The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 573: Crumbs, Diagrams, and Guilt (5)

"Oh seeds!" Arms windmilled wildly. The world titled. He braced for impact.

Rodion darted—surprisingly quick for his stubby build—and flung himself beneath the falling prince. They collided in a soft oof; Rodion flattened into a cushioned pillow, absorbing the fall with springs and compressing gel packs.

Mikhailis lay sprawled, staring up at dripping rocks. "Thanks, Rodion," he wheezed. "Heroically defeating myself is truly an uncommon strategy."

Rodion’s voice buzzed with dry reprimand.

<Future note: footwear upgrade—anti-slip soles recommended.>

They righted themselves, wiping stray slime strings off armor and fluff. Deeper into the cave the ceiling arched higher, black shadows flitting across stalactites. Something chirped. A musty gust carried the stink of damp feathers and guano.

Rodion’s internal light dimmed. freeweɓnøvel~com

<Air particulates indicate high concentration of bat dander.>

As if on cue, a cluster of oversized fruit bats detached from the ceiling, swooping down in dramatic arcs. Their wings beat heavy air. Mikhailis’s hair fluttered; Rodion squealed—an undignified squeak—and spun in frantic circles, stubby arms raised like tiny white sails.

<Danger! Giant rodents with wings!>

Mikhailis ducked low, bending nearly double as leathery wings sliced the air inