The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Rodion's internal chronometer marked every tenth of a second while the external world seemed to idle in slow motion. Silver-blue glyphs rippled over his visor, adjusting brightness so the projection field floated like a fragile lantern between him and Mikhailis. Legion upon legion of data packets rushed through his link-ports, yet to an outside observer the sentinel stood unnervingly still—like a marble knight glued to the floor.

One Worker Ant tilted its head, antennae quivering. The insect offered a micro-screwdriver on a velvet-lined leaf. Mikhailis accepted it with a grateful grunt, then realized the bit was half a millimeter too wide. "Mm, smaller, please." Without hesitation, the Worker spun, produced the exact size, and clicked tiny mandibles in a proud chirp.

"See?" Mikhailis quipped around a mouthful of pastry. "Customer service to die for."

Berry filling threatened to escape the tart. He wiped the dribble with the back of his wrist and set the bracket against Rodion's sternum plate. The curve wasn't perfect; he nudged until metal kissed metal with a soft tink. Focus, he reminded himself, one wrong torque and the whole servo alignment cries.

Rodion's scan swept the hall again. The sentinel-class signal from Stratum -27 flared brighter for a heartbeat, as if reacting to his attention, then fell to an ominous whisper. Glyphs outlined the pulse: amplitude, decay time, hidden "ghost" undertones riding just beneath audible range. Glitches danced across the lowest band—code fragments trying to play dead.

"Looks like it's breathing," Mikhailis murmured, leaning close enough for jam-scented breath to fog the hologram. "You know, like a beast snoring under blankets."

Rodion replied without turning his head. <If it is a beast, its lungs span three districts, and its dreams predate our alphabet.>

A shiver prickled Mikhailis's neck. He tried a smirk anyway. "So… kaiju dungeon confirmed?"

<Your metaphor is accepted with 73 percent accuracy.>

Jam tart crumbs flicked from his lips. "Only seventy-three? Harsh critic."

Before Rodion answered, a scarab drone zipped low over the workbench, dropping a coil of ultrathin solder exactly into Mikhailis's open palm. He raised his brows at the perfect timing. "Thank you, flight crew. Ten out of ten delivery."

The scarab beeped once, proud, and darted back to perch near the ceiling rune lamps that dimmed themselves to protect the sentinel's optical focus.

Mikhailis returned to the chest plate, tongue poked between teeth. Right twist, half turn… snug. The bracket slipped into place with a low metallic sigh. Arc-light from his handheld wand slid across the new seam, leaving a fine bead of silver that cooled in seconds. "There. Good as new. Or at least shiny enough to fool the next mimic."

Rodion's voice emerged cooler than the solder point. <Calibration within tolerance. Thank you. Try not to coat my integrator bus with pastry glaze next time.>

"Hey, the glaze adds character." Mikhailis lifted his free hand, signalling the Workers. "Character, right?" A trio chirped agreement, though whether they understood sarcasm or simply enjoyed his tone was anyone's guess.

He glanced up just in time to see Elowen re-enter. She paused at the threshold, cloak shimmering in emerald lamplight, eyes spanning sentinel and consort in a single fond sweep. "Progress?"

"Marginal," Mikhailis said, wiping sticky fingertips on a rag. "But he's operational and still insufferable."

"I heard that," Rodion noted.

Elowen's smile deepened, then slipped into queenly poise. "Council beckons. Verdant Canopy's farmers want assurances the new irrigation sigils won't steal river spirits from their orchards." A roll of her eyes suggested how much she believed in orchard spirits. She squeezed Mikhailis's shoulder—warm, grounding, just enough pressure to say hold the fort. He caught her fingers, squeezed back.

The moment flickered, gentle as candle-flame, then she was gone—cloak trailing, soft footsteps swallowed by polished stone.

Mikhailis exhaled the faint ache of her departure, masking it by hooking the solder wand onto its cradle. He blinked twice, clearing stray melancholy, and turned to the live schematic Rodion had summoned.

Green lines traced a maze that angled ever downward—staircases, chutes, impossible corkscrew corridors that looped into themselves like coiled serpents. At layer five a red halo blinked where mana veins twisted into a knot, the encoded signal throbbing at the center like a diseased star.

"Deep," he echoed. "How long for an ant strike team to reach that?"

<Four hours, eighteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds if pathfinding mimics current topography. Less if we breach through unstable shale here.> A white pointer stabbed a side channel. <Risk of collapse: ten percent. Acceptable.>

Mikhailis tapped chin with resin-spackled glove. Risk of cave-in is fine. Risk of boredom? Zero. "I don't suppose we can tether a projector to each squad? Capture every angle?"

