Chapter 46: Fight!

  The dungeon shook before any sound reached their ears. Stone cracked under pressure, and a pulse of energy radiated outward, a heartbeat of pure corruption amplified by something monstrous deep in the tunnels. The Tier 6 forced abomination had finished its grotesque transformation, and now the full weight of its presence pressed on the battalion like a living wall. Soldiers on the perimeter dropped to their knees, hands over ears, struggling to resist the nausea that roiled in their stomachs.

  Nox’s pupils were dilated, his senses stretched to the limit as he strained against the pulse of corruption. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones and in the tendrils of magic that ran along the floor. His hands glowed with fire as he channeled energy outward, warding the frontlines with his purifying fire.

  Cinder emerged at his side. The Pyroclast Behemoth moved like a volcano made flesh. Each step sent heat rolling across the floor, softening stone and making the air shimmer in waves of orange and gold. Steam hissed as molten veins pulsed along obsidian plating. The creature exhaled, a long, rumbling roar that carried the taste of fire and the weight of raw destruction. Soldiers instinctively staggered backward, boots scuffing against the stone. Even Tier Fours felt the pressure. The heat alone could have killed anyone not protected by magic or reinforced armor.

  “Hold your lines,” Lars shouted, voice cutting over the roar.

  His hands were wrapped in lightning, hair damp with sweat and grit. Every nerve in his body was tuned to the battlefield. He could feel the abomination ahead, massive and unnatural, the corruption around it so dense that even Cinder’s flames seemed to flare in response.

  “Do not falter. Every second we hold counts.”

  Garth stood beside him, massive and steady. His hammer rested across his shoulder. His eyes were narrowed, calculating the battlefield, counting the enemies, the spawns, the terrain. Cinder turned its massive head toward them and emitted a low growl, molten eyes sweeping the battlefield. The creature recognized their intent. It recognized the threat. It would fight as one with Nox and, through him, the battalion.

  The forced abomination shifted. Its legs, thick and sinewy, drove into the stone, and the pulse of corruption intensified. The dungeon itself seemed to bend around it. The walls shivered, dust falling in showers from the ceiling. It roared again, a noise that cracked ear drums, reverberated through chest and skull, and sent weaker soldiers sprawling. A wave of nausea swept through the Tier Threes. Some vomited. Some froze in fear. Some held tight to their weapons and trembled, praying their courage would be enough.

  The priest, blood stained bandages over his eye now, stepped forward. His hands glowed with purifying energy. He shouted over the roar, words in the ancient tongue of faith that vibrated against the corrupted stone, sending ripples of resistance outward. The air near him shimmered with wards of white and gold, pushing back against the creeping corruption that threatened to suffocate minds and bodies alike. Sweat poured down his face, his arms shook with effort, and yet he did not falter. Every word he spoke, every motion of his hands, was a tether between the soldiers and the abyss of madness that sought to consume them.

  “I will not hold longer, I am fading.” the priest exclaimed to Lars.

  Lars simply nodded, keeping his eyes on the big Tier 6 crawler.

  The battalion braced. Cinder moved first. It stepped into the battlefield like the dawn of fire itself, massive claws scraping molten trails into the stone. The heat intensified. Weapons began to glow, shields warped under the intensity. Soldiers flinched, but Lars held his ground. Garth stood tall. Cinder swung a claw forward, smashing a swarm of corrupted Tier Three crawlers that had tried to flank from the side tunnels. Their screeches were brief, absorbed by the roar and crackle of molten fury. The creature moved with surprising precision, targeting enemies as a general would, following the flow of battle as if reading the battlefield with eyes of fire.

  The forced abomination responded. Its body pulsed with dark corruption, limbs whipping outward like living scythes. It advanced, each step pressing the air forward, saturating it with a corruptive pressure that weakened muscles and dulled reflexes. Spines along its back flared with energy, veins of corrupted mana rippling outward in waves. Soldiers in the frontlines were slammed to the floor, shields buckled under the impact, and weapons bounced harmlessly off its dense limbs. Every strike it made left the stone scorched or shattered.

  Nox screamed a command. Cinder reacted instantly, smashing a claw into the abomination’s leg, magma exploding outward, searing corrupted flesh. The creature roared in pain and fury, striking with a mass of limbs, but Cinder met it again, every swing of molten arm and claw a calculated strike meant to destabilize the Tier Six monstrosity. Sparks of magic flared where Nox’s wards met the encroaching corruption, illuminating the cavern in bursts of white and gold.

  The battlefield became a furnace. Heat rolled across the floor, steam hissed from the walls, and the smell of scorched stone and burning metal filled the air. Soldiers staggered, Tier Threes struggling to keep pace, their lungs burning, sweat streaming down faces, hands shaking as they gripped weapons that threatened to slide from their slick palms. Many lay face down, either dead or unconscious.

  Every so often, the priest’s voice rang clear, bolstering them with purification. Each word was a pulse, a small island of safety amidst the inferno of chaos.

  Cinder leapt forward, a mass of molten limbs and fire, and slammed into the abomination’s torso. The shockwave sent smaller spawns tumbling backward, and the Tier Six staggered under the force, screeching in rage. Its pulse of corruption intensified, reaching outward to strike at every soldier in range. Nox’s energy flared to meet it. His arms were wreathed in fire and wards, fingers straining as he poured every ounce of power into keeping the waves of crawlers and corrupted mana from straining the Bulwark too much. He gasped with effort, his vision blurring through sweat and heat, but he held.

