CHAPTER 175: MUSHROOM LADY

Noirette flashed two peace signs at Blanchette, her fingers splayed wide in a gesture that cut through the humid air of the mushroom biome.

"I filtered the spores from my breathing system with Malleable Essence," she said, her voice steady despite the faint rasp lingering in her throat.

Blanchette chuckled. "What did it take for you to achieve that?"

The biome stretched north alongside their path, a vast expanse of towering stalks and clustered caps that released lazy drifts of phosphorescent dust into the air.

Noirette pulled the marked tome from her backpack.

She flipped it open while walking, her free hand weaving her pen with endless ink.

Words flowed from her in steady script, expanding on the digitalization of Fathomi.

She inscribed possible methods for detection, paths that she could no longer tested because she no longer had access to her skills and divine portfolio.

The tome absorbed her additions seamlessly, pages rippling as if alive, distributing the knowledge to any Court member who grabbed a copy from the Grand Archive.

Blanchette watched her sister’s focus, the way Noirette’s brow furrowed just so, tracing lines across the page without breaking stride.

The path dipped into a shallow gully, where clusters of fist-sized caps released puffs of spores that swirled around their ankles like curious spirits.

"You work hard on this," Blanchette said after a stretch of silence broken only by the soft scratch of a quill on vellum. "I calculated that, depending on the level of the individuals involved, they might find a way for a non-Shallow One to perceive the signs of digitalization itself in less than a month."

Noirette glanced up, quill pausing mid-stroke.

"Why do the cosmic entities want to digitize Fathomi anyway?"

Blanchette’s lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. She stepped over a root that twisted upward like a questioning finger.

"Maybe they are bored," she replied.

Noirette snorted softly, capping her inkwell and tucking the pen behind her ear.

"I have many predictions," Noirette said, resuming her pace as the path climbed a gentle rise. "But I cannot commit to any of them as long as the one true sign that confirms all of my doubts remains absent."

"What kind of sign are you searching for?" Blanchette asked, her voice threading through the spore-laden breeze.

Noirette’s eyes scanned the path ahead, where the ground softened into a carpet of velvety moss interspersed with caps the size of shields.

"I am looking for the process of action after the digitalization."

Blanchette chuckled then, a low sound that blended with the distant rustle of caps unfurling in the humid wind.

"So you do not even consider stopping the digitalization as an option," she said.

Noirette shrugged again, the motion fluid as she sidestepped a low-hanging frond that dripped viscous sap.

"What am I, the guardian of Fathomi? There is likely a high chance that Fathomi would just adopt the new integration as part of itself and adapt somehow. It is what Fathomi has done many times, according to the information gained from the Grand Archive."

The words hung between them, factual and unadorned, as the biome’s rhythm enveloped their steps.

The air grew denser here, charged with the faint electric hint of fungal networks underground—tendrils that linked caps across miles, pulsing data in bioluminescent code long before any cosmic entities dreamed of grids.

Noirette felt it underfoot, a subtle vibration that resonated with her own fragmented soul, unbound now from the Well’s constraints.

In a way, not having a Well of the Soul was akin to accessing things that you’re not meant to know and feel. It was like abusing a glitch in the system.

They crested the rise, the path broadening into a rare straightaway flanked by walls of interlocking stalks, their surfaces etched with natural runes that glowed intermittently.

Blanchette’s gaze drifted to a particularly dense thicket, where spores danced in lazy spirals, forming ephemeral shapes—ghostly outlines of forgotten structures, perhaps remnants of ancient civilization.

"Did you see what I’m seeing?" Noirette uttered.

"No," Blanchette smiled. "Obviously, I am.".

A woman lay sprawled across the path, her form half-buried in a nest of moss and fallen petals from overhead caps.

Atop her head grew a mushroom, its cap broad and flared at the edges, mimicking the pointed brim of a witch’s hat—complete with a subtle curl at the tip, as if caught in an eternal breeze.

The cap’s surface shimmered with iridescent spores, releasing faint trails that curled toward the sky like smoke signals.

Noirette halted, her newly bought boot inches from the woman’s outstretched hand.

Blanchette stopped beside her.

Upon a second look. her clothing—a patchwork of leaf-fibers and spore-woven thread—blended seamlessly with the ground, as if she had sprouted there herself.

Strands of hair, tangled with mycelial filaments, framed a face relaxed in sleep, lips parted slightly around a faint snore.

It clicked for Noirette after trying to reconfirm numerous times, a spark of recognition amid the biome’s haze.

This woman, with her fungal crown and earthy aura, carried the unmistakable mark of the Mage Court—a senior member, perhaps one who delved into bio-alchemical weaves or mycelium and fungi related subjects.

The woman stirred, a yawn splitting her features wide.

She stretched, joints popping like splitting wood, and mumbled through the motion, "I awoke at the perfect time."

Noirette straightened, offering a polite nod as the woman sat up, brushing moss from her shoulders.

The mushroom cap on her head bobbed slightly, shedding a fresh dusting of spores that settled on the path like fallen stars.

It was quite a bizarre sight, despite all of the things that Noirette had gone through in Fathomi.

"I am Noirette," she said, gesturing to her companion. "And this is Blanchette. We are the newest members of the Mage Court."

The woman paused, rubbing sleep from eyes the color of deep loam.

She regarded them with a tilt of her head, the cap’s brim casting a shadow across her features.

Then she chuckled, an earthy rumble that vibrated through the ground faintly.

"I do not care about your names and all that," she said, waving a hand dismissively. Her fingers ended in nails ridged like bark, tipped with clinging spores. "All I need to know is where you two are heading."

