"Drow..."
From the torn wound, grayish-white mycelium spread wildly.
Katzke did not know why this Drow kept staring at him.
Within the patchwork memories in his mind, the will of the fungus churned through what remained of its thoughts.
If those Drow warriors had not swept through its mycelial network from beneath the earth, forcing it to flee underground with itself in tow—
It could have completed the construction of its nest in that cave long ago. It would not have had to relocate near the underground riverbed, where its duplicate had been charred to cinders by that spellcaster's lightning.
Leaving it with no choice but to temporarily lodge its will in this imperfect body of flesh, as it did now.
And this Drow girl before it—
It loathed her beyond measure.
Over the past two months, she had killed who knew how many servants it had infected and cultivated. Like a hunting hound that could sniff out its scent, she had even tracked it to that inn.
That was also why it had ordered its fungal servants to act with caution.
Its gaze lingered on the slender blade.
Unlike that spellcaster.
The Drow before it was a melee fighter.
No lightning—and most likely none of that even more detestable fire.
Then her body would serve as the first nourishment for its new nest.
As these thoughts passed through its mind, its wounds had already fully healed.
At the same time, mycelium poured from its sleeves, winding along its wrists and onto the dagger in its hand.
Katzke's jaw opened and closed slightly.
Gray-green currents of air slowly spilled from his mouth and nose, blending into the night and the curtain of rain.
Beneath the deep darkness and dense rain, such a faint shift in color was nearly impossible to