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  Lars and Garth pressed forward, axes and hammers swinging. They struck with precision, hitting exposed limbs while Cinder drew the abomination’s attention. Sparks of lightning danced across Lars’s arms, crackling in time with each swing. Garth’s hammer shattered corrupted bone and armor alike, sending pieces of blackened chitin flying across the floor. The two of them fought in perfect tandem with the elemental, each strike calculated, each movement synchronized to keep the abomination off-balance.

  The priest’s voice grew hoarse. His body shook with the strain of holding back corruption, but he continued. Wards flared with every pulse of the Tier Six’s presence. Every time a wave of corruption spread, every time the heat became almost unbearable, he pushed back. Sweat poured into his eyes, his hands blistered and cracked, yet he did not falter. The battalion around him felt his resolve as a tangible force. It was as if his very existence was a tether, preventing the battlefield from collapsing under the Tier Six’s pressure.

  Then it happened.

  —

  The Broodmother lay before them, massive and grotesque, her body twisted, scarred, and weakened from the relentless assault. She sat in the back of the cavern, almost out of sight from the intruders. Her legs trembled, unable to support her weight, but her head lifted, eyes glowing ruby red in the dark. She was still alive. She was still thinking. She was still deadly.

  Then she struck, not with claw or fang, not with brute strength, but with something far more insidious. A wave of psychic energy surged outward from her, rippling invisibly through the air, twisting, turning, aiming at a single, vulnerable point.

  The priest’s voice caught mid-chant. His hands froze, suspended in the act of warding, Pain lanced through his skull, sharp, unrelenting, a psychic assault that no armor could defend. He collapsed to one knee, arms falling limply, the wards flickering and dying as the energy ripped through him.

  He screamed, grabbing his head. His chanting stopped. The bulwark flickered, waves of corrupted mana entering the bulwark.

  Time slowed. Soldiers felt it before they saw it. A creeping chill, a twisting pressure in the air, like the dungeon itself had turned inside out. Tier Threes in the front lines froze, their faces pale, eyes wide as the protective lattice of faith and magic vanished in an instant. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hang in suspended horror.

  The battlefield slowed as the priest stood, many of the soldiers watching the priest stand back up, hope he would help push back the corruption.

  The priest stood back up. Hands still pressing hard on his head. He screamed a single word. Spit and blood flying out of his mouth.

  “Fight!”

  His head exploded, and he fell hard to the ground.

  The Broodmother, closed her eyes and laid back. That was the last of her concentrated energy. She was fully depleted now.

  —

  “Fuck!” Lars yelled while dodging a sideways slash from the limbs on the Abomination.

  A young spearman’s knees buckled first. He dropped to the floor, gasping, unable to lift shield or weapon. Another Tier Three beside him staggered, clutching her head as invisible hands squeezed at her mind. Screams pierced the chamber, half of them cries of fear, half of them inarticulate panic.

  Cinder roared, molten body blazing, claws slashing through corrupted tendrils that surged forward as if sensing the faltering of the priest. Lars leapt forward, lightning crackling across his axe, but the psychic wave reached beyond him. He saw it reflected in the eyes of the men and women around him, the terror, the disbelief, the raw, unfiltered fear of helplessness.

  The battalion faltered. Tier Threes went down almost instantly, a wave of bodies collapsing in a pile of armor and shattered morale. Some tried to fight, muscles trembling, breath stuttering, but the corruption clawed at their minds as much as their bodies. Others screamed, dropping weapons and shields, clutching at temples or ears as if they could physically hold the corruption at bay.

  Tier Fours acted as anchors. They formed a gapped semi-circle around the fallen, shields raised, axes and spears swinging in tight arcs to keep corrupted crawlers at bay. Their faces were hard, teeth clenched, eyes flickering with panic tempered by iron determination. They shouted commands over the din, fists pounding shoulders, voices carrying to the nearest survivors.

  “Stand! Hold the line! Do not fall!”

  They moved with precision, almost mechanically, despite the chaos. They propped Tier Threes where they could, dragged the weaker out of reach, pushed back against advancing crawlers with brutal efficiency. Every motion was a desperate effort to buy time, a shield against the crushing psychic weight that had claimed their priest.

  Above it all, Lars and Garth adapted instantly. Lars’s eyes flicked to Cinder, the elemental roaring in molten fury, and then back to the advancing corrupted. He raised his axe, lightning snapping across the blade as he drove it through crawling monstrosities, one after another, a flurry of precise, devastating strikes.

  Garth moved with equal urgency, hammer crushing corrupted limbs, shielding Nox where he could, maintaining a protective barrier around the fallen priest and Tier Threes. His growls cut through panic, a living wall of reassurance and terror. “Keep moving! Do not break!”

  Tier Fives moved like calamities. Their strikes were faster, sharper, more violent. They tore through corrupted crawlers with efficiency born of desperation. Every swing of sword, every thrust of spear, every crackling spell kept the tide from fully overwhelming the ranks. Their presence pulled the battalion from the brink, a reminder that death had teeth but life had claws too.

  Sir Darvish swept his blade in an arc, blood spraying on the ground. He looked around at the destruction.

  Half the battalion was either dead, unconscious or crying.

  No more Tier 4s were around the area. He called out to Serra.

  “Last Tier 4 has been taken down. Re-group”

  The order filled the surrounding air. Soldiers obeyed, picking up intact weapons from fallen comrades to fill the gaps from their broken or chipped weapons.

  They stood together, human and dwarf, finishing off the last of the stragglers in the dungeon, while on the other side of the cavern, the final battle had begun.