The world narrowed to one breath, one heartbeat.
Miles surged forward, sword in hand, into the writhing maw of the abhorrent amalgam of cultists that had become the winged beast. More of them appeared, after a while, howling without mouths, their bodies convulsing in tandem with the pulsing cocoon.
The ink in the air thickened, clinging to his coat and blade like tar, and with every step, the pressure grew.
This wasn't just corruption. The air around Miles did not feel like air anymore.
It was as if the [Dark Forest] had become nothing but a womb to allow that… Thing, to grow and evolve, its inky fluid serving as nourishment for the abominable Stories that were about to take shape and come to life.
It was gestation.
The cocoon was not dormant anymore.
The Son of the Crawling Chaos was waking.
The beast screeched and dived at Miles. It moved too fast for something so large, limbs telescoping out in bursts that defied narrative logic and broke the rules of momentum.