Rodion's visor flicked. <Easily. Synched to your workshop projector, with auto-cut to best dramatic angle if multiple feeds concur.>

Mikhailis beamed. "Rodion, you enabler. That is—"

<—movie night gold, yes, you said.>

He laughed, tasting berry sugar and excitement all at once. "Just picture it: the Tempestrike Drakeant dive-bombing rune pylons, Crymber Ant ice-firing molten traps… we layer commentary, some epic music—"

<Merchandising potential at twenty-six percent. Viewer retention uncertain.>

"Viewer retention?" He snorted. "My viewership is literally me. Guaranteed one hundred percent."

Rodion conceded with a minimal nod. Mikhailis caught a faint flicker of amusement in the sentinel's optics—a half-second pulse of warmer hue that vanished before he could tease it.

Another Worker approached, holding tweezers fine enough to pluck spider webs. Mikhailis accepted, fixing one last micro-plate along Rodion's collar. Click. The piece settled flush; rune inlays lit soft turquoise.

"Done." He wiped brow with sleeve, leaving a faint jam smear above an eyebrow. "Now… talk me through your plan."

Rodion's free hand hovered above the projection. Three circles appeared: Tempestrike Drakeant, Crymber Ant, Slimeweave Ant. Each icon pulsed as status pings arrived from the Nest's preparation chamber.

<Strike composition: one heavy aerial variant for vertical chambers. One cryo-thermal hybrid for environmental manipulation. One flexible support for trap infiltration. Additional Worker squads for supply and retrieval.>

He zoomed to Stratum -27's entrance: a fissure hidden behind basalt spires. <Objective: locate signal core. Secure, analyze, or terminate. Secondary objective: map nutritional lodes for the Queen.>

Mikhailis's grin stretched impossibly wide. "And we get the footage."

<Correct.>

He spun, arms wide, nearly colliding with a passing Worker who dodged gracefully. "Tonight on Bug Hero Academia…" He reached for an imaginary camera lens, twisting a pretend zoom. "Episode one: Dungeon's Downfall!"

Rodion's servo emitted a faint whirr resembling a sigh. <I will remind you to disable comedic voice-over during lethal engagements.>

"Where's the fun in that? Fine, fine, I'll keep it PG-13." Mikhailis wiped the last jam from his lip, flicked the tart crust into a compost chute that slid open at floor level, and cracked his knuckles with theatrical flourish. "Rodion, roll camera."

_____

The Nest's forward staging chamber pulsed like a subterranean heart: vast, vaulted, every wall alive with soft glimmer from bioluminescent fungus. Rows of amber tubing carried nutrient gel overhead, casting slow-moving shadows across polished chitin floors. Here, elite variants gathered beneath banners woven of leaf-silk—banners that rustled without wind, moved only by the low hum of circulating mana.

A pair of Worker Ants scurried along the Tempestrike Drakeant's flank, buffing its overlapping wing-plates until they shone mirror-bright. Each time a brush passed, fine static leapt between the bristles and the membrane, raising faint crackles that smelled like summer lightning. The Drakeant flexed, wing joints popping; arcs of blue danced up the span and fizzed out just before reaching the vaulted ceiling. Its serpentine neck curled low, one predator-eye—black, depthless—tracking a team of Technicians as they wheeled in a crate of ceramic capacitors.

Next in line, the Crymber Ant kneaded its dual gauntlets of fire-ice alloy, steam roiling where gauntlet met living exoskeleton. An assistant sprayed a thin antifreeze mist to stop premature frost roses from blooming along the plates. The scent was sharp—peppermint and iron. The Crymber exhaled, vents cycling flames one breath, freezing vapour the next, like a living forge decided to learn winter.

By contrast, the Slimeweave Ant stood almost still—if "still" could describe a creature whose gelatinous dermis undulated in waves of translucent emerald. Through its semi-liquid torso, organs drifted like dark koi in a jade pond. Every few seconds, a portion of that body extruded into a whip-thin tendril, then retracted with a wet clap. Worker Ants laid rune-thread across those tendrils, each rune sparking and dissolving as the Slimeweave absorbed the strands for later use.

Into this disciplined chaos glided Monkey. The bronze valet floated on silent fans, holo-clipboard projected before him. One finger of gleaming brass ticked boxes in neat staccato: Wing charge at 97 percent. Crymber thermal regulator stable. Slimeweave viscosity optimal. With each completed line, he offered a faint, satisfied chirp—music amid the clank of armor and hiss of coolant.

Lights dimmed, then refocused to a pale column at center. Rodion's voice emerged—rich, echo-less, threaded directly through the shared mind-link.

<Attention. Rendering mission brief.>