"Then I'm the only one who can fight them," Jorghan interrupted.

"You know I'm right. Get the others. Regroup here. If I'm not back in twenty minutes, get them to safety, and then you can come looking for me."

Sik'ra hesitated for only a second longer, then nodded and took off south at a run, his long legs covering ground with impressive speed.

Jorghan turned north and began moving, his blood magic extended as far as he could push it, searching for threats, for ambushes, for whatever was controlling the chimeras.

The forest seemed to close in around him as he ran, the trees growing denser, the undergrowth thicker. The whispers that gave the forest its name grew louder, more insistent, as if trying to warn him or perhaps lead him astray.

He found more chimaera corpses as he moved—these ones killed by blade wounds, clean and precise.

Swana's work.

She'd been fighting her way through, but the sheer number of bodies suggested she'd been overwhelmed by volume rather than individually overpowered.

Then the trail ended at a clearing where the forest floor was torn up from combat, where blood splattered trees and undergrowth in abstract patterns, where signs of struggle were everywhere.

But no Swana.

And no Scarlett, which made his stomach drop with realization.

He kept on searching for them as he moved through the forest.

-

Whisperingtris Forest—Northern Parts—Several Miles from Jorghan's Position

The ships sat in a clearing that hadn't existed before their arrival.

Trees had been felled or burned away to create a landing zone large enough to accommodate three massive vessels, each one bearing the sleek, utilitarian design that marked Earth's military engineering. They were dropships—heavy transport craft designed to deploy forces into hostile territory and provide ongoing support.

The hull of each vessel bore the same insignia: IPMF in bold letters, with a stylized representation of Earth and another planet connected by a curved line.

The Interplanetary Military Force, humanity's answer to the dimensional crisis that had torn holes between worlds.

From the largest ship's cargo ramp, mechanical footsteps echoed with rhythmic precision. The mecha emerged one by one—bipedal combat units standing twenty-two feet tall, their armour plating painted in adaptive camouflage that shifted to match the forest environment. Each unit carried weapons that represented the bleeding edge of Earth's military technology: railguns, plasma cannons, missile pods, and close-combat blades forged from materials that could cut through most known substances.

Inside each mecha sat a pilot, their neural interfaces allowing them to control the massive machines with thought-speed precision.

It was technology that shouldn't have been possible even five years ago, but the dimensional crisis had accelerated human innovation in ways that bordered on terrifying.

At the base of the ramp stood a man who commanded attention despite being dwarfed by the mechas around him.

Major Vincent Carrow was in his fifties, his face weathered by decades of military service and the particular strain that came from fighting threats that violated every law of physics humanity had once considered absolute. His uniform was immaculate despite the field conditions, and the cap on his head bore the IPMF insignia along with rank markers that indicated significant authority.

His eyes were cold, grey, and calculating as they surveyed the forest around them.

This was a man who'd seen things that broke other soldiers, who'd made decisions that cost lives but saved worlds, who'd learned to compartmentalize horror into tactical assessments.

"Status report," he said, his voice carrying the clipped precision of someone who'd given ten thousand orders and expected them to be followed without question.

A younger officer—Lieutenant Csakan, barely thirty but already carrying the haunted look of someone who'd seen combat in multiple battles—approached with a tablet displaying sensor data.

"We've confirmed the signature matches the missing research vessel," he reported.

"The trail leads deeper into the forest, but there's significant interference. The ambient magical energy is playing hell with our scanning equipment."

"Magic," Carrow said, the word like a curse.

"I've been fighting this war for three years, and I still can't reconcile the existence of magic with everything I was taught about physics."

"The scientists say it's just another form of energy," Csakan offered.

"Different rules, but ultimately quantifiable."

"The scientists can theorize all they want from their safe laboratories back home," Carrow replied. "Out here, magic kills just as effectively as bullets. More effectively, in some cases."

He gestured to the mecha units. "Deploy search patterns. I want 360 degree coverage and sensor sweeps at maximum range. That ship is somewhere in this forest, and I want it found."

"Sir, what about indigenous hostiles? Intelligence suggests this region is inhabited by—" Csakan checked his tablet, "—'red elves.' Seven to eight feet tall, enhanced physical capabilities, proficiency with both bladed weapons and elemental magic."

"Their settlement is just beyond the forest connecting to the desert."

"We're authorized to use necessary force," Carrow said flatly.

"Our mission is to locate the ship and find the ones in it. Indigenous populations are secondary concerns unless they actively interfere."

"And if they do interfere?"

Carrow's expression didn't change.

"Then they become primary concerns. We didn't cross thousands of miles of space to play diplomatic games with fantasy creatures. We're here to protect Earth's interests and retrieve our people."

The mecha units began moving out, their pilots following predetermined search patterns that would systematically cover the surrounding territory.

Each step sent tremors through the forest floor, and the sound of their movement—hydraulics, servos, the occasional burst of verniers for balance—was utterly alien to this world.

Birds fled.

Smaller animals scattered.

And the forest itself seemed to recoil from these mechanical invaders that violated every natural principle it understood.

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