This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

Fear

Exposed, Phylline leapt down from the beam. In midair, she drew her shortbow to full draw and loosed an arrow straight for Ginny’s throat!

The arrow did not hit its mark.

A black-robed cultist standing slightly behind the priestess stepped forward as if he had anticipated it all along. With a flick of his long staff, he knocked the arrow aside. It embedded itself in a nearby wooden pillar, the fletching trembling violently.

Veyra also stepped out from the shadows behind the stone column, curved blade in hand. His gaze swept over Anton and the other sacrifices before settling on Ginny’s face.

“Release them, and we’ll leave immediately.”

Ginny did not answer. She only shook her head gently, as though refusing an unreasonable request from a child.

Then she raised the simple white staff in her hand and gave a light wave toward the black-robed believers around her.

Potential unleashed!

As if it were a signal, the cultists roared and charged forward with weapons raised.

Facing the onrushing cultists, Veyra moved to the front, weaving through flashes of blades and steel, drawing the pressure squarely onto himself.

Behind him, Fein chanted rapidly. Pale green binding bands and flashes of light-blue shielding flared at critical moments, slowing encirclement attempts and deflecting surprise shots.

Phylline moved fluidly above and around them. Her arrows did not aim for instant kills; instead, they struck at the weakest points in the enemy formation or disrupted attacks about to converge, splitting and scattering the numerically superior cultists so they could not bring their advantage to bear.

With their seamless coordination, the three of them actually managed to hold the cultists back.

That balance was shattered when the staff-wielding cultist joined the fight.

The skill he had shown when deflecting Phylline’s arrow was already impressive. With his potential unleashed, his movements became so fast they left afterimages.

As Veyra knocked aside a longsword, the staff-wielder surged into the fray. He twisted his head aside to evade Phylline’s arrow, then delivered a brutally simple front kick that slammed into the back of Veyra’s hastily raised blade.

Veyra was launched backward, crashing through a row of rotting pews before coming to a stop.

The staff-wielding cultist pursued relentlessly, giving Veyra no chance to regain his footing. His attacks flowed without pause. Sparks flew as curved blade and staff collided again and again, but Veyra could only retreat, danger mounting by the second.

With Veyra suppressed, a crack opened in their coordination. The pressure on Phylline and Fein increased sharply.

Facing waves of cultists, Phylline’s arrows grew rapid and urgent as she struggled to block enemies from multiple directions. Fein’s protective magic flickered, looking increasingly unstable under the mounting assaults.

The situation was dire. Veyra could no longer hold back.

The way he gripped his blade changed. His elbow sank slightly, and the force of his arm shifted from rigid resistance to guided redirection.

The incoming staff slid along the spine of his blade. Borrowing that force, Veyra flowed half a step to the side, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow. In the instant they crossed paths, his curved blade rode the staff’s forward momentum, its tip whipping upward along an impossible arc!

Rip—!

The cultist who had dominated moments ago was slashed open by a deep wound that ran from his right ribs up to his left shoulder, bone visible beneath torn flesh.

Had he not reflexively leaned back at the last instant, the strike would have split him open completely.

This style of blade work was something Veyra had learned from foreign soldiers within the mist—vicious and insidious, a style he personally disliked.

But this was no time for personal preference.

Pressing the advantage, Veyra drove the cultist back step by step, forcing him into a desperate retreat that looked moments from collapse.

Just as Veyra began to turn the tide and Phylline and Fein tried to regroup, Ginny—who had stood quietly at the edge of the ritual as if uninvolved—finally made her move.

A cluster of ghostly blue flames ignited soundlessly in her palm.

“Mortals are always like this, unable to tell right from wrong. I don’t wish for you to suffer, but… the ritual must continue. The High Priestess is waiting for me.”

As her words fell, she gently closed her fingers.

The blue flames did not explode. Instead, they spread into a pale blue ring of light that expanded outward from her.

Wherever the ring passed—roaring cultists, the struggling trio of Veyra, Phylline, and Fein, even the goblin in the corner who had nearly broken free—all fell silent in an instant.

…

Veyra’s vision shifted, as if he had returned to the mist once more.

He watched as the mist, like a ravenous beast, swallowed familiar faces.

Friends he had shared drinks with. Syrian, who always seemed mature and never revealed his true age. And finally, Phylline and Fein, screaming and reaching out before being dragged helplessly into the fog.

