Zami followed the trail of blood to its bitter end. His silver eyes scanned the jagged landscape, every sense heightened as the marks grew more frequent. The path took him to a desolate clearing, encased by twisted rocks and uneven terrain. It was a natural trap, a dead end surrounded by the colony's suffocating gloom.
When he saw the scene, he wasn't surprised—but the weight in his chest tightened all the same.
The ground was painted in red, the stark color almost glowing against the grey, lifeless terrain. Pieces of torn fabric clung to jagged rocks, flapping weakly in a nonexistent wind. Broken tools and remnants of hastily constructed shelters were scattered across the area.
And the bodies… or what was left of them.
They were shredded beyond recognition. Limbs torn, torsos eviscerated, faces unidentifiable. The massacre was brutal, unrelenting. Zami crouched by one of the larger pools of blood, his cold expression unchanging as he studied the remains.
No one survived.
It was what he had expected. He had seen it before—too many times to count. The creatures of this colony were merciless, and survival was an impossible hope for most. Yet, the faint flicker of something human had stirred in him when he saw that trail of blood.
Zami stood slowly, scanning the clearing for any signs of what had caused this devastation. The ground was littered with claw marks, deep and uneven, as though whatever had done this had moved erratically, without precision or purpose.
His gaze shifted to the remnants of the camp. A half-crushed barrel sat near the center, its contents spilled across the ground. Among the debris were scraps of food—mushrooms and dried roots, the kind Zami himself had relied on for centuries.
"They were living here," he muttered, his voice barely audible. He moved to a nearby pile of stones, where a small fire pit had been built. Charred wood and ash confirmed that this group had tried to establish some semblance of life in this forsaken place.
For a brief moment, he wondered what it had been like for them. Humans, like him, struggling to survive in this hostile world. How had they ended up here? Were they as lost as he was? Or had they been born into this nightmare, knowing nothing else?
Zami's thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound—a soft creak beneath his boot. He looked down and saw something half-buried in the dirt. Kneeling, he pulled it free: a small wooden carving, roughly shaped into the form of a bird.
He stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The carving was crude, its details worn away, but it had been made with care. Someone had taken the time to create it, perhaps as a distraction, or a small comfort in this harsh existence.
They fought to live. Even here, they tried.
Zami slipped the carving into his pouch, his grip tightening briefly before he rose. He turned his attention to the outskirts of the clearing, where faint tracks led away from the carnage. They were heavier, deeper than the human prints—monstrous in their size and shape.
The creatures that had done this were gone now, but their presence lingered in the air, thick and oppressive. Zami felt his heartbeat quicken slightly, his body instinctively preparing for combat.
But the area was silent.
After a thorough sweep, he confirmed there was nothing left to find. No survivors, no supplies worth salvaging, no answers. Just another massacre in a world that thrived on suffering.
Zami stood at the edge of the clearing, looking back at the devastation. The bodies, the blood, the remnants of a life that had been so violently erased.
He thought of the trail that had led him here, of the hope that had briefly flared in his chest. That small, foolish hope that he might not be alone.
It was gone now, crushed beneath the weight of reality.
Without another word, Zami turned and began walking again, his katana resting against his shoulder. He didn't look back. There was nothing left to see.