"What the hell is this thing?"
Thor rubbed his aching skull and staggered to his feet, staring at the grotesque heap before him.
The Amalgamated Corpsefiend was hideous. Jagged spikes jutted from every inch of its patchwork flesh, seams of rot glistening wetly. Nearly four meters tall, every pus-dripping pore was on full display. The stench rolling off its bulk could choke a goat. Drool, thick and yellow as pus, spattered from its maw.
"Wraaagh—"
A guttural bellow, the sound a lobotomized beast makes when it forgets how to scream.
Thor rolled his shoulders. "Big guy, huh? I've punched bigger." (He hadn't.) But pride is free.
The monster charged. Each footfall cracked stone.
Thor met it halfway, eyes tracking every twitch of those spike-studded limbs.
Amalgamated Corpsefiends—coffinless corpse demons to scholars—didn't care what you called them. Too many minds stitched inside one hide left only instinct.
Attack pattern: Slam. Rip. Swallow.
Simple. Effective. Fatal.
"Wraaagh!"
A spiked arm swept down. Thor ducked, drove his fist into the thing's flank. Knuckles sank wrist-deep into cold rot.
Liver shot. Would've dropped anything with a liver.
The corpsefiend didn't notice. Its backhand sent Thor skidding ten meters, boots carving furrows in the dirt.
"Buddy," Thor coughed, flicking gore off his hand, "you're tougher than you look."
He circled again, grinning through the pain. When life serves sewage, add sugar.
––––––––––––––––
Meanwhile, outside the secret realm, snow fell soft on Harrogath.
Hawkeye and Natasha lay sprawled, steam rising from their armor.
Fifth realm cleared. Bones intact. Barely.
Natasha rolled onto her hip, curves cutting elegant lines against white. "Barton, when do we go home? I miss my mattress."
Hawkeye kept his eyes shut. "Five more minutes. Then eternity."
His quiver lay empty. The compound bow he'd babied for years had snapped two realms ago; the crude longbow across his lap was scavenged. No exploding arrows, no trick shots—just honest wood and desperation.
"I pegged you for throwing axes," Natasha teased.
"I pegged you for shutting up," Hawkeye muttered.
Footsteps crunched. Cassius loomed, grinning like a wolf.
Hawkeye cracked an eye. "Not now, Ancestor Oron-gus."
Cassius kicked snow onto Hawkeye's face. "Up. Bul-Kathos awaits. Time for your potion belts."
Natasha rose, brushing frost from her thighs. "He's actually tired."
"Tired?" Oron-gus snorted. "I fought sewer rats the size of horses."
Hawkeye sat bolt upright. "Rats? You call those flying wraiths rats? Then what was the thing that tunneled under me last realm—Ground-Pounder Demon?"
Cassius barked a laugh. Oron-gus flushed crimson.
For decades Cassius had fed Oron-gus fake battle reports. The ancestor couldn't tell a ghoul from a goat anymore.
Oron-gus coughed. "You lived, didn't you?" He dug in his pouch, produced a thumb-sized emerald—flawless, low-grade, but still shelter-forged. "Critical damage boost. Take it."
Cassius tossed a diamond the size of a knuckle. "Mine too. My prank, my apology."
Natasha extended a hopeful palm.
Cassius rolled his eyes. "You weren't misinformed. Hands down."
Oron-gus vanished in a swirl of snow. Cassius followed, muttering about Rasuk's forge shift.
Bul-Kathos strode up, two frost-rimed flasks in hand. "Drink."
Natasha caught hers mid-air, stretched like a cat. "Ancestors are adorable."
Hawkeye gulped his, wiped his beard. "I just want a bed that isn't stone." He paused. "How's the gap-toothed maniac? Cassilius?"
Bul-Kathos chuckled. "Learned to fight with his head."
Natasha arched a brow. "Define 'with his head.'"
"Head-butts a Fallen Shaman's skull to pulp. Hasn't unlocked Berserker Charge yet. Kanuk's proud."
Hawkeye winced. Natasha swallowed her questions.
"Potion belts are issued at the Elders' Temple," Bul-Kathos said, already walking. "Move."
Snow crunched under three sets of boots. Somewhere, a gap-toothed mage practiced cranial warfare.
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