The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 460: The Return and Repair (End)
<Intentions detected: monopolise technological development. Projected outcome: military superiority, regional deterrence, potential global stabilisation.>
Mikhailis chuckled, dry and short, wiping a smear of solder flux from his wrist. "I'm not even going to deny it." His gaze drifted to the far wall where rows of crystal capacitors glowed like caged suns behind protective lattice. "You've seen it too, haven't you? Magic already burned half the continents to cinders—fiefdoms flinging elemental tantrums at each other until cities became craters." He tapped a finger on the plate once, punctuating the thought. "Now imagine tossing high-fidelity nanotech into that mix—a more precise blade swung by the same reckless hands."
He turned, robe whispering across the floor, and swept an arm toward the bustling ant-workshop. Workers scurried between long benches: some coaxed coppery sap from ironvine roots into filament moulds; others threaded spectral silk through crystal seed-beads no larger than poppy seeds, creating luminous chains that would one day channel power safer and cleaner than any mage's battery. A few were already assembling a prototype lens the size of a fingernail, layering it from coherent sand melted in mid-air, spinning it as though glassblowing were merely a hobby.
"No," he continued, voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur. "We build carefully. We strengthen Silvarion Thalor first—home base must stand like an oak before we plant seedlings abroad. We blend magic and technology the right way. Slowly. Quietly." The last word left his lips with the hush of a promise.
Rodion's optics dimmed a fraction, imitation of thoughtful eyelids half-closed. The AI rarely displayed outward processing, yet the gesture felt natural now, like two friends sharing secrets by candlelight. Tiny reflected fires danced where once only cold calculation lay.
Mikhailis exhaled, letting tension slide from his shoulders as he watched the ants catalogue components—runework vials on one bench, raw gemstone shards on another, every piece slotted by color and resonance frequency within moments. One worker paused to straighten a crooked notebook left by Mikhailis earlier, dusted its leather cover, then moved on. Tiny miracles, he mused. Piece by piece, they tidy the future.
He dragged a hand through his wine-dark hair, leaving sweaty strands spiked skyward. "Estimate," he asked lightly, though true curiosity thrummed beneath. "How much do we even know—really know—about magic and the rules underpinning this entire circus?"
Rodion processed for exactly half a breath, optics flicking minutely as if turning ethereal pages.
<Current compiled knowledge: approximately 3.1 percent of total systemic arcana. Margin of error ±0.2 percent, assuming the cosmos operates on discoverable principles.>
A bark of rueful laughter escaped Mikhailis. "Three percent. After all this?" He gestured around—at the living forge of ants, at Rodion's patched plates still gleaming wet, at the spectral fiber humming in its runic lockbox. "We're toddlers throwing blocks while the grown-up universe tolerates our noise." freewebnσvel.cøm
Rodion's next words arrived softer than drifting ash.
<It is analogous to learning every major discipline from your old world simultaneously—astronomy, medicine, poetry, warcraft. Daunting, but not impossible. Step by step accumulates mastery.>
That small note of reassurance, delivered so plainly, cut through the fatigue fogging Mikhailis's skull. He stared at the AI—really stared—and saw beyond steel and silk; saw a partner standing at the same cliff's edge, staring into the same unknown abyss, unafraid to call it an opportunity.
Heat stung his eyes; he blinked it away fiercely, nodding once. "Yeah," he whispered, voice scraping rough but clear. "Step by step."
The nest hummed agreement. Luminous vines threaded through the cavern ceiling pulsed in rhythm, bathing the lab in low amber glow. Mandibles clacked, tiny hammer-beats forging a lullaby of industrious promise.
Mikhailis rested his hand again on Rodion's newly restored shoulder. Warmth thrummed beneath the alloy—life in mechanical skin. Ants raced up and down Rodion's frame, sealing final hairline cracks with resin so clear it refracted like diamond dust. One ant paused atop the helm, saluted with an antenna flick, then slid down a cable like a jubilant child on a rope swing.
Across a side bench, a trio of Workers were already assembling something new: crystal filigree curved into delicate arches, rooted into a base of polished root-wood. Along the arch's inner rim they inlaid teardrop lenses, each pulsating with soft violet. It looked like the skeleton of some musical instrument crossed with a telescope, humming faint scales as they worked. No blueprint guided them—just instinct and ambient song from the Queen's distant mind.
