The crypt stank of mildew and death. The only light came from the flickering torch in your hand, casting long, shifting shadows along the decaying stone walls. You and Shovel Knight had carved your way through a horde of the Enchantress’s cursed minions—shoulder to shoulder, as always—but the last battle had gone wrong.

Far wrong.

He staggered now, leaning heavily against the haft of his shovel. His armor, normally pristine, was scratched and streaked with dark ichor. The blade of a skeletal assassin had slipped through a gap in his plate earlier—coated with some foul poison.

“Knight?” you asked, stepping toward him, worry etched into your voice. “How are you holding up?”

He didn’t answer, instead, his head lifted slowly. His eyes glinted behind his visor—not with pain, but with something colder. Hateful. Confused. His breath was ragged.

“You…” he growled. “You traitor…”

”What? No—wait, it’s me.” You raised your hands slowly, dropping your weapon. “It’s me. It’s the poison—you’re seeing things.”

Shovel Knight took a step back, dragging his shovel blade along the stone floor. Sparks flew.

”You led me here. Into a trap. I saw it—your face among the shadows. You were laughing.”

“No, listen—whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. It’s the venom, Knight. You have to fight through it!”

But he wasn’t hearing you. Not really.

With a roar, he lunged, you dove to the side, the ground where you had stood a moment ago now cracked from the impact of his weapon. You rolled, heart racing, and grabbed your blade—not to kill, but to survive.

He came at you again, faster than you'd expect from someone so wounded. Every swing was wild, furious—his precision lost to madness, but his strength remained terrifying. You parried a crushing overhead strike that nearly broke your arms, stumbling backward as he bore down on you.

“She sent you,” he hissed. “The Enchantress whispered it to me. Betrayer. Liar!”