Damon grinned as he slashed at one of the vines he couldn't quite dodge in time. The blade of Reaper's Folly met the corrupted tendril, and instead of bouncing off like every other weapon had, it cut clean through it with a hiss, like a hot knife through rotting flesh.
A wave of fetid mist erupted from the severed vine, but Damon didn't flinch. His lungs were burning, his muscles humming, and his instincts sharper than ever. All his stats were currently at 1000%, and he was riding the high like there was no tomorrow.
Power felt good.
No—scratch that. It felt divine.
He was faster than the players, stronger than the priests, and more dangerous than the monster before him.
Damon ducked beneath a sweeping claw of bramble and bone, twisted low, and leapt upward. The dagger in his hand pulsed like it was alive, hungry. He lunged, slashing across the grotesque creature's chest, or at least the place he assumed a chest should be.
