Ben's pickaxe slammed into the barrier—but instead of shattering, it recoiled like rubber, absorbing the impact with an unnatural elasticity.
The ground beneath him shook from the force, cracks spidering out across the battlefield—but the shadow wall held.
Ben muscles tensing as he pressed harder, pouring more strength into the swing. The barrier stretched, resisting, refusing to break.
Then the tendrils came. Whipping around him, twisting like snakes, trying to coil around his limbs, pierce his armor, drag him down into the dark.
Ben gritted his teeth, eyes blazing. "You're not stopping me!" With a snarl, his blade-like appendages shot out, slicing through the tendrils with rapid, precise strikes.
Each cut tore through the living darkness, black blood spraying into the air as the tendrils screeched and writhed. But they kept coming.
