The Deadroot Tunnels were less a passageway and more a wound carved into the earth, festering with time and neglect. The walls pulsed faintly, lined with roots that twitched as if tasting the air, coated in bioluminescent moss that flickered like weak candlelight. Mushrooms taller than men clustered in strange spirals, while spore clouds drifted lazily in the stale, toxic air.
Thornjaw led the way.
The beast moved on two legs but retained the sinewed grace of a predator. It walked like something evolved to hunt in nightmare forests—shoulders forward, claws twitching in anticipation, a long jaw flexing with silent breaths. Animalistic but undeniably crafted. Golem core humming faintly at the base of its spine, blue and gold glyphs glinting in time with its stride. Mark had never named it anything else. Thornjaw was its purpose.
Mark followed several paces behind, quiet, hands clasped behind his back. His plain logistic uniform was stained with travel and age, but the ring on his right hand was pristine—golden, etched in channels that flickered whenever Thornjaw moved. Three others moved with him, crouched near walls and fungus-laden ridges, sketching, tagging, and logging the fungal growths. Each one categorized by color, sheen, and stalk texture.
"Spindleshade, iron-banded, partial sap bleed," one of the logisticians mumbled, drawing a quick figure and pressing a copper tag into the soil.
"Orange cap with vein fractures. Could be reactive," another said. "Not for contact. Tag it."
They worked quietly, efficiently. The Deadroot Tunnels were old, dangerous, and full of things that couldn't be left unsupervised. Their mission was to survey and log. No contact, no retrieval. At least, that's what Mark had been told.
He glanced at Thornjaw again. Something about the assignment gnawed at him.
Why was he sent to catalogue spores and bark when Park—better known for her sniper skills and volatile temper—had been deployed for bandit hunting? Roa, tactician and frontliner, had been sent to Witch's Hollow, right into the bog-wracked chaos of tribal masks and beasts. He didn't mind being sidelined—Mark preferred silence to glory—but even he could sense something beneath the surface. Fornos had placed each squad with intent. But whose intent?
The answer didn't come. But the noise did.
A low grinding sound, like stone sliding against bone, echoed down the tunnel's spine. Every logistician froze.
Mark raised a fist—signal for silence.
The air changed. The light pulses from the bioluminescent fungus flickered and shifted hue. The roots along the walls pulled slightly inward. Thornjaw turned toward the source, its clawed hands spreading, teeth glinting.
Then it came.
Not walking—emerging. A twisted amalgamation of earth, rot, and crawling life burst forth from the tunnel wall like a fever dream. It scraped itself through the passage, jagged limbs cracking against the walls, carving deep scars into the stone.
It had six legs, though none could truly be called limbs. More like stilts—gnarled, jagged spikes that cracked against stone with a horrible rhythm. Its torso was swollen with amber cysts and pulsating fungal sacs, glowing with a sickly inner light. The head—or what passed for one—was a cluster of spore sacs and venting ridges, constantly exhaling invisible clouds of something. Not steam. Not smoke. Something alive.
Mark inhaled once, slowly. He didn't speak.
He simply raised his hand.
The ring on his finger gleamed blue, then flared white.
Thornjaw moved.
The beast didn't roar or posture. It launched. In a blur, it was halfway down the tunnel, claws carving gouges through moss and stone. Its tail lashed behind it like a whip, balancing its speed. In a blink, it closed the distance.
The fungal abomination shrieked—a sound that bypassed ears and scraped against the skull. Its vents pulsed harder, releasing a wave of spores that shimmered under the ambient light. Thornjaw ducked low, skidding under one of its massive stilt-legs, then sprang upwards—claws slashing at the bulbous cysts on the creature's underside.
Burst.
Fungal mass sprayed in thick, amber fluid. Thornjaw didn't slow.
Mark's fingers twitched in complex rhythm, directing the golem like a puppeteer with invisible strings. His face remained expressionless, eyes calculating.
The logisticians backed into the nearest safe corner, covering their mouths, avoiding even the slightest intake of the airborne spores.
The beast reared up, one leg smashing into the tunnel wall, dislodging entire slabs of rock. Thornjaw vaulted over it, landed on its back, and dug both claws into the vented cranium—tearing downward in a shower of pulp and steam.
The creature spasmed once. Twice.
Then slumped.
Its glow began to fade as the fungal pulses died off, amber sacs collapsing like overripe fruit. Thornjaw crouched atop its corpse, snarling faintly until Mark flicked his hand downward.
"Down," he murmured.
The golem obeyed, sliding off and returning to its position.
Mark approached the corpse, careful not to touch the fluids. He observed the pattern of fungus growths, the shape of the core beneath the rocky structure. He knelt, poked it once with a long iron rod, then nodded.
"Not a wild mutation," he said quietly. "This was crafted. Golem, or a mimicry of one."
The other three exchanged glances.
"Someone tried to build something out of local rot?"
"Or grow it into something." Mark stood. "Either way, we'll need a better guess on who's feeding the tunnels."
One of the logisticians began sketching the corpse, while another retrieved the sealed sample jars. A third began whispering a containment chant, hoping to suppress the lingering aura.
Mark turned back toward the deeper tunnels.
Thornjaw stared into the dark, its claws flexing again.
More would come. The roots twitched again. The walls were still pulsing.
The tunnels weren't dead.
They were breathing.