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墨書 Inktalez
The rodent creatures infected by the mushrooms presented a terrifying and bizarre sight before Ironclad. They were once ordinary mice, but now each mouse had a gigantic mushroom growing on its back, the size of which was completely disproportionate, nearly covering the entire back of the mouse. The mushrooms were dark as ink, seemingly imbued with a strange vitality.
The mice's eyes were murky and devoid of their original luster, covered by hyphae that made their gaze exceptionally haunting. These hyphae not only enveloped the mice's eyes but also tightly wrapped around their entire bodies, causing their forms to appear distorted and swollen under the coverage of the hyphae, as if they had been filled with the mushroom's mycelium, losing their original shape.
As the mice moved, their bodies emitted a chilling creaking sound, the noise produced by the hyphae twisting through the muscles and bones of the mice. Each movement hinted that they had completely lost their sense of self, becoming puppets fully controlled by the mushrooms.
With every breath, the bodies of the mice rose and fell, each rise tightening the hyphae further, distorting their forms even more. They emitted a low and slow hissing sound from their mouths, as if silently mocking Ironclad's helplessness and fear.
Ironclad watched the group of frenzied, mushroom-controlled rats with a mix of sorrow and indifference. The curse of this spire was not only tormenting him but also mercilessly affecting these insignificant creatures. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, determined to cut off their suffering and fight for his own goal: to lift this curse and reclaim his true self.
The rats moved with ferocity and speed, their eyes filled with madness and murderous intent, completely disregarding their own safety, like puppets controlled by the mushrooms. They surged forward, targeting Ironclad's ankles and legs, biting fiercely with their sharp teeth. These mushroom-infected rats seemed to have lost their original consciousness, becoming extremely savage; their attacks were chaotic, driven purely by a primal instinct to tear apart.
Facing the swarm of uncontrollable rats, Ironclad swung his massive sword without hesitation. He shouted and unleashed Whirlwind, the blade carving clear arcs in the air, each wave of sword energy seeming to slice through the bizarre phenomenon. The wind from his sword howled, instantly shredding the two rats at the forefront into pieces. However, just as the bodies of the rats shattered, they suddenly exploded, spewing a nauseating green stench that quickly filled the entire corridor.
Ironclad did not have time to dodge and accidentally inhaled some of this abnormal odor. He immediately felt an unprecedented weakness wash over him, as if all his strength had been drained away in an instant, making it difficult for him to even hold onto his sword. He struggled to control his breathing, trying to resist this sudden wave of fatigue, but the sensation was stubborn, leaving him feeling somewhat powerless. Each breath became a struggle, as if every cell in his body was fighting against this strange condition.
He gritted his teeth, struggled to stand up, and attempted to kill the remaining mice. However, with his body being eroded by the green stench, the battle became extremely difficult. Every swing of the sword made him feel an indescribable exhaustion, but he persisted, unwilling to give in. Each bite and resistance made him feel a pain and struggle he had never experienced in his life.
Behind him, the green stench from the shattered mouse corpses continued to roll in the air, dyeing the entire corridor green, filling the air with the smell of death and putrefaction.
As Ironclad struggled to control his sense of helplessness, two larger-than-average rats rushed toward him. Their shapes were bizarre, and the mushrooms on their backs seemed to provide them with extra strength. Their incisors were sharp and unusually swollen, exuding a menacing aura as they charged at him. Although Ironclad reacted quickly, his weakened state prevented him from moving with his usual speed and precision.
In an instant, one of the rats bit down on Ironclad's leg, its sharp teeth sinking deeply into his flesh, causing him to cry out in pain. He could feel the teeth twisting in his flesh, tearing at his muscles. The agony made it nearly impossible for him to concentrate, but he knew that if he didn't respond quickly, the consequences would be dire. Gritting his teeth, he swung the hilt of his sword down hard onto the rat's head, trying to force it to let go.
Another mouse seized the opportunity to pounce, and Ironclad barely managed to swing his sword to block it, but its teeth still sank into his other leg. The pain surged through him like a tidal wave, almost unbearable. He felt blood gushing from the wound, staining his armor and the ground around him.
He knew he had to respond quickly; otherwise, in this condition, he would soon lose the ability to fight. Enduring the excruciating pain, he summoned all his strength to unleash a flurry of sword strikes, fiercely slashing at the two frenzied mice. Each strike seemed to showcase his resilience and determination against this terrifying spectacle, proving to himself that no matter how great the difficulties and suffering he faced, he would never back down. As the blade flashed in the dim light, his cries echoed hauntingly through the silent corridor, sounding particularly mournful and shocking.
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