The jungle trembled with the footsteps of a predator.
Anjanath was a beast of raw power, towering over most creatures in the Ancient Forest. Its thick hide bore the scars of countless battles, its maw capable of crushing bone with ease. But even titans could fall.
This one was weak.
The infection had been watching, waiting. It sensed the Anjanath's hunger, the sluggishness in its step, the way it hesitated before pursuing prey. An injury marred its hind leg—a deep, festering wound likely inflicted by another monster. The perfect target.
The hive moved in silence, tendrils of awareness spreading through its creatures. The Great Jagras slunk through the underbrush, their infected bodies twitching in anticipation. Pukei-Pukei crouched in the trees, silent, its warped, glassy eyes locked onto the beast below.
The moment was near.
The Anjanath sniffed the air, its nostrils flaring. It sensed something—many somethings. A low growl rumbled from its throat as it raised its head, the frills on its back unfurling in warning.
Then the jungle came alive.
The Great Jagras struck first, lunging from the foliage in a coordinated assault. The Anjanath bellowed and snapped its jaws, catching one mid-air and slamming it to the ground. The infected beast spasmed, its body split open, releasing a wet burst of spores.
The hive paid no mind to its loss. More came.
Jagras tore at the Anjanath's legs, biting deep, their own bodies warping in the process. The parasite fueled them, making them faster, stronger—but not invincible. Clawed feet crushed one underfoot, bones snapping like dry twigs.
Then, the Pukei-Pukei spat.
A thick, blackened toxin arced through the air, striking the Anjanath's side. It hissed as the venom burned into its flesh, sizzling as the parasite's influence spread.
The beast roared.
And then fire.
The Anjanath's throat swelled. Heat rippled through its chest, growing, intensifying—then it unleashed hell.
A wave of fire engulfed the infected. The Jagras shrieked as their flesh burned away, the parasite inside them writhing, screaming in agony. The Pukei-Pukei reeled back, its warped wings smoldering.
The hive recoiled.
Pain.
Real pain.
This was new.
The infection felt the fire, the raw destructive force tearing through its grasp on the Jagras, the searing heat consuming everything in its path.
The Anjanath charged, trampling the burning corpses of its attackers, its wounded leg forgotten in its rage. It clamped its jaws around an infected Jagras and tore it in half.
For a moment, it seemed the hive would lose.
Then something changed.
The parasite adapted.
It spread deeper, faster. The blackened toxin bubbling inside the Anjanath's wound surged, tendrils burrowing through muscle, latching onto bone.
The beast shuddered.
Its movements slowed.
The fire burned, but the infection was inside now.
The Great Jagras were gone, their broken bodies littering the forest floor. The Pukei-Pukei had fled, its tattered wings barely carrying it away.
Only the Anjanath remained.
It staggered.
Then twitched.
Then moved again.
But not by its own will.
Its arms had lengthened, stretched grotesquely past their natural form. Its jaw split unnaturally, unhinging with a sickening crack. Glassy, new-grown eyes opened along its frills, blinking with eerie awareness.
The Anjanath inhaled—and roared.
But this time, it was not fire that came forth.
Only silence.
And then, the jungle fell still once more.
The infection had won.
It had learned.