THE HOLLOW BLOOM
Part 3: Beneath the Breath of Spores
They camped in a circle that night, backs to the fire and eyes on the trees. None of them slept.
The spore winds had thickened—each gust a velvet cough that clung to the lungs and whispered sideways thoughts. Trashcore Pig Bastard snored with his eyes open, clutching his burger-blade like it owed him money. Hanh leaned on his staff and murmured sigils into the dirt. They fizzled before they finished forming.
Even the tiger—Lyra—paced slow and stiff around the perimeter, her usually fluid movements stuttering like bad memory playback. She didn’t like this forest. And she wasn’t alone.
“I saw a face in the bark,” Shroomer Monk said without looking up from his crossed-legged perch. “Third time tonight. Same face. Same lie behind its teeth.”
No one responded. The fire crackled, spitting sparks that didn’t rise—they sank.
Frog Prince finally stood and shook out his robes. “Right then. Since none of you insomniacs are brave enough to say it—I’ll do the honors.”
He turned to Hanh. “You’ve been off since the Bloom. Magic’s twitchy. Sigils break. Tiger’s nervous. And that mark on your hand?” He pointed to a dark, swirling bruise forming just above Hanh’s wrist. “That’s sporeburn.”
Hanh didn’t blink. “I’ve seen sporeburn. This isn’t it.”
“Then what is it?” Frog Prince pressed.
Trashcore, without opening his eyes, muttered, “Too many words. Not enough stabbing.”
Scorpion Warlock finally stirred. Until now, he’d been silently polishing the blackened spine of his staff—its curved stinger tip reflecting firelight like a predator’s grin.
“I felt it too,” he said. His voice was dry venom, slow and hard to swallow. “The Bloom was no accident. Something summoned it.”
Hanh looked up.
“You think it’s the forest?” he asked.
Scorpion tilted his head. “No. I think it’s under the forest.”
They reached the Fungal Mouth the next day.
That’s what Shroomer called it, anyway. A massive cavern disguised as a fallen hill—its mouth lined with bioluminescent frills that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. Spores drifted from the opening in steady rhythm. It wasn’t breathing, not quite.
It was exhaling.
Trashcore snorted. “This where mushrooms go to make more mushrooms?”
“No,” said Hanh, eyes narrowing. “This is where they feed.”
The descent was easy at first. Old stone steps—carved long ago by some forgotten hand—led them down through layers of damp earth and glowing root systems. Shroomer moved with purpose here, brushing walls gently, murmuring to unseen fungi like an old friend at a funeral.
They passed chambers filled with hollowed-out mycelium towers, each humming with deep vibrations. They passed corpses—flesh turned to sponge—fused into walls like religious icons.
Then the stairs ended.
Below, a vast chamber opened, ringed in violet fog and thick green luminescence. At the center: a lake.
And in the lake: a tree, growing upside down from the ceiling. Its roots dangled into the lake like feeding limbs. Spores rose up from the lake and clung to it. As the Bastards watched, the tree quivered.
And something opened its eye.
Not on the tree.
In the lake.
“Why do we do this again?” Trashcore whispered. “Like, morally? Spiritually?”
“Because you’re too dumb to steal and too ugly to seduce,” Frog Prince answered, voice barely audible.
Then the water split.
A mass rose from the lake—an uncoiling shape like a fungal serpent wrapped in root and membrane. Its surface glistened with wet spores and eyes that blinked out of sync. It didn’t roar. It hummed, a low sound that made the walls sweat and minds wobble.
Hanh staggered.
His vision cracked.
Lyra snarled and backed up.
Shroomer turned to the others. “Don’t fight it.”
“What?” Hanh barked.
“Don’t fight. Follow.”
The monk stepped forward.
Spores kissed his skin like falling ash. He smiled—and dropped to his knees.
“GET HIM BACK,” Trashcore shouted, raising his blade.
Scorpion moved faster—his stinger staff slashing across the air, leaving a green arc that burned the spores near them. Frog Prince raised his orb and muttered a rhyme, trying to seal the perimeter.
But the creature… didn’t attack.
It simply watched.
It watched Shroomer Monk, who had fallen into a trance—whispers from the cavern swirling around him.
“They called me,” he whispered. “They need me to speak.”
“To what?” Hanh demanded. He was already drawing new sigils, though the ink of his magic bled and ran like oil on water.
“To the one who blooms,” Shroomer said, smiling. “To the thing that used to be the god of decay.”
From beneath the lake, something stirred. Larger than the creature above. A second presence. Or maybe the first.
And it knew Hanh’s name.
His wrist flared in pain. The mark had grown—no longer a burn, but a glyph.
Lyra roared.
The lake began to boil.
To be continued…