Mikhailis couldn't help smiling, eyelids drooping half-closed. Fatigue tugged at his muscles but hope buoyed his chest. With them... maybe we can rebuild smarter. Better.
He turned back to Rodion, wiping his palms on a rag. "We start small. Stabilise city defences, upgrade water channels with crystal filters. People drink clean water; nobody asks where the pipes came from." He ticked points off his fingers. "Next, silent luminescent streetposts—no flames, no mana cost, just ant-woven photonic wires. The guilds will protest, but the queen's taxes will hush them. Then… agriculture: ironvine irrigation nets, spectral silk leaf sensors—hail warnings before clouds even gather."
Rodion listened, perhaps compiling action trees, perhaps simply cataloguing the bright cadence of ambition.
<All proposed initiatives fall within concealment thresholds. Risk of premature discovery: minimal.>
Mikhailis nodded, pleased. "But weapons, we keep hidden behind velvet." He lifted the ragged cloak remnant from the floor, flicked burnt fibres away. "This? We say it's high enchantment cloth from eastern isles—charge absurd import tariffs. Let rumours swirl. Nobody needs to know ants sewed it overnight."
Rodion's lenses brightened.
<Understood. Secrecy protocols updated. Cover stories cached.>
A cluster of Workers began weaving what looked like lace, but on closer glance Mikhailis saw the pattern mirrored the fractal spirals inside dragonfly wings—an optimised load-bearing geometry. Those "doilies" would hold the weight of a siege ram while weighing less than a feather.
He rubbed tired eyes. "Three percent," he muttered again, half awed, half incredulous. "All this, and it's still only three."
Rodion's voice gentled, carrying a note of encouragement he must have harvested from observing humans.
<Every library once began as a single clay tablet. Persistence converts fragments to foundations.>
Mikhailis laughed softly. "Philosopher mode, huh? I'll take it." He reached for a half-finished mug of tea gone tepid, took a swallow, grimaced. "Cold. But that's fine. Reminds me why we need better heat retention spells."
A sudden commotion drew his gaze to the far alcove. Two Workers hauled a crystalline shard larger than their own bodies, their six legs gripping traction pads hammered in moments before. They navigated around an anvil, positioned the shard beneath a descending vine-winch, and chirped for assistance. Another team lowered polished rootwood struts, slotting them into grooves with fluid precision. Within breaths the behemoth shard hung perfectly balanced. It would likely become the heart of a new capacitor array—one capable of powering a small town, maybe a fleet.
"Step by step," Mikhailis echoed, setting the mug aside.
He turned to Rodion again, serious now. "One more thing: oversight. I need you to scan ant-development cycles. If any single brood evolves too fast—if their ingenuity outstrips our ability to guide—flag it. We nurture innovation, not runaway singularities."
Rodion inclined his helm.
<Acknowledged. Implementing evolutionary throttle at five percent variance. Adaptive frameworks locked.>
"Good." Mikhailis inhaled, then flexed fingers still tingling from fine solder work. Soft gold motes spiralled from the lantern above, dusting the lab in dawn-coloured haze. It felt like the world paused, drawing breath for a future verse.
"We're not gods," he admitted quietly, head tipping back to watch the motes swirl. "But maybe we can be good stewards."
He felt Rodion's gaze on him—a silent promise, a steel guardian ready to enforce that hope with unyielding arms.
Outside the laboratory arch, a hollow hush swept through the tunnels, followed by the low buzz of distant forges—ants smelting dusk-iron ingots with vent-heat stolen from volcano worms. The song of creation continuing without them; background music to their private oath.
Mikhailis tugged the cloak scrap over his shoulder like a makeshift scarf. "Let's go oversee the calibration array," he said, but did not move yet. His hand lingered on Rodion's armoured shoulder, thumb tracing the new seam almost affectionately.
Feels warm, he noticed again. Like he's alive.
Rodion remained still, letting the moment stretch—an AI understanding that silence, too, can be language.
The Workers around them dimmed lanterns one notch, as though acknowledging an intimate spell. Even the runic vents quieted, steam puffs fading to gentle sighs. In that soft near-dark, the polished metal and crystal of the lab glowed in dim amber, like embers at the heart of a furnace waiting to roar.
Mikhailis broke the hush at last, voice barely above a whisper, yet firm. "We're not just building weapons, Rodion," he said.
His fingers tightened, conviction shining in grey eyes that had once only sparkled with mischief. "We're building a future."
