CHAPTER 644: THE DEAD COMPANY (4)

Figures erupted from alcoves with a scratch of antler against stone. They were shaped like men but stretched wrong—limbs elongated, bark plates fused into armor over bone that clicked and hissed with every motion. Antlers rose from skulls, twisted into crude spearpoints that dripped black sap. Bramble-Wraiths, but grown on some monstrous fertilizer. Two on the left, two on the right, all moving faster than the smaller ones above.

Thalatha blurred forward, more reflex than choice. Her longsai blade left its sheath with a whisper and met the first wraith mid-leap. Steel kissed rot; the creature’s mask split clean along the nose ridge, falling away in halves like rotten fruit. She pivoted on her trailing heel, cape snapping, and used the backstroke to slice an exposed vine-tendon in its knee. The corpse crumpled, green ichor splashing the moss-tiles.

Mikhailis didn’t have time to appreciate the choreography. The second wraith bore down, claws as long as kitchen knives. He snapped the wax seal on his grenade, lobbed it underhand. Glass shattered against its sternum; a bloom of psycho-gel vapor hissed outward, odor sharp like crushed mint mixed with funeral incense. The wraith gagged—if fungus can gag—and swiped blindly, its antlers gouging the ceiling.

The third attacker barreled straight for him, more confident. Its claws scissored at throat level. Survival instincts overrode decorum: he dropped to a crouch so fast his knees barked, twisting sideways behind Rodion’s waiting chassis.

The construct responded in a blink. Plates along its spine unfolded, revealing silk launchers. With a pneumatic pop, a web of sticky filament shot up, pinning the creature across shoulders and skull. The net yanked upward in a violent jerk, plastering the wraith to the ceiling like a nightmare carp caught on a boat hook. The monster thrashed, but every pull only tightened the net, silken threads scoring grooves into bark flesh.

A fourth wraith darted low, using the collapse of its brother as cover. It slid under Thalatha’s guard, scything claws across her thigh. Leather split, crimson blooming through the gash. She gritted her teeth—no scream—then answered with a vicious upward sweep that took the head clean off. The antler crown clattered down the corridor, coming to rest against Mikhailis’s boot with a hollow knock.

She staggered but refused to fall. Blood soaked the edge of her cloak, dripping in steady plinks onto mossstone. "Just a scratch," she breathed, though her pallor betrayed more pain than she’d admit.

He offered an arm, half in jest. "Bandage or more monsters to hit? I’ve got both in stock."

Thalatha shot him a look of dry disdain. "Lead, Prince of Jokes. I’ll follow."

Rodion flashed two blue pulses across its chest plating. Correlation: wounded ally detected. Suggest medical intervention within fourteen minutes to prevent mobility loss.

"Fourteen minutes is eternity down here." Mikhailis palmed a cloth patch dipped in coagulant resin. "Hold still." He pressed it to the tear in her leathers. The resin hissed as it met blood, sealing flesh with a thin amber sheen. Her jaw tightened but she didn’t pull away.

Behind them the pinned wraith finally sagged, net strangling the last twitch from its limbs. Rodion’s dorsal spines retracted with a soft click.

Silence reclaimed the tunnel, punctured only by their breaths. The spores drifted in lazy spirals again, like nothing had happened. Like the corridor swallowed the violence and burped up calm, Mikhailis mused, wiping sweat from his brow.

They pressed on, step after careful step. The tunnel angled down, growing narrower, the living wood arching overhead like ribs from a gargantuan beast. Roots wove vents along the sides, exhaling humid gusts that carried sour-sweet hints of rot. Each breath felt second-hand, air already chewed by something further below.

Green gridlines flickered to life across the floor—Rodion’s heads-up projection. The construct hovered near Mikhailis’s shoulder, optic sensors swiveling. Mapping subterranean slope at eight-degree decline. Warning: structural density decreases ahead. Expect soft ground.

"Like walking on a lung," Mikhailis whispered. "Great."

