A thunderclap of impact.
Raeslin took the blow on his back, pivoted, and slashed at the thing's head. The monster was all nauseous tumors: a huge, brown, swollen mass, its head like a festering cyst set into the growth, its limbs like overgrown polyps on a malignant body.
His blade split one of the cranial swellings; yellow-green pus sprayed wide.
A heartbeat later, a giant fist of white fog slammed in from the flank and bowled it over. Aeg shot forward, his short frame wrapped in thick mist. Three strands peeled off—two snaked behind to sweep Rod and Calamon into proper formation, while the front strand lashed on, cocooning the beast.
"It's a Fouled Corpse!" Rod shouted."Type: Cursed. Trait: Contagion Spray. Threat rating: Medium. Raeslin, don't touch the spatter—its growths carry a curse!"
Raeslin was already moving in for the finisher; at Rod's warning he sprang back.
Right on cue the creature erupted, venting yellow-green filth from every pore, painting the black floor a sickly lime.
"Good call!" Raeslin barked. He funneled force to his back and whipped around—then came the hiss of steel: a storm of spines tore into the swollen flesh.
The Fouled Corpse howled and thrashed. Spines burst more tumors; viscous brown sludge ran in ropes, streaked with bile-green spray. The melted darkness within it began to thin. Its spirit dimmed.
But Aeg's white fog was thinning too.
It was about to break free.
No.
Rod's finger found the trigger. He'd been holding a charge; when the creature's soul-wave stuttered, he dumped the rest in and fired.
Boom.
In heavy strike mode, the Raven spat its most destructive round. The true-silver slug punched straight through the outer resistance and detonated inside the head.
Whump.
The upper half of the beast disintegrated. Yellow-green and deep-brown slurry fanned over the stones; rotten organs burst like overripe fruit.
To Rod's sight, the great black shadow shattered. Its dark energy rose like windblown ash and faded into the void. A thicker black thread lifted from the ruin and speared into his chest. A neat line winked across his vision:
[Small Fragment of a Soul]
Nice.
He couldn't help the grin. Years of "head-clicking" hadn't been for nothing—no one had wanted him on their team, and that had said it all.
"Clean weak-point hit," Raeslin called."Sharp eye," Aeg added.
Calamon squinted. "You sure you're not sandbagging us? You look way too competent."
"No." Rod shook his head. "I'm weak, and I'm cautious. I prefer to play it safe. Please don't rush—my heart can't take it."
Calamon eyed him, dubious. "Not feeling much 'cautious' from you right now…"
Aeg let the fog collapse. His short figure dropped onto the muck-slick stone, instantly revealing his true height. "That was satisfying. Guess the brass knew what they were doing putting you with us."
Raeslin glanced at the rapidly evaporating remains; in this shadowed culvert, the drifting black ash hardly showed. His tone shifted, frowning.
"That was a brute-class. What's it doing in the upper sewers of the capital?"
"What's 'brute-class'?" Rod asked. No shame in curiosity—he had amnesia to hide behind.
Calamon gave him a look, but answered. "Static-flow spirit reinforcing the body for melee. Most Cursed are brutes… You're not really messing with me, are you?"
"And the rest?" Rod pushed.
"Mage-class—normal-flow spirit, mixes physical and spirit attacks."
"Pure spirit combatants?"
"Those are usually immaterials—wraiths, relic shades, that sort."
"And this matters down here because…?"
"It does," Raeslin said, crouched and studying the ground. "Inside the city, under the Sacred Flame, we mostly see things that spawn straight from the fog. Mage-types usually need a carrier, and those were purged long ago. Up here in the sewers, mages are rare and conditions don't suit them."
He stood, voice tightening. "Something's off. We should pull back."
"Pull back?" Calamon blinked. "We're not finding the corrupt source? It's got to be close."
Rod swept his gaze—the black streamers were drifting deeper into the system. No classic signs yet, which meant the source was still a way off.
"Not close. Farther in."
Raeslin nodded. "We'll withdraw. We're not abandoning it—just wait for support."
Calamon bristled. "You're always so timid. What's there to—"
He didn't finish.
Shapes bloomed in Rod's vision—dozens—rushing toward them fast, each with the pulsing soul-wave of at least Unformed.
And then—
Rod's pupils tightened. One wave wasn't like the rest: still as a monster's should be, but oscillating hard from end to end.
Formed.
Mohr's voice in memory: fully matured in the fog—most lethal, most unpredictable, the class that kills the most humans.
"Run!" Rod yelled. "Formed-class incoming!"
No one moved.
"Run! Not just one—there are several—"
Then he saw it too: behind them, the breadcrumb trail of glow-stones had vanished. Only a wall of heavy, hungry darkness waited where the path had been.