The black tar-like blood splattered over Jian's cheek, sizzling on his skin as he swung the black sword in his hand with brutal precision. His breath came out ragged, his chest rising and falling, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not when the forest behind him was filled with the grotesque hissing of more Graylings slithering over the wreckage.
Their grotesque tentacles writhed in the air, and every time he cleaved through one, another came bursting from the underbrush like a hydra's head reborn.
They towered over him—seven-foot monstrosities with their gelatinous limbs, slick and pulsing, weaving through the air like serpents.
One lunged at him with two tentacles extended.
Jian ducked low, rolled across the blood-slick grass, and stabbed the sharpened end of the rod straight through its underbelly.
The Grayling let out a gurgling shriek before collapsing into itself, convulsing.
Jian had stopped counting how many he'd killed.
