Round 127

The walls' intelligence was no longer in question—it pulsed with malevolent purpose, every quivering tendril a separate thread in this deadly web. Jeane's flame magic flickered dangerously low as she maintained the barrier radius around Silra, her crimson eyes calculating angles and timing with desperate precision. The corruption had adapted again, its breathing syncopating to the rhythm of impending doom, each second measured by the closing pressure plates and the spreading acidic floor. Abby watched from her safe distance, terrified but hyperaware of every shifting surface and changing pattern. She knew Jeane was fighting a losing battle against an enemy that learned faster than they could adapt, that every second spent here was another second for the walls to map their weaknesses. The fungal tendrils had already claimed half the corridor as territory, their grip on reality tightening like a noose around all three women's necks.