The Hollow Bloom
Part 1 – Spores on the Wind
There was a smell in the air—wet, earthy, and just a little too curious.
Hanh wrinkled his nose as he stepped over the warped tree roots, Lyra pacing behind him like a thought made flesh. The forest had gone quiet. No birds. No bugs. Just the hum of distant magic and the squelch of damp soil.
Ahead, the treeline opened like a wound, revealing the edge of the bloom.
It spread across the land like mold on an ancient scroll—white and purple mushroom stalks as thick as tree trunks, dotted with pulsating caps and tendrils that breathed ever so slightly. A low mist hung over everything, smelling of copper and sweet rot. The sky above was grey, but the earth glowed.
He hadn’t seen anything like it.
Not in the swamps. Not in the ruins.
Not even in the Deadroot Library beneath that screaming mountain.
And that meant one thing.
This wasn’t natural.
He tapped the butt of his staff into the soil, and purple sigils flickered along the grain like veins responding to danger.
“Your staff’s twitching again,” came a voice to his right.
Trashcore Pig Bastard waddled into view, his armor cobbled together from oil drums, rusted fast food signage, and one suspiciously intact deep fryer strapped to his back. In one hoof, he dragged a slab of burger meat bolted to a sword hilt. It sizzled faintly, even when it shouldn’t.
“Which usually means either bad magic,” Pig continued, “or you need a nap.”
Hanh didn’t answer.
Behind them, two more Bastards stumbled into the clearing—one humming, the other floating slightly above the ground in a lotus position.
“Do you feel it?” said Shroomer Monk, eyes closed, spores drifting lazily from the folds of his mushroom hat. “The tension in the mycelium… the memories in the rot?”
“I feel a rash coming on,” muttered Frog Prince Bastard, adjusting his robes as he hovered. His swamp-toned staff gleamed with enchantments, and his orb of glowing muck bobbed behind him like a smug balloon.
“You’re both late,” Hanh said.
Frog Prince shrugged. “He started singing to a log. I let him finish.”
“It sang back,” Shroomer added, completely serious.
A flicker of green flame erupted ten feet to their left.
Scorpion Warlock Bastard stepped out of it like it had always been there. His cloak was torn, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood, and his scorpion tail coiled over one shoulder like a promise of violence.
He looked at the bloom. Then at Hanh.
“It’s awake.”
Hanh narrowed his eyes. “You’re sure?”
“I heard it. It’s humming in a key older than language.”
Trashcore scratched the side of his head with the hilt of his meat-blade. “So… uh… is this like a ‘smash it until it stops growing’ job or a ‘make friends with the mushroom gods and hope they don’t eat your dreams’ kind of thing?”
Hanh considered that.
“Neither,” he said. “We’re not here to fight it. Not yet. First, we find the source. Figure out what it wants.”
“Everything wants something,” Frog Prince murmured, conjuring a faint shield of moisture around himself. “Especially things that grow too fast and never blink.”
“Especially Bastards,” added Shroomer, eyes still closed.
A silence passed between them. Not camaraderie. Not fear. Just the heavy stillness of five deeply strange creatures who knew too well how fast things could fall apart.
Hanh turned toward the bloom.
Lyra let out a low growl and stepped forward.
“Stay close,” Hanh said.
“Stay weird,” Trashcore replied, lifting his burger-blade onto his shoulder.
The five Bastards moved as one, stepping over the threshold of the fungal expanse.
The mushrooms parted for them. Slowly. As if watching.
And just behind the tree line, something began to breathe.
[To be continued…]
