The Sundarbans breathed an ancient kind of silence—thick, heavy, alive. Leaves rustled with secrets, and even the birds seemed reluctant to call out, as if respecting something older and far more terrifying than them. The air was humid and dense, but Vansh moved through it with the ease of a man familiar with discomfort. Vansh, A young, no more than twenty-five, with skin darkened by sun and wind, and eyes that darted often—scanning, calculating. He wore a simple kurta and trousers, muddied from travel, and carried with him a cloth satchel filled with little more than water, dry bread, and a small, curved hunting knife.