Chapter 134: Swamp Escape

“Captain, they’re catching up—and there are twice as many as two hours ago.”

“Looks like our traps did nothing at all, not even slowed down these lunatics. Stop resting, move out now! Solon, lead the vanguard. Damn it.”

In an instant the order was given, and a standard drow reconnaissance squad slipped soundlessly into the gray-white reeds, movements clean and precise, not even stirring a whisper.

Yet this swamp, steeped in deep malice toward order, was destined to deny them easy escape.

“Boom!”

“Ahh—my eyes!”

A cluster of unremarkable gray-and-white giant mushrooms by the path suddenly exploded, scattering spore smoke in all directions. Two drow in the middle of the column clutched their faces and screamed as they collapsed, yet still drew their curved blades with astonishing reflexes, adopting defensive stances.

“Shut up! How the hell did you even survive the Dueling Tower with this incompetence?” Demont muttered from the front, his gaze slicing through the surroundings like a blade.

“Relax, Demont. The boys still need training.” Captain Keno casually slashed a vine with suction cups that had silently reached for him, his tone dismissive.

But his pupils contracted slightly—the wounded squad members’ eye sockets were already spreading irregular gray-black patterns, like spiderwebs creeping toward their cheeks.

This wasn’t an ordinary explosive mushroom—it was a decay-spore fungus contaminated by the Old Rotter’s mycelial network.

“The toxin paralyzes the optic nerves but won’t kill.” Keno swiftly assessed, pulling two dark purple antidote pills from his waist pouch and tossing them over.

“Chew and swallow them. Cover your eyes with cloth strips. Follow the team by sound and smell from now on. Solon, speed up!”

No sooner had he spoken than a deep, rhythmic “gurgle” echoed from the swamp’s depths, as if hundreds of wet drumsticks hammered simultaneously into mud.

The reeds began collapsing in vast swathes to either side, revealing the murky gray water and churning sludge behind—over a dozen humped backs slicing through the swamp, encircling them. Each hump bore rows of pale white bone spines, glowing faintly in the dim light.

Bone-spine Toads.

“Three o’clock, fifty meters, at least twelve.” Demont crouched low, blades crossed before his chest, his voice finally tight with tension. “Captain, they’ve circled around—this isn’t random.”

“Of course it isn’t.” Keno spat out the half-chewed root from his mouth, his eyes turning cold.

“The old bastard sees us clearly through the underground mycelium. Since the traps failed, we go head-on—”

“Listen to my command. When they leap from the mud, everyone shift to the left flank. Let the first wave hit those rotting stumps.”

The rotting stumps he referred to were a dense cluster of decaying logs a dozen steps ahead, half-buried in mud, sharp as barbs. Bone-spine toads were bulky and explosive in leaps, but slow to turn after landing. If lured into the log array, most of their momentum could be neutralized.

“Solon, your team keep moving—push toward Whispering Shoal.” Keno licked his cracked lips, spinning his blade half a circle in his palm. “The rest—come with me and gut these toads.”

The moment Keno finished speaking, the sludge erupted.

The first bone-spine toad leapt from the swamp, its bloated body stretching midair—nearly the size of a calf.

Its gray-green membrane was coated in slimy pus; a row of spines along its back glowed with sickly luminescence, like teeth grown from a rotting corpse.

It opened its massive mouth—a slit stretching to its chest, lined with barbs—and a purple-black tongue shot out like lightning, aimed at the nearest drow.

“Left shift!”

Demont moved first. He didn’t retreat—he stepped forward, crossing his blades to block the slick tongue. The blades scraped across its surface, slicing a shallow gash. The fluid that sprayed out carried a thick stench of decay; when it landed on reed leaves, it hissed and smoked white. Highly toxic.

The toad landed with a splash of mud, but as Keno predicted, its bulky body struggled to turn on the slick, rotting stumps. Its webbed foot stepped onto a sharp, decaying log; a spine lodged in the crack, and it let out a guttural roar.

Now.

Keno shot forward like a black lightning bolt, his dark purple drow longsword piercing precisely between the spines, driving through the base of its skull. The toad convulsed twice, limbs stiffening as it collapsed. Gray-white blood mixed with brain matter gushed from the wound.

“Don’t freeze! Hold formation!”

More toads leapt from the mud—over twenty, surrounding them from three directions. Their heavy landings thundered like muffled thunder rolling across the swamp.

Keno’s prediction saved them—most toads did crash into the rotting stump array, their spines caught in the logs, immobilized. But a few smarter ones bypassed the obstacle and charged from the flanks.

A young drow scout named Riven reacted half a beat too slow—a toad’s tongue wrapped around his ankle. The strength was monstrous; it yanked him down instantly, dragging him toward the gaping maw.

