Sporemageddon

My strategy was patently unfair.

Against normal foes, in a normal situation, there would be time to pull back and adapt, but while dungeons could, reportedly, change in response to abuses, those changes were incredibly slow.

Case in point: entire cities across the globe were very much abusing dungeons for material gains and messing with the planet’s entire magical ecosystem as a result. At least, that’s why I suspected that Feronie was in the situation she was in.

In any case, the Wendell-Smith dungeon was not ready for biological warfare on the scale I had prepared.

I walked through stone-walled corridors, head bowed and eyes forward, enveloped in a cloud of swirling spores so thick that what little torchlight illuminated the space was swallowed.

Before me, hyena-like monsters and mole creatures choked, sputtered and died, gasping for air even as their bodies twitched and spasmed through the throes of vivid hallucinations.

I kept my mask on, only occasionally reaching up to wipe the goggles clean of dust particles.

This was... a slaughter. The monsters here had no defence against my spores, and the only protection they might have had was the sheer size of the floor, only I had more mushrooms in my bags.

It took a solid two hours to reach the end of the fifth floor, at which point I cleared out a few of the rooms neighbouring the space with the stairs leading down, and sat at a hyena-monster camp. My feet were a little sore from all the walking. “I should buy better boots,” I muttered as I took my boots off and shook them. A few little pebbles clattered to the floor. Annoying, but whatever. A problem for a future me.