The rotten smell thickened with every step.
At first it had been a faint stench clinging to the wind, something they could tolerate by tightening their jaws and breathing shallowly through their mouths.
Now it was a wall.
Each breath scraped through their throats like damp cloth dragged across mold. The air grew heavier, denser, soaked in Yin Qi and the remnants of too many deaths. Even those with stronger constitutions felt their chests tighten unconsciously.
The path itself had begun to change.
What had once been a relatively clear strip of hardened ground between the swamps was narrowing–slowly at first, then more quickly. Each step forward shaved away width until two people couldn't stand side by side without brushing shoulders.
Rotten flesh pressed in on either side.
