Round 147

Halie's right arm has deteriorated to 98% corruption coverage in just minutes—tendrils of grey creeping across her skin like frostbite in reverse. She grits her teeth against the cold fire spreading through her system, but her voice remains steady as she calculates aloud: "Two minutes before corridor collapse according to observed wall adaptation rates between channeling windows." The fungal growth along the walls pulses with each beat of that low hum filling the space now—no longer breathing in unison but something worse.

Jeane maintains her arcane field around Silra despite visible strain, sparks dancing along her containment radius. "Unless you have a brilliant solution hidden up your sleeve," she says tightly, sweat beading on her forehead from magical exertion, "we need to move forward soon." The grinding noise from below grows louder—whatever mechanism controls the walls is preparing to crush them between closing plates within minutes.