The air shifted, a low rumble vibrating through the ground. Marc's senses prickled as the distant sound of claws scraping against stone grew louder, closer. His gaze shifted toward the canyon entrance, the only path out of this place. He could already hear the screeching calls of the ghouls, their feral voices piercing the quiet evening.
Then, from the shadowed gap, they appeared—more than a hundred of them, an unholy horde. Twisted, grotesque creatures with disfigured bodies and faces, their teeth sharp and jagged, claws clicking against the rocky surface. Among them, flying low to the ground, were twelve winged ghouls, their grotesque wings flapping with unnatural speed, ready to dive at any moment.
But it was the leader who caught Marc's attention. His eyes narrowed at the familiar figure—the squid-like creature—its decaying, tentacled beard shifting with every movement, controlling the chaos around it with unnatural ease.
The Giant Ghoul.
Marc's blood ran cold as he realized the true meaning of this moment. It was the same creature that had tormented him before, the one who had taken pleasure in his suffering, in the tormenting days when he had been trapped as a wisp. The one who had put him through hell.
It was the same thing, but this time, Marc wouldn't let himself fall again.
He could already feel the tension in the air, the battle coming with certainty. And yet, as the ghouls drew nearer, Marc stood still, his mind sharp, calculating.
"This time," Marc whispered, eyes glinting with defiance, "I'll make sure to pay you back a hundred times what you did to me."
The Giant Ghoul's gaze swept over the wide expanse of the canyon, taking in the desolate landscape, the rocky walls, and the lone figure planted firmly in its path. The creature's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, everything seemed to be still. There was no sound, no movement—just the unsettling silence that hung between Marc and the Giant Ghoul.
The warlock's lips twisted, forming words that sounded more like a forgotten language than anything Marc could recognize. The words hung in the air, a guttural hiss before the canyon fell silent once more. The air was thick, oppressive, as the two locked eyes in a fierce, unspoken challenge.
And then, with a roar that shook the very ground beneath them, the Giant Ghoul shouted, a sound so loud it seemed to echo across the canyon walls. At that command, the hundred ghouls surged forward, their claws scraping against stone as they rushed toward Marc with a mindless, frenzied hunger.
Marc, however, merely smirked. As the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, the night began to fall. The light from the setting sun faded completely, and in the sudden darkness, the world seemed to hold its breath.
But not for long.
In the pitch-black night, the ghoul horde continued their charge—but Marc, to their surprise, was gone. His figure had vanished from their sight, his presence completely erased.
Then, a soft glow began to pulse in the darkness. It started as a faint, flickering light, but it grew brighter, more intense, until the entire field was bathed in an ethereal glow. It was the light of the plant—the very source of the power Marc had connected with. The light from the grass, the very beginning of his newfound strength, now illuminated the entire canyon, casting long shadows and turning the desolation into a scene of unnatural beauty.
The ghouls faltered for a moment, confused by the sudden light, but the leader, the Giant Ghoul, remained focused. His eyes scanned the canyon, searching for Marc, but the air was thick with mystery and power.
As the ghouls hesitated, their snarls turning into confused growls, the ground beneath them began to stir. From the purple sands, clusters of peculiar mushrooms sprouted rapidly, their caps a deep crimson adorned with luminescent white speckles. These were the Illusion Shrooms, known for releasing potent spores that induced vivid hallucinations.
A sudden gust of wind swept across the canyon, dispersing the shrooms' pollen into the air. The spores sparkled in the fading twilight, forming a shimmering haze that blanketed the battlefield. The ghouls inhaled it involuntarily, and the effects were immediate.
Their eyes widened, and their movements became twitchy, erratic. Some screeched and tore at their own flesh, trying to claw out the hallucinations. Others turned on their comrades, their perception warped beyond recognition. They fought each other with feral madness—ripping, biting, slashing—believing they were under attack from unseen enemies. Bone snapped under the weight of monstrous blows, black ichor sprayed across the sands, and deranged laughter echoed from twisted throats.
The unholy horde was devouring itself.
Amidst the spiraling chaos, Marc reemerged, his form anchored firmly to the earth, radiant with ethereal light. His expression remained serene, yet resolute. From his stationary position, luminous tendrils unfurled around him, weaving through the air like spectral vines.
Without mercy, these tendrils lashed out, cleaving through the frenzied ghouls. Heads rolled, torsos split, limbs were torn like paper. Their twisted forms writhed in agony before falling still, their grotesque faces frozen in fear and pain. The air grew heavy with the pungent mix of spores, blood, and scorched flesh.
However, a contingent of stronger ghouls resisted the spores' influence. They stood motionless, observing the chaos as their comrades tore each other apart, their expressions unreadable.
From above, the twelve-winged ghouls took decisive action. Their grotesque wings beat furiously as they ascended, positioning themselves strategically in the darkened sky. Suddenly, their mouths opened unnaturally wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth and pulsating glands. With guttural screeches, they launched a barrage of sharp, bone-like spikes toward Marc, each projectile slicing through the air with deadly precision.
Marc, anchored firmly to the ground, lacked the mobility to evade or the defenses to counter this aerial assault. His luminous tendrils lashed out instinctively, but they couldn't intercept every incoming spike. Several projectiles struck him, embedding into his form and causing bursts of radiant energy to erupt upon impact. A distorted cry escaped him, a mix of pain and defiance.
The stronger ghouls, witnessing Marc's vulnerability, began to advance cautiously, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. The tide of battle was shifting once more, and the true test of Marc's resilience had begun.
The battlefield had become a slaughterhouse.
Dismembered bodies littered the ground. Ghouls mutilated by their own kin lay beside those executed by Marc. Their lifeless eyes stared skyward, empty and glassy. The air pulsed with heat, thick with smoke and gore. The sands of the canyon, once purple and cold, now glowed red with the memory of death.