A vortex spread outward from Kloz's body, growing larger and spinning faster, expanding from a few hundred meters in diameter to several thousand, then from several thousand to covering half the living-flesh plain.
Kloz himself stood at the center of the vortex, while its edges reached as far as his appetite could.
The vortex was neither wind nor water, but the manifestation of appetite.
It spun neither air nor water. What it spun was everything that could be "eaten"—flesh and blood, bones, ghostly energy, souls, even energy itself.
Wherever the vortex passed, everything was drawn toward its center, chewed apart by those hundreds of giant mouths, swallowed, and digested.
Thick golden-red saliva poured from Kloz's giant mouths. It did not drip down drop by drop—it crashed down like a waterfall.
The saliva smashed into the living-flesh plain, gouging out crater after crater. The craters filled with saliva, which corroded their walls, causing more bloody fluid to seep out. That fluid was then sucked into the vortex and swallowed by Kloz.
His body was proliferating madly. Newly grown flesh was covered before it could harden by even newer flesh; before that newer flesh could take shape, it was squeezed and distorted by fresher growth.
Layer upon layer, like mille-feuille, like a sponge, like an expanding universe.
His giant mouths opened and closed faster and faster, until the naked eye could no longer distinguish their movements.
One second, he swallowed a hundred Withered Bone Ghost Soldiers. The next, he swallowed two hundred Flesh Guards. The second after that, he spat out what he had swallowed—not spat it out, but expelled the indigestible residue from his body.
The residue was gray-black, dry and shriveled, devoid of even a trace of moisture, like sugarcane pulp that had been chewed countless times.
He did not