Nero stood there, staring at the pile of fungus he'd risked his life to obtain, and felt something close to despair settle in his chest. All of this, the pain and the suffering and the near-death, for absolutely nothing. He couldn't bring it back. Couldn't save anyone with it.

What was even the point?

Gungnir thrummed in his hand.

The sensation was odd, almost playful. The spear's weight shifted, leaning decidedly in one direction like a dog pulling on a leash.

Nero frowned down at the weapon. "Are you seriously trying to be funny right now?"

The spear leaned harder, its intent unmistakable. It wanted him to follow.

"Are you saying this way?" Nero asked, his voice flat with disbelief. He was talking to a spear. This was what his life had become.

Gungnir practically vibrated with enthusiasm, pulling so insistently toward the interior of the island that Nero had to adjust his grip to keep from dropping it.

He looked at the pile of Teargail Fungus, then at the direction Gungnir was indicating, then back at the fungus. The smart thing would be to ignore the spear's insane suggestion and figure out a practical solution to his current problem.

But when had Nero ever done the smart thing?

He bent down and picked up a large cluster of mushrooms with his good hand, then hesitated. If he was going to follow Gungnir's lead, he'd need both hands free. Which meant abandoning what he'd just gathered.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

With a sigh that felt like it came from somewhere deep in his soul, Nero dropped the mushrooms back onto the pile and turned in the direction Gungnir was pulling.

The forest of fungi stretched out before him, a riot of colors that would have been beautiful if they weren't so obviously deadly. Mushrooms in shades of purple and orange and blue grew in wild profusion, their caps ranging from thumbnail-sized to larger than his torso. Some had gills that dripped with viscous fluid. Others seemed to pulse with their own internal light.

Nero knew enough about fungi to understand that color usually meant poison. And this place was a kaleidoscope of warning signs.

He pulled his tattered shirt up over his nose and mouth, creating a makeshift filter against whatever spores might be floating in the air. His eyes narrowed to slits, watching for any movement in the undergrowth.

A thought occurred to him, and he paused.

"Oracle," he said quietly. "How dangerous is this?"

The familiar pull on his consciousness was immediate, the Oracle's summons clear. It wanted him to enter the subconscious space for a proper answer, which meant the situation was complicated enough to require explanation.

Nero glanced around the colorful forest, weighing his options. He'd been unconscious on the shore for who knew how long without anything eating him. That suggested the immediate area was relatively safe, or at least not actively hostile.

Besides, what choice did he have? Gungnir was practically dragging him forward, and standing still in a place like this seemed like a good way to discover new and exciting ways to die.

He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the void.

The circular rings of the Oracle materialized around him, their golden light somehow both comforting and unsettling. The presence of the ancient entity pressed against his mind, patient and vast.

"How dangerous is my current situation?" Nero asked again, his mental voice steadier than his physical one had been.

The Oracle's response came in that familiar sensation of knowledge being deposited directly into his thoughts.

{The Heretic is surrounded by death in countless forms. The fungi that grow here are toxic beyond measure, their spores capable of reducing flesh to slurry within hours, or severe internal bleeding, or even instant death. The air itself is caustic, slowly corroding all who breathe it. This place is a graveyard that breathes death itself}.

'Wonderful.' Nero thought to himself again.

That was exactly what he wanted to hear.

However, the Oracle continued,

{The path the Soul-Bonded weapon, Gungnir, leads you down is safe. So long as you do not deviate, you will survive}.

Nero absorbed that information, turning it over in his mind. Gungnir was leading him somewhere specific, somewhere it deemed important enough to risk his life.

The spear was oddly intelligent for some weapon forged for a god...

"And if I turn back?"

{The return journey through the toxic waters will likely kill you in your current state. Your only viable path is to wait for recovery, or to move forward}.

Nero frowned. And why did it seem like the Oracle also wanted him to follow the darned spear?

He sighed.

When will he ever get to make the easy choice?

Nero opened his eyes and found himself back in the colorful forest of death. Gungnir still pulled insistently in its chosen direction, apparently satisfied that he'd gotten the message.

"Fine," he muttered. "Lead the way, you bloodthirsty piece of metal."

He followed the spear's guidance, moving carefully between clusters of deadly mushrooms. The path wound through the forest in a way that seemed almost deliberate, avoiding the thickest growths and the pools of suspicious liquid that gathered in low spots.

The air grew thicker as he went deeper, heavy with moisture and spores that made his eyes water despite his makeshift mask. His skin itched where the air touched it, and he could feel new patches of corruption trying to take root in his flesh. His transformed body fought back automatically, scales forming and reforming in an endless cycle of adaptation.

The colors grew more vibrant, almost painfully bright. Mushrooms the size of trees loomed overhead, their caps forming a canopy that filtered the already dim light into something dreamlike and surreal. Bioluminescent fungi traced patterns on bark and stone, creating constellations of light in the gloom.

It was beautiful, in the way a particularly elaborate poisoning method might be beautiful.

Nero walked for what felt like an eternity, his injured leg screaming with every step, until finally Gungnir's insistent pulling began to ease. The spear had brought him somewhere specific, and they were close.

The forest opened up ahead, the dense growth giving way to empty space. Nero pushed through the last few mushroom stalks and found himself standing at the edge of a ravine.

He looked down into the depression, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The ravine wasn't particularly deep, perhaps thirty feet from top to bottom.

The walls were covered in the same colorful moss and fungi that dominated the rest of the island, creating a tapestry of growth that seemed almost deliberately arranged.

But it was what lay at the bottom that made Nero's breath catch in his throat.

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