The dark, viscous sediment churned where Inessa had vanished, bubbling with an unnatural, sickly sheen. A faint, terrible wail echoed from within the mire, not human, but something ancient and deeply pained. Teymour’s fishing rod, a cheap, well-loved bamboo model, slipped from his fingers and splashed into the receding lakebed. He didn't notice. His gaze, usually soft and unfocused, sharpened to a terrifying point, fixed on the spot where she had been consumed. His brow, always furrowed in a slight, apologetic worry, now flattened into a line of cold, utter fury. The pleasant, sun-warmed air around him seemed to thicken, growing heavy with a pressure that wasn’t physical, but primal. The birds, usually chirping in the nearby forest, fell silent. Even the distant, frantic shouts of the Trezantine soldiers seemed to die away. “No,” Teymour said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual hesitant lilt. It wasn’t a question, or a plea. It was a declaration. Without another sound, without any perceptible movement, Teymour was gone. He didn’t leap, didn’t sprint. He simply ceased to be on the bank and was, in the same impossible instant, a blur plunging headfirst into the churning, black mass. The impact wasn’t a splash; it was a tearing, as if the very fabric of the toxic mire had ripped apart to accommodate his passage. The towering, amorphous horror recoiled, its vast, dark body spasming with an agony that vibrated through the air. A shriek, raw and guttural, erupted from its shifting form, a sound that cracked the very stones of the hastily built temple. Within the colossus's dense mass, a furious, silent battle raged. Black tendrils thrashed wildly, whipping against the exposed lakebed, gouging deep trenches into the newly revealed sediment. The Imperial commander, who had been gloating over the disappearance of his treacherous former Inquisitor, felt a sudden, inexplicable chill that had nothing to do with the falling water level. His knees buckled, and he stumbled back, his eyes wide with a terror that transcended military discipline. His well-drilled soldiers, many of whom had faced down monstrous beasts and rebel sorcerers, simply collapsed, fainting where they stood like puppets with severed strings. Uncontrollable dread seized the remaining Trezantine forces, setting their teeth chattering and their hands trembling. Then, with another impossible rupture, Teymour burst from the creature's core. He rose from the mire as if from a gentle pond, not a single speck of the vile sludge clinging to his skin, utterly pristine. In his arms, he held Inessa. She was gasping, covered head-to-toe in the black, reeking rot, her armor twisted and bent, but alive. He held her close, one hand cradling her head, the other supporting her back, his posture fiercely protective. His eyes, still radiating that terrible, cold fury, fixed on the fleet commander. The pressure intensified tenfold. The air crackled. The commander clutched his chest, a strangled sound catching in his throat, his face paling to an ashen grey. He felt an invisible fist clench around his heart, threatening to crush it. This was no god of rivers, he realized with dawning horror. This was something far, far worse. “You,” Teymour said, his voice now a low, dangerous growl that seemed to vibrate the very ground. “You’ve upset my… friend.” He slowly climbed onto the exposed lakebed, careful not to jostle Inessa. She coughed, weakly pushing away a strand of mud-soaked hair from her face. “Tey… mour…” she rasped, her eyes fluttering open, wide with shock and a dawning, complex emotion as she met his gaze. The sight of his raw, protective anger was something she had never imagined. As he reached the drier patch of earth, Teymour gently set Inessa down, making sure she was comfortable. His gaze remained fixed on the fleet commander, but his hand absently brushed against the grime coating Inessa’s arm. His fingers, now stained with the foul-smelling goo, paused. His expression shifted, the intensity in his eyes softening, replaced by a sudden, intense curiosity. He brought his muddied fingers closer to his face, sniffing them delicately. His brow furrowed again, but this time not in anger, but in focused concentration. He rubbed the sludge between his thumb and forefinger, examining its texture, its subtle coloration. His marine biologist instincts, long dormant, flared to life, overriding everything else. “Wait a moment,” he mumbled, no longer addressing the terrified commander, but the strange substance itself. “This… this isn’t a curse at all.” He stood, ignoring the Imperial officer and the still-collapsing soldiers, ignoring the groaning mound of muck. He walked a few steps closer to the receding waterline, crouching down to scoop up a handful of the murky water. He brought it close, peering at it with an almost scientific intensity. “The turbidity… the particulate suspension… the spectral signature…” he muttered, his mind rapidly processing data only he could perceive. “It’s a photosynthetic organism,” he declared, straightening up, a look of profound realization on his face. He turned to Osenya, who had been watching the entire exchange with a mixture of terror and utter bewilderment. “Osenya, you’ve been absorbing a gigantic colony of extremely aggressive, highly mutated river algae.” The words hung in the air, baffling everyone. The Grand Admiral stared blankly. Despina, who had been praying furiously, paused, confused. Even Inessa, still catching her breath, frowned. “Algae?” Osenya croaked, his voice thick with blight. “The ancient Blight… the world-ending evil… is algae?” Teymour nodded, completely serious. “Yes! And it’s thriving, you see. Growing at an exponential rate because of all the nutrient runoff from the mountains. But it’s also highly territorial, and it’s experiencing severe habitat degradation and population compression due to the changing water levels. It's essentially throwing a massive, world-ending tantrum because it needs to be replanted.”

Wrath of the Mild-Mannered Biologist