The corridor finally yawned into a dome-shaped chamber. Luminescent mold painted every wall in sterile azure, turning Thalatha’s normally golden braid to a muted, ghostly hue. Depressions ringed the floor, each filled with thick, glimmering ichor. Some pools were calm like mercury; others bubbled as though heated from beneath, sending oily blisters popping on the surface.

He edged closer to one recess, curiosity winning over caution. The liquid reflected his face—brow furrowed, hair damp, eyes too wide. Then the reflection warped, pupils dilating until only black remained. The cheeks sank; the lips peeled back. A corpse stared up, mouth open in silent accusation.

Mikhailis recoiled, a curse slipping free. "Failed experiments," he muttered. "Whoever ran this carnival tried mass production and got rotten leftovers."

Thalatha knelt to inspect another pool. The cold glow splayed across her gauntlet like frost. She tapped the surface with the flat of her blade; a slick membrane clung to steel and stretched. Beneath, something twitched—an embryo of mossy bone trying to knit itself. Her voice dropped. "Not ritual. Parasitic. It eats until the host is just scaffolding." She wiped the residue off, disgust curling her lip.

They abandoned the chamber, though the air felt thicker leaving it, as if the mold reluctantly let them go. The hallway beyond promised no relief. Columns—twelve on each side—rose from floor to ceiling. Each was a nightmare graft: rib bones spiraled like twisted marble, fused with living root that pulsed faintly as if still pumping sap. Faces bulged from within, mouths forever stretched in soundless screams under translucent bark skin.

Mikhailis forced his stare straight ahead, counting steps under his breath. Yet phantom sensations crawled along his nerves: rusted shackles biting wrists, the stink of goblin pits, the weight of a broken crown. Ghost memories that were not his leached through the columns like poisoned fumes.

Thalatha faltered beside him, breathing quick and shallow. Her irises lost focus, chasing visions he couldn’t see. One boot slid toward the edge of the path.

He snapped—too loud in the tomb-quiet hall. "Stop!" Mikhailis lunged and seized her elbow, yanking her back an instant before the root-floor hissed open. A camouflaged pit swung wide, lined with thorny root-spines. Air whooshed past their faces.

Thalatha’s pupils shrank to pinpoints. "I... saw my sister." Her voice cracked, confusion thick. "I don’t have a sister."

He kept his grip firm. "Keep your eyes down," he said, words clipped, no joke left. "It’s not real. It wants you to want it."

The root pit sealed again with a fleshy squelch, leaving behind only a faint seam. Thalatha exhaled hard, shoulders trembling once before she set them square. She gave him a single nod—gratitude unsaid but understood—then faced forward, gaze fixed on his boots rather than the walls.

Rodion drifted in a lateral glide, scanning each column. Psycho-active illusion spores detected. Dosage potent enough to induce false memory. Recommend filtration masks.

Mikhailis fished two cotton plugs from his coat and handed one over. They were hardly professional respirators, but the charcoal lining would cut some toxins. Thalatha stuffed the plug under her scarf, tying it across her mouth. He did the same, the taste of herbs and ash settling on his tongue.

They took the next steps in uneasy silence, columns glaring with every imaginable agony. Mikhailis’s tattoo burned hotter, a brand urging speed. Source is near, he thought, quickening pace though fatigue dragged at his limbs.

Behind them the corridor seemed to breathe, columns flexing minutely. Spores drifted in swirling eddies, chasing their heels like hungry minnows. Every footfall echoed in a wrong key, as though the floorboards played music tuned by a lunatic.

Thalatha’s sword remained drawn now, tip low but ready. She limped despite the resin bandage; blood already soaked through in a darker patch. Mikhailis resisted the urge to fuss—her pride was armor too—but he slid an arm under her elbow in pretense of guiding around debris. She allowed it, leaning just enough to save stress on the wounded leg.

They reached another arch, lower than before, carved with runes half-melted by Blight sap. Beyond it, deeper darkness hummed like a hive. Cold air blew through, smelling of mildew and something medicinal—oddly sweet, but wrong.

Mikhailis braced himself, cast one last glance at the nightmare columns rearing behind. He whispered to Thalatha, low so even the walls couldn’t hear: "One breath at a time."