The mist surged toward him, seeking to pull him in as well.

Retreat? No!

Veyra charged straight into the mist!

They were still inside—he had to drag them out!

The moment he touched the mist, it was like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. The illusion shattered instantly.

He was still half-kneeling on the cold floor of the abandoned church. His curved blade lay some distance away, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

“Sister…”

“I’m sorry… I was wrong…”

All around him came whimpers and murmurs of terror.

Whether frenzied cultists or Phylline and Fein, everyone lay collapsed—some curled and shaking, others staring blankly and muttering to themselves. All were trapped in the deepest fears of their own minds, unable to break free.

Only two remained conscious.

The caster, Ginny—and the staff-wielding cultist.

He braced himself on his staff, body swaying slightly, sweat beading at his temples. He too had only just escaped the illusion, but he was a fraction faster than Veyra. His foot came down on Veyra’s curved blade.

Seeing Veyra regain awareness so quickly, clear surprise flickered through his eyes.

“Such a resolute will… rare even among the most devout believers. What a pity.”

With the iron staff leveled at his chest, Veyra was as good as dead.

“You were faster,” Veyra said.

The cultist shook his head. “Not faster. Just… more experienced. The first time I drowned in it, I was far worse than you.”

Though he admired Veyra’s will, he had no intention of holding back.

“Veyra… don’t… don’t leave me alone…” Phylline’s unconscious murmuring reached his ears.

“I won’t,” Veyra replied softly.

Something seemed to ignite.

Both the staff-wielding cultist and Ginny, watching from afar, felt a sudden chill in their hearts.

The cultist’s staff, which had been swinging toward Veyra’s shoulder, abruptly redirected toward his head—

But at that very moment, a figure came charging in from outside, short dagger raised, throwing himself bodily at the cultist’s back!

It was the cultist who had fled earlier. His eyes glowed purple, his face twisted in bliss, utterly unaware of his own actions.

The staff was forced to change trajectory again, sweeping backward and smashing squarely into the attacker’s chest.

His chest visibly caved in. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he flew like a rag doll into the wall, falling silent.

“Useless trash!” In the shadows outside the church, the succubus Mengya stamped her foot in frustration. She had barely managed to control that mentally fragile man, only for him to be killed instantly.

Seeing the tide turning against her, Mengya prepared to flee.

Inside the church, however, the battle had shifted in a subtle but decisive way.

Though confused by the attack from his own side, the staff-wielding cultist did not hesitate. The staff came down toward Veyra once more.

But when his gaze met Veyra’s, what he saw was no longer prey cornered in despair.

It was a pair of eyes.

At some point, Veyra had straightened to his full height.

Deep within his eyes shone a pure, sacred light—utterly at odds with his bloodstained, battered appearance.

And the curved blade that had been pinned underfoot was now firmly gripped in Veyra’s hand. Its cold tip was already buried deep in the cultist’s chest.

“This is…?”

Something was wrong with Veyra.

He did not answer the cultist’s final question. He did not even glance at Ginny as she withdrew amid the chaos.

He simply drew his blade free and let the body slump to the ground.

Then he turned, knelt beside Phylline and Fein, and checked on them as the light in his eyes slowly faded.

Outside, Mengya stared blankly at the sudden reversal, unsure whether she should step in.

Looking at Phylline on the ground, she felt an inexplicable flicker of envy.

…

Elsewhere, another climactic battle reached its conclusion.

The battlefield was in ruins. Cultists caught in the fighting lay scattered across the ground, bodies marked by dark-green poison or embedded with shattered wood fragments.

Midair, the slime and the scout puji crossed paths one final time, spraying droplets of viscous fluid and torn fungal strands.

A breeze passed through the clearing. The scout puji’s shattered body swayed twice, then collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

The slime was no better off.

Its once-bulging body had shrunk by nearly half, its color dull, dark-green residue splattered across the surrounding earth.

It had won.

A brutal victory—but it was the one still standing.

And after winning, it was time to claim the spoils.

It oozed forward, intending to dissolve and consume its fallen foe.

Whoosh!

A mushroom cannon round struck the ground less than a foot in front of it, blasting up dirt and debris.

Puji. Puji. Puji—

Three scout puji, identical in form and size to the corpse on the ground, silently appeared, surrounding it.

The exhausted slime froze in place.