Back at the main path, the world had descended into a special kind of Hell.
It was a chaotic, muddy mosh pit of confusion. All but Gorm of the Ironhead mercenaries, who had been sharing crab jerky and crude jokes just hours ago, now had dark eyes and veins of Corruption crawling all over their bodies.
Gorm was swinging his battle axe, pushing back his men, while a handful of dirt-covered villagers—who must have been stalking them in the grass for miles—rushed in with pitchforks and rusted knives.
"Don't kill them!"
Ulv roared, parrying a lethal blow from a villager.
"They're not in their right minds!"
The massive wolf-man was sweating, his fur matted with mud.
"Ulv, he's trying to flatten my skull!"
A guard yelled, ducking under a mercenary's swing.
"It's a bit hard to play nice when they're trying to turn me into meat paste!"
Lykos, meanwhile, stood in the center, his hands trembling on his staff.
