008: Evil Spirits Are Evil Spirits – Firepower is Sufficient
A max-level mage who's been properly leveled up can take down an evil spirit-possessed tree in under ten minutes. The more dealers you add, the shorter it gets—two max-level dealers, five minutes; three, about three minutes, and so on.
The standard procedure was usually one tank, three max-level dealers, and a bunch of newbies tagging along for the raid experience in whatever zone the tree respawned. Even the tank didn't need much healing from the healer; their defense was high enough, and they could skillfully dodge tricky patterns—blocking physical attacks and evading projectiles. That left me just babysitting the newbies, so I figured it'd be the same this time. Too complacent.
But there was no tank. Aggro was bouncing everywhere, forcing Daesik's close-range subordinates to tank the hits. They weren't total amateurs occupying back alleys for nothing—or maybe seeing their comrade turned into bloody pulp at the start had sharpened them up—no one was taking direct hits. Still, only Hanbyeol and I knew the strategy, and we were too busy casting to give orders or control their freelance moves. Daesik would've made it easier, but we couldn't exactly summon him on the spot.
Instead, thanks to the time they bought me, I finished my resurrection cast. In the game, reviving a player who died mid-fight slapped them with a stat-debuff hangover for a bit, but it wore off as they kept fighting. Aside from the dip in personal DPS cutting into loot shares, no one treated death all that seriously. Even if the tank dropped, regular raids in current content could swap in a sub-tank to cover. Like most games, character death wasn't that shocking.
The massive mana drain hitting me with crushing emptiness as the cast landed? Yeah, same deal here. They didn't take comrades' deaths too gravely either—just fuel for rage. So I underestimated the ripple of resurrection.
"Gaaarghhh!"
Right after reviving someone whose arm had snapped under a thick branch, I wrapped him in a HoT. Then a horrific scream erupted beside me. The guys up front bellowing and hacking away probably missed it amid their own shouts, but I saw the thug clutching himself and collapsing. I barely fought off panic.
Was it hell's echo? Or reliving the crushing agony of death? I ignored him, shielding another on the verge. The guy, frozen wide-eyed as a root slammed down, stared blankly when it bounced off my translucent white barrier. Another thug smacked his head, snapping him back to swinging his axe.
"Whoaaa! Big sis is protecting us!"
Cheeky bastard yells that without a hint of shame. Instead of blushing, I glanced worriedly at still-dazed Patrick, then chanted again. No spare brainpower for him.
Calculate heals and shields to keep aggro off me. Predict disasters, prevent them. Seeing a revived mind shatter sharpened my nerves—no more accidents. These weren't villains anymore; desperate survival instinct kicked in, years of gaming experience threading their lifelines.
Even mending scrapes from flying rocks or grazing branches was luxury. Overhealing light wounds wasted mana and healing output, spiking aggro elsewhere. Healer aggro was huge in-game; if this tree had any brains, it'd sense the threat and swing branches at me over the axe-wielders. Hard pass.
Hanbyeol played it safe too—torching the tree with sustained fire damage, just enough to avoid aggro. Melee threat outpulled ranged, and DoTs pulled even less, so she spammed small spells over big nukes. Short casts, dodged random patterns. Reliable as ever. I focused on sustaining the rest.
In-game, dropping the tree to one-third HP triggered the next phase. There, HP bars warned you; here, ominous thick green slime bubbled from healthy ground, signaling we'd chunked about a third. Felt like over ten minutes, but probably three—or less. Hanbyeol soloing with fire DoTs took under ten on low-level zone trees; with help, way faster.
And these fucking meatheads? They stomped the slime pools, hacking even wilder.
"Don't step in the pools!"
"Haha, big sis is worried about us!"
No dice, as expected. Sizzling on clothes? No worry about melting flesh. Feet stuck in goo? No budge—just dodge roots and pile on damage. Classic "pile driver DPS."