Noirette met her gaze evenly, "We are searching for an individual under the request of the Holy Guardian Dorose."

The woman’s expression shifted, curiosity sharpening her features.

She reached to her waist, where a pocket sewn from toughened cap-leather hung like a pouch.

From it, she drew a small cube—translucent and veined with glowing filaments, humming with contained space.

With a twist of her wrist, the cube unfolded in her palm, extruding a book that mirrored Noirette’s tome exactly, the same etched cover and appearance.

The woman thrust it forward, shoving the tome against Noirette’s chest with the unsteadiness of someone shaking off deep slumber—or perhaps something stronger, like a sobering alcoholic.

"What do you mean by the newest information inscribed just a moment ago?" the woman demanded, her voice rising in pitch. "About how only Shallow Ones or those who are not directly tied and assimilated to the system of Fathomi can see the digitalization process happening all around the world?"

Noirette caught the book before it toppled, her smile unwavering—a calm anchor amid the woman’s fervor.

She held it steady, fingers tracing the edge where fresh ink still gleamed wet.

"It is simply as it is," Noirette replied. "There is no need for further elaboration."

The mushroom woman’s face darkened, her verdant skin flushing toward a bruised purple at the cheeks.

She snatched the tome back, flipping through pages with fingers that left faint spore-trails on the vellum.

The cap on her head quivered, as if agitated, releasing a burst of glittering dust that hung in the air like unspoken accusations.

"My whole theory about the digitalization is debunked," she growled, slamming the book shut. The sound echoed off the stalk-walls, stirring a nearby cluster of smaller fungi into frantic unfurling. "But I still want to see if my hypothesis stays true before I shift to another method and philosophy."

Noirette inclined her head, her smile softening into genuine respect. "Thank you, senior, for taking my reference material seriously."

The woman huffed, waving them off with a broad sweep of her arm.

She settled back onto the moss, already reaching for a small vial from her pocket—glass etched with containment runes, swirling with viscous fluid.

"Go on, then," she said, her tone brooking no delay. "Shoo. I want to conduct an experiment in this place. Don’t bother your old and rusty senior, will you?"

Noirette and Blanchette exchanged a brief glance—Blanchette’s eyes holding a flicker of bemused wariness—before bowing slightly.

They excused themselves with murmured courtesies, stepping past the settling spore-veil onto the northward path.

The encounter left a perplexing aftertaste, like biting into fruit that promised sweetness but delivered only pith.

Noirette adjusted her satchel and backpack, the weight of her own tomes a reassuring press against her side.

The biome resumed its quiet symphony—caps sighing open in the breeze, underground threads humming their inscrutable songs.

"What kind of experiment do you think that mushroom woman is doing?" Blanchette asked, her voice threading through the humid air.

Noirette kept her gaze forward, navigating a twist in the path where roots arched overhead like skeletal arches.

"Why did you not ask her?"

Blanchette blinked, her steps faltering for a half-beat on the spongy ground.

"I am more surprised that you did not ask," she countered, recovering her stride.

Noirette’s response came casual, unburdened, as she ducked under a low frond heavy with dew-like beads.

"I did not ask because I do not care."

Blanchette’s agitation surfaced then, a rare crack in her composed veil.

"You do not care?" Blanchette echoed, her voice sharpening. "It might be related to the whole digitalization process, the very thing that you’re working on to inform the Mage Court."

Noirette opened her mouth to reply, but the world intervened.

It began as a tremor—a subtle quiver in the earth, like the biome drawing a collective breath.

Noirette felt it first in her soles, a vibration climbing her legs, resonant with the fungal networks below, which might make the entire experience felt more queasy.

Blanchette steadied herself against a stalk, its surface cool and yielding under her palm.

The ground buckled next, a low rumble building from the depths.

Caps along the path shuddered, shedding spores in frantic clouds that blotted the dim light.

Noirette grabbed Blanchette’s arm, pulling her toward a cluster of denser growths for cover, but the quake swelled, cracking the mossy carpet into fissures that wept luminescent sap.

In the far distance, where the horizon blurred into haze, a mound rose—vast and unassuming at first, a hillock of intertwined caps and stalks piled like forgotten refuse.

But it grew, swelling with unnatural vigor.

The mound’s edges blurred, then sharpened, as if inflating from within by some colossal breath.

Mushrooms erupted across its surface, thrusting upward in waves: caps unfurling to shield-sized disks, stalks thickening to tree-trunk girth, all merging into a titanic form.

It towered now, eclipsing the northern sky, its body a seething mass of fungal armor—layers upon layers, veined with glowing mycelia that pulsed in rhythmic fury.

The entity’s base rooted into the earth with tendrils that lashed outward, splintering the path into jagged segments.

Noirette’s breath caught, her hand tightening on Blanchette’s arm.

Blanchette’s eyes widened, fixed on the emerging behemoth. Its form coalesced further, a vaguely humanoid silhouette amid the fungal riot—arms of coiled stalks extending, a head crowned in a colossal cap that flared like a war banner, dripping viscous trails that scorched the ground below.

The quake peaked, hurling them both to their knees amid the chaos.

Fissures snaked toward them, belching plumes of dust and spores that burned the eyes and clawed the throat.

Noirette coughed, her Malleable Essence flaring instinctively to shield her lungs, but the entity’s presence pressed heavier—an aura of unchecked proliferation, as if the biome itself had birthed a guardian twisted by deeper forces.

And then they saw it, unfurling from the mycelium hides of the earth titan.

The same glitches that marked the digitalization of this world.