Back in the Dungeon World, where time moved much slower.
They moved deeper into Level 60 without ceremony, following the pull of corruption points that grew heavier with every step. Right now, everyone here has felt it.
The land worsened the farther they went. The ground split into uneven plates of blackened stone and rotting soil.
Rivers of viscous sludge cutting through what had once been valleys.
The air felt like it resisted them. It was thick with death Magic that pressed against the lungs and crawled along the skin. If it was not for their Draginborn body, they would already have collapsed.
The undead rose constantly.
Broken soldiers, twisted beasts, and fused bodies that barely resembled anything living clawed their way out of the ground in waves numbered hundreds at a time, sometimes thousands at once.
At first, Khepra-Ankh walked at the front.
His pale Magic spread again, calm and measured. Wherever it passed, the undead simply stopped.