“Help me—” His cry cut off mid-sentence as Demont’s curved blade slashed down. The blade flashed; the tongue severed at the root. The toad recoiled in pain, and Riven was yanked up by Solon. But his armor was already corroded into a fist-sized hole, revealing blackened, necrotic skin beneath.

“Antidote!” Solon shouted.

Keno didn’t turn—he flung a small vial from his waist. “Apply it. Keep moving. This isn’t the place to stop.”

Meanwhile, the swamp itself was awakening.

Perhaps the battle had stirred something deeper—or perhaps the Old Rotter’s mycelial network was deliberately manipulating.

The mud beneath their feet bubbled with fine bubbles; gray-white mist seeped from cracks, carrying a cloying stench of decay. The reeds swayed without wind, whispering softly, as if the entire swamp were laughing.

“Watch your feet! Something’s in the mud!” Solon, leading the way, suddenly slashed downward. Sludge churned, revealing a thick, root-like appendage. Its severed end oozed thick, crimson fluid like blood. The root writhed in pain, yanking itself back underground, dragging a trail of mud.

Keno’s expression darkened. That was a mycelial tendril of the Old Rotter—apparently disgusted by its underlings’ incompetence, it was no longer merely observing. It had begun direct intervention.

“Don’t engage whatever’s underground.” Keno swiftly judged. “Solon, abandon the original route. Head northeast toward higher ground. The soil there is firm—the mycelium can’t reach up.”

“But Captain, northeast is—”

“I know. It’s the rot-scale crocodile’s nest.” Keno gritted his teeth. “Sacrifice is necessary. Move!”

The team turned. Demont and two veteran scouts held the rear, retreating while scattering silver-gray powder behind them—special drow herbs.

They could temporarily disrupt the mycelial network’s perception. Though the effect lasted only minutes, it was better than being tracked live.

The remaining toads trapped by the stumps still writhed; some had broken free of their spines, dragging broken limbs out of the mud.

They didn’t pursue immediately. Instead, they all raised their heads and emitted low, guttural “gur-gur” calls. The sound pierced the mist, echoing over the swamp.

“They’re calling for reinforcements,” Demont said coldly.

“Let them call.” Keno had already reached the front of the column, stepping into sludge up to his knees. The reeds here were taller and denser, nearly covering their heads; gray-white reed fluff drifted in the mist like countless ghostly fingers.

The ground beneath their feet was indeed hardening—a layer of compacted, decayed vegetation. It felt like walking on an old mattress: slightly sinking, yet supportive.

But strangely, the plants here were more active.

A seemingly dead vine suddenly lashed out, wrapping around the arm of the veteran scout, Kole. Its dense suction cups bit instantly into flesh. Kole grunted, slashed the vine away, but his arm bore a row of puncture wounds, blood dripping from his elbow.

Immediately, several clusters of gray-white mushrooms exploded simultaneously, spore mist spreading. Fortunately, the squad had already covered their noses and mouths, but two still inhaled some, coughing violently.

“Hold on!” Keno’s voice cut through the chaos. “Just ahead—we’ll clear the reeds. I see it—the high ground is two hundred yards away!”

Indeed, through the mist, a raised terrain faintly emerged, dotted with a few twisted, bare trees whose bark glowed a dark red, as if soaked in blood.

That was the rot-scale crocodile’s territorial marker—these abyssal crocodiles smeared their prey’s bodily fluids on trees to claim land.

Keno glanced back. The toads’ calls grew denser, closer. More glowing bone spines now flickered in the distant gray mist.

And the underground mycelial tendrils stirred anew—the decaying layer beneath their feet began to writhe like a living thing.

“Solon, take three men and secure the high ground first!” Keno issued his final order calmly. “The rest—hold off the toads behind us.”

He gripped his longsword tightly, his gaze sweeping over every squad member.

Demont nodded, blades ready, expressionless. Kole and Riven, though wounded, kept their blades outward. The other young drow wore fear on their faces, but none retreated.

Behind them, the entire reed patch exploded—over a dozen bone-spine toads leapt simultaneously, jaws gaping, tongues whipping.

The mist thickened. In the gray-white world, the black silhouettes of the drow and the glowing bone spines of the toads Jiaocuo flashed. Blade-light gleamed like moonlight; blood splattered the reeds.

Keno drew a deep breath of the stinking air and charged forward.

They crouched across the mudflat, their bellies heaving violently. Beneath their gray-white membranes, something churned.

The elder toad raised its head; a massive fleshy tumor swelled in its throat. Then it slammed its head down—and every spine on its back snapped upright.

“Hss—hssssss—”

Dozens of pale white projectiles erupted from the toads’ backs—not simple spines, but hollow, conical bone tubes with microscopic barbs at their tips, whistling sharply as they flew.

