The fungal chandeliers didn’t simply fall. They struck like suspended siege engines.
With a wet, tearing screech of stressed plant fiber, three sixty-foot clusters of living-glow mushrooms detached from the vaulted ceiling. They plunged toward Arthur Vance with terrifying speed, trailing curtains of razor-thin silk filaments capable of slicing through armored infantry like cheese wire. At the same time, the brass-lined drainage grates across the glass tiered arena erupted, spewing high-pressure geysers of boiling, skin-burning spore slurry that filled the air with blinding purple mist.
Apostle Vespera Nyx understood the cardinal doctrine of modern combat: kill the tamer, and the beasts will drown in synaptic dizziness.
Her multi-jointed silk forelimbs blurred as she whipped them downward. Twelve barbed fungal javelins, each four inches thick and tipped with stone-hard shell lancets, whistled through the steam directly toward Arthur’s throat and chest.
“Titus, deploy Bastion!” Arthur shouted, sliding sideways across the slick fiery glass.
The ancient terrapin was already moving. Titus didn’t try to dodge. He planted all four scaled pillar legs into the floor with an impact that cracked the glass flat stone slabs. His Xuanwu core flared with dense, amber-colored earth mana. It stretched an inverted hemispherical gravity pull ten yards in width around Arthur.
