The jungle breathed in silence.
Not the silence of stillness, but one of anticipation—of something unseen, watching, waiting. The infection had taken root, spreading deeper into the Ancient Forest, threading its influence through vines, through creatures, through the very air itself.
The hive mind pulsed, its awareness expanding. Memories—not its own, but stolen, dissected, rearranged in ways it barely understood.
A voice, distant yet near.
"This doesn't feel right."
Familiar. Not its own. A remnant of what Jorren had been before the change. The words echoed without weight, repeated without understanding. Yet they lingered, shaping something new.
More voices. More fragments.
"We've seen monsters act strange before."
"Not like this."
"Stay sharp. We don't know what we're dealing with yet."
Each stolen phrase twisted within the hive mind, rippling across its network of hosts. It did not think in words—not yet—but it understood.
It had seen through Jorren's eyes.
It knew of the hunters' base, their routines, their defenses. It had glimpsed the maps, the carefully marked paths they followed, the dangers they expected to face. It knew how they hunted, how they fought, how they adapted.
It had seen beyond the jungle—the New World and the Old.
Through Jorren's fragmented mind, it had glimpsed things it could barely comprehend. Cities that stretched beyond sight, fortresses of stone and steel, weapons of fire and thunder. It had seen the endless seas that separated these lands, the fleets that carried humans across them. A world far greater than the jungle.
But it had also seen the monsters. True titans of the land.
And among them, a name burned brighter than the rest.
Zorah Magdaros.
A behemoth of fire and stone. A mountain that moved. A force beyond comprehension.
The hunters had feared it. Watched it. Chased it. If they feared something, it meant it was worth knowing.
The infection did not spread blindly. Not anymore. It was learning. It was thinking.
The infected moved through the jungle in eerie synchronization, their steps soundless, their motions deliberate. No longer wild beasts—no longer bound by instinct alone. They were evolving. Watching. Waiting.
The Great Jagras, its bloated form now twisted with unnatural growths, prowled at the jungle's edge. Its wounds from the previous battle had not healed; instead, they had bloomed—fleshy petals of infection curling outward, exposing raw, pulsing tendrils. The pack around it moved as one, their eyes hollow, their bodies sluggish yet precise.
Above them, the Pukei-Pukei lurked, its grotesque tongue flexing unnaturally as it observed the others. Its new form had settled, the erratic twitches fading as the infection wove itself fully into its flesh. It had tried and failed to kill the hunters—but failure was only another lesson.
From the undergrowth, smaller creatures stirred. Once harmless, now changed. Shamos, their thin bodies riddled with fibrous strands, their jaws slack as if waiting for something unseen. Mernos, their wings sluggish, drooping under the weight of parasitic growths. Even insects, normally insignificant, now carried spores in their delicate frames, drifting unseen through the air.
And then, there was Jorren.
No longer a man.
Standing. Waiting.
His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, though he did not remember why. His skin had turned a sickly, mottled hue, veins darkened, pulsing with something unnatural beneath. His mouth hung slightly open, breath shallow, a whisper of something trying to form. His head twitched, as though recalling an old habit—a memory that did not belong to him anymore.
The hive mind processed his stolen knowledge, dissecting tactics, strategies, emotions. It had gained more than just his body.
It had gained understanding.
And now, it had a direction.
It knew where the hunters were. It knew how they would respond. It knew what they feared.
A new kind of predator was emerging.
The forest itself shifted, tendrils creeping, roots twisting in unnatural directions. Spores clung to the air, thick and heavy, drifting unseen toward new hosts.
The infection did not need to wait for prey to stumble into it anymore.
It could hunt.
Then, a sound.
Footsteps.
Distant, but approaching.
The search party was coming.
Jorren's head tilted slightly, his unfocused eyes lifting toward the sound. His lips parted.
And in a voice that was not entirely his, he whispered:
"Steady."
The jungle had gone silent once more.
This time, it was the infection that was hunting.