Most spines flew over the drow’s heads, embedding in the dead tree trunks. But two struck Kole, who hadn’t had time to dodge—one pierced his left shoulder, the other grazed his ribs, spraying a mist of blood.

Kole grunted, dropping to one knee. He tried to pull out the spine in his shoulder—his fingers touched the shaft—and his face twisted.

From the wound, his flesh visibly softened and collapsed, as if something were being pumped into him from the other end of the spine.

“Don’t pull it!” Keno rushed over, slashing off the exposed portion of the spine. But what oozed from the wound wasn’t blood—it was a yellow-green, murky fluid, mixed with tissue chunks like ground meat, reeking of sweet, rotting stench.

That was digestive fluid. The spines acted like hypodermic needles; as they pierced, the toad’s dorsal glands pumped corrosive digestive fluid into the prey, dissolving muscle and organs from within.

Kole’s left shoulder had already caved in. Beneath the skin, a hollow cavity was clearly visible, dissolving.

“Solon, bring the med-kit!” Keno shouted, pulling out his dagger and decisively carving a cross-shaped incision along Kole’s wound.

Yellow-green fluid and dissolved tissue gushed out. Kole trembled from pain but bit his tongue, refusing to cry out.

Solon rushed forward, pouring a small vial of deep purple liquid into the wound. It was a drow mage’s specialized antidote for abyssal digestive fluids. The moment it touched the wound, thick white smoke erupted.

“Can you still move?” Keno asked.

Kole gritted his teeth, flexing his fingers. “Yes… but my left arm’s useless.”

“Fall back behind the dead trees. Keep watch.” Keno shoved him toward the center of the high ground, then turned to face the toad horde, his eyes turning lethal.

Demont stepped closer, whispering: “Why didn’t they use this earlier? When they chased us through the reeds, we were on flat ground. A volley like that could’ve wiped us out.”

Keno stared at the toads, observing for several breaths, then sneered. “Look at their backs.”

Demont squinted. The toads that had just fired their spines now had noticeably shorter spines. New ones were slowly pushing outward from beneath the skin—but slowly, as if needing to accumulate.

And the smaller toads beside the elder had fully regrown spines—they were rotating, alternating reloads.

“This drains immense energy,” Keno judged. “The spines are keratin—they take time to grow. More importantly, the digestive fluid is stored in their dorsal glands, harvested from swallowing rotting flesh and breaking down mycelium. Each use depletes their reserves.”

“In the reeds, they had numerical advantage. Close combat would’ve finished us—no need to waste precious digestive fluid.”

He paused, his gaze fixed on the elder toad’s swollen throat sac. “But now? We’re on high ground. They can’t reach us. Close combat fails. So they’re forced to use ranged attacks.”

No sooner had he finished than a second volley of bone spines erupted. This time, the drow were ready—they took cover behind dead trees and rocks.

The spines thudded into the tree trunks, their hollow shafts slowly leaking digestive fluid down the bark. Where it flowed, the bark bubbled and peeled away, revealing charred inner layers.

A drop of digestive fluid splashed onto Riven’s shoulder. His armor instantly smoked; he frantically cut off the damaged section, revealing a nail-sized burn on his skin.

“This thing’s more poisonous than the toads’ tongues,” Riven breathed, shaken.

“Solon, did you send the signal?”

“Sent. The Mother has received it.” Solon gripped his curved blade. “But the nearest rescue team won’t arrive for at least half an hour.”

Keno glanced down at the toad horde. They’d stopped firing, crouching as they waited for their spines to regenerate.

The elder toad emitted a low gurgle. From deeper in the swamp, seven or eight larger toads emerged. Their back spines were longer, denser—not pale white, but dark red, as if soaked in blood.

These were the “bone-spine veterans” of the toad clan—greater digestive fluid reserves, longer range.

“They’re not waiting for regeneration,” Demont’s voice turned colder. “They’re assembling—for a saturation volley.”

Kai Nuoshenxiyikouqi ， Zhanqishen ， Shouzhanganzaigaodibianyuandefuzhiyanshang 。 Yanshiliefengzhongshenchunishui ， Chuganbingliang 。

He scanned the high ground: three dead trees, several partially buried rocks, three corpses of rot-scaled crocodiles, and less than two mu of open ground behind him.

Then he unslung a short bow from his back and drew three special arrows—each tipped with a hollow crystal vial filled with silver-white liquid.

It was a specialized “mycelium destabilizer” crafted by drow mages, designed specifically to disrupt the Old Rotwood’s mycelial network, originally intended for use in the worst-case scenario to blast open an escape route.

Meanwhile, the gray-white mist churned, and below the high ground, rows of crimson bone spines rose in unison.