This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

A nearly invisible silhouette darted along the ground in a bizarre trajectory, each landing kicking up fine dust — it was some kind of invisible jumping insect fleeing for its life.

Although its body was concealed, the dust clinging to it betrayed its path, leaving a broken trail behind.

Broga pursued relentlessly, his heavy ringed blade slicing through the air with gusting sounds again and again.

Yet he still couldn’t see the full form; the blade always missed the invisible body by the narrowest margin, leaving only deep slash marks in the earth.

A streak of electricity skittered low and struck that vague outline.

The air instantly filled with the smell of burning; a jump-beetle, crisped on the outside and soft within from the shock, fell from midair, its limbs twitching slightly.

Broga’s following blade arrived and cleaved it in two, sticky purple blood gushing out and soaking into the soil.

Broga straightened and looked toward a familiar figure approaching at a slow pace, his tone edged with annoyance. “Rama, your lightning nearly grazed me.”

Rama, a half-demon, flicked the remaining arc off the tip of his staff. “I thought if I didn’t act, that thing would have slipped from under your blade.”

“I don’t have your kind of magic eye that sees through disguises,” Broga muttered. “Besides, what does it matter if one gets away? They’re already trapped in the cordon; sooner or later they’ll die.”

Rama was a senior warrior of the neighboring “Stoneclaw” tribe.

Like Broga’s “Broken Blade” tribe, they were a typical northern mixed-ethnicity band.

Mixed-ethnicity tribes formed when various races clustered together to survive the harsh land — there were no strict racial boundaries, and because the tribes lacked fundamental conflicts of interest, Broken Blade and Stoneclaw got along reasonably well. Some senior warriors on both sides even considered each other friends.

Broga and Rama were one such pair.

Broga kicked the still-twitching insect corpse away with disgust. “That’s fucking gross.”

In the north, food was extremely precious. Even though trade with the Mycelium Fort supplied them with mushrooms, thrifty habits remained ingrained; people wouldn’t waste any potential prey.

But these purple-blooded insects were different — their flesh was slimy and rank; eating them caused violent vomiting and weakness. They weren’t food at all.

Rama looked toward the warriors steadily advancing and spreading powder, tightening the cordon bit by bit. “This time we’ll wipe them clean. These damn insects have taken over forty of our people in just a few months.”

“Our tribe suffered worse,” Broga replied grimly. “Even a senior warrior fell to them.”

Rama nodded, his expression grave. “I know. If it weren’t that serious, the leaders wouldn’t have agreed to a joint operation. Letting these insects be is too dangerous.”

“Thank those mushroom… fort people,” Broga said. “If they hadn’t supplied mushrooms, who knows how long it’d take us to gather enough rations to launch a hunt of this scale.”

Life had been lean for the northern tribes; it was hard to pull together supplies for something this big. The Fort’s appearance injected new vitality into the surrounding tribes.

A single or two slaves could be exchanged for a whole cart of mushrooms — a hugely profitable trade.

They could even trade small amounts of mushrooms to more distant tribes that couldn’t deal directly with the Fort to obtain slaves, then sell those slaves to the Fort at a markup.

Without these suddenly appearing insects, this spring would have been an unprecedentedly prosperous season.

Of course, not everyone was content with the present situation.

“I’m more curious,” Rama said, lifting a clump of dirt, “our tribe also has a patch of mycelium carpet nearby, but their mushrooms sprout sparse and slow. What trick are they using to make mushrooms grow like weeds?”

Broga suggested, “They must be hiding some secret ritual or proprietary formula. Didn’t your tribe take in a shapeshifter? Let him sneak in and swipe the recipe.”

Rama nodded, but it wasn’t the time to ponder that.

As they talked, one of Rama’s warriors came running with a report. “Captain, we found blood over there!”

After a moment, he added, “Red blood.”

They followed the man to a shaded slope. Sure enough, the ground was splattered with dark red stains — shocking to behold — but no bodies were visible, clearly the work of those insects.

After searching, someone unearthed a half-severed finger from the soft soil.

Rama examined it carefully. “A human finger. Probably left by one of those ‘bait’ people… didn’t expect it to get that far.”

Since spring began, nearby tribes had been repeatedly attacked.

Judging by time and place, these purple-blooded insects must have been hiding in the Luo River.

To draw them out, the tribes pooled a batch of slaves as bait.

The plan worked: hordes of insects were lured out, the allied force sealed off their retreat, and tightened the encirclement.

This operation, even if it didn’t eliminate the threat permanently, aimed to cripple the insects so they couldn’t recover for years.

The blood stain before them was probably the last trace left by one unlucky bait.

The cordon continued to shrink steadily, and encounters with invisible jump-insects grew more frequent.

Everyone understood these insects were desperate, making final breakout attempts.

To the senior warriors present, invisible beasts were troublesome but ultimately instinct-driven brutes. They might succeed against lone warriors, but they couldn’t threaten an organized, intelligent force. So far the allied hunt had caused only a handful of casualties.

The last, dying counterattacks might be fierce, but the overall situation was decided.

The insects frantically attempted to break out, only to collide with the cordon, and finally fled onto a still-thickly iced section of the Luo River.

The ice there remained solid; weight-bearing wasn’t a concern until summer.

With a tribal priest chanting, a revealing spell rippled over the ice and exposed the remaining few hundred insects.

They clustered at the center, tightly guarding one especially large specimen — a six-clawed, scythe-armed monstrosity.

“That must be the Queen! If she’s visible, it’s easy — I’ll take the glory!” Broga licked his lips bloodthirstily and, leading his men, charged first.

“Kill them all!”

“For our dead!”

His action spurred the other tribes’ warriors into a fierce charge like a breaking flood, shouting as they swept across the ice toward the insect cluster.

Broga reached the front and met the insects. Two — one large, one small — were hacked in half at first contact.

He didn’t stop and pushed on, aiming straight for the presumed Queen.

The insects fought fiercely, but deprived of their invisibility and facing thousands of warriors, resistance was futile.

Many insects were slain; the ice was stained purple with blood.

As Broga cut his way toward the center to meet the Queen, a strong tremor ran through the ice beneath his feet.

Broga staggered; the Queen braced as if expecting it and struck a claw out.

At the critical moment, Broga twisted his waist, used the momentum to parry the Queen’s strike with his greatsword, and rolled back, awkwardly regaining his footing.

But that was only the beginning — the tremors intensified.

Then, to everyone’s disbelief, a huge tooth-lined tentacle burst up through the ice from the river…