In truth, the giant bloom—this colossal, living catastrophe—wasn't simply lashing out.
It was desperate.
The creature that once commanded fear was now on the brink of collapse. Its immense form shuddered, its movements becoming erratic.
It needed more.
Way more.
It needed to feed. Needed to desperately cover up what it had lost.
It had to survive.
And so, in a final, frenzied effort, it unleashed its tentacles again—this time not wildly, but with chilling intent.
Each strike was sharper, more deliberate. The bloom wasn't attacking everything anymore.
It was hunting something specific.
And no matter how much the soldiers tried to confuse it—by scattering their attacks, by splitting its focus—it didn't matter anymore.
There weren't really many options left.
The battlefield was chaotic—corrupted sludge splattering across the shore, alarms shrieking, and soldiers yelling coordinates that stopped making sense halfway through transmission.