Phase shift amped the tree's frenzy; casualties mounted, burdening me.
"Seriously, game or here, same bullshit...!"
I canceled my shield cast for an AoE heal. Like DPS, bigger heals guzzled more mana—wider range, more cost. Obvious. Casters lived by mana management and pattern dodges. Steady DPS, burst on synergy cooldowns, cycle back. Healers juggled timings for showers or singles, party status swinging the mana tank.
Already blew a chunk on resurrection; as the AoE pulse rippled out, dizziness hit hard. Mana burn = vertigo. Empty it all, blackout? Recent dizziness tolerance helped—I wobbled but stayed up. Yeah, solo fun times prepped me for whiteouts.
No pure bliss, just vertigo—orgasm-lite, reversed. Dizziness now triggered climax vibes, not vice versa. Body didn't Pavlov-protest the missing pleasure. I just felt a twinge of regret.
"Hoo."
Thoughts veer lewd again. This body's fault? Or the bastard who shoved me in brainwashed me? Couldn't admit I was always this trashy. Hands clasped, back to it. HoT trailed the AoE—no casualties during my daze. But eyes stung.
"Fuck, this outfit cost a fortune!"
"Ooh, chance to flex my gains!"
Just fight on solid ground—nah, invincible with heals, they DPS'd atop the slime. Hilers' mana bars made 'em cocky in-game; here, invisible? Worse. Holes shredded clothes? Shameless flexing. Ripped abs impressed, but not these dudes. Not gay, why suffer dark meathead peacocking? Couldn't let 'em die root-smashed, so forced eyes open, kept caring.
"Father, in your name, protect these lost lambs... cough!"
Mana hit zero. Gut-twisting blood-vomit snapped them out of berserk laughter. Heads turned my way.
"Big sis looks bad!"
"Unni?!"
"No, don't come here...!"
Wiping dribbling blood on my sleeve, I saw two charging. Desperate, I burned phantom mana on thin shields for others. Ranged patterns hit when melee peels. Some raids baited it—but not now. Perfect aggro crumbled to pool-stompers; my threat spiked with Hanbyeol's top DPS. Ground heaved under us.
Shields were thin; this was debuff gimmick, not raw impact. Gritting teeth, I tackled Hanbyeol aside.
"Kyaa! Unni, why suddenly...!"
Her over me for the raid. Mana regen incoming, but one downed? Me. Idiots dinged, her DPSing > me healing through their crap. Safer, faster.
Thin roots snared my tumbling limbs, dragging to slime. Mana-empty, injured me thrashed uselessly. Stockings shredded, skin scraped raw. At the pool, thick roots erupted, caging me tight. Outside shouts faded as the prison sealed light-tight. Silent.
Couldn't budge bound limbs. Gave up, prayed they felled the tree. Clothes melting? Defense debuff gimmick. Rescue me naked? They'd seen it all in prison anyway—no shock. Still soured my mood.
No digestion fear. Crushing easy, but caged? Game-like: neutralize ranged. Early raids even baited sacrifices—non-DPSers rode it out, comfy AFK. Low-level raid; Hanbyeol solo-viable. Minor worry.
Honestly? Hoped mana-suckers regretted, wised up. Suffer sans heals. Smug as roots gripped ankle-to-thigh... lewdly. Arm-to-chest vines too. Not rigid—vines, tendrils. Immobile thrill? Confusing arousal.
Yesterday's four unsatisfied orgasms flashed. Do I need bondage to cum right?
"Hngh..."
Vines stirred ominously. Kneading breasts, probing thighs blatant. Tree possessed by evil spirit. Spirit puppeteering. What it craves...
"N-no... aaahn!"
Tip flicked hard nipple; thicker vine stroked my cleft. Sensitive body loved it—terror clashed with pounding excitement. Slime splashed skin, soaking clothes, trickling down.
"N-nooo..."
Sobbing pleas unheard.