These tentacles were not physical entities, but condensed energy. Each was as thick as an adult's thigh, their surfaces covered in dense, intricate runes.
The runes glowed with a dim but steady dark-gold light. The tentacles slowly swayed behind him, emitting a low hum like the buzzing of bees' wings.
Wu Heng stood there, hell in his left hand, creation in his right, with the Puppet Wraith behind him.
His protective barrier did not appear. That was meant to help the other demon hunters; he himself was the strongest defense.
The fungal threads surging up from underground stopped ten meters away from him. Their sacs trembled like frightened dogs.
Mother of Pestilence's primary tentacles sensed the threat.
The fungal threads pinned to the ground began struggling violently. The sacs on them opened all at once, spraying streams of yellow-green mist.
The mist was dense, lunging at Wu Heng like a solid mass.
Within it lay the essence of pestilence, capable of corroding all organic and inorganic matter. Even stone could be dissolved.
It surged toward him in an overwhelming tide, like a yellow-green wall.
Wu Heng did not even look at it.
The Puppet Wraith behind him moved.
All twelve tentacles lashed out like whips at once, striking the yellow-green wall with full force.
The wall shattered into powder.
The mist was dispersed, breaking into countless tiny particles that drifted through the air.
When those particles touched the Puppet Wraith's tentacles, they hissed like droplets falling onto red-hot iron.
Yet the tentacles' surfaces were left without so much as a mark. The runes flashed once, then returned to normal.
Mother of Pestilence was enraged.
Its primary tentacles sprang up from the ground without regard for anything else—dozens, then hundreds—lunging at Wu Heng at the same time.
They were like countless