Clashes on the Periphery

The valley before dawn was exceptionally quiet, so quiet that even the occasionally straying chirps of insects could not be heard. The wind blew very low, as if it wound through the depths of the woods a few times before slowly squeezing out. The fog outside the mouth of the valley accumulated in a thick layer at the low points, its edges undulating slightly as if gently stirred by an invisible hand, yet refusing to dissipate. The embers in the campfire were still smoking faintly, and the scent of wood ash, mixed with that familiar sweet and fishy odor, felt especially abrupt in the half-cool, half-humid air.

After packing personal equipment and buckling the backpack, I first patrolled along the defensive line on the southern side of the valley entrance. The traps reinforced last night were all in their original places with no signs of being triggered, but the grass blades near the first warning line were pressed into a shallow groove. Bending down to wipe it with a hand, the creases on the grass blades still carried the resilience of springback, indicating it had not been long. The shape of the groove did not resemble the track of the wind; it looked more like something had deliberately kept its body low and drilled through here, its body width not large, yet capable of leaving an obvious trace.

Walking outward along the groove for less than twenty meters, I discovered new claw prints beneath a slanted pine tree. Triangular paws with sharp fronts, the edges of the impressions were very clear, and the moisture on the mud surface had not yet completely seeped away; the spacing was shorter than what I saw earlier in the Forest Sea, as if deliberately slowing down the pace. At the end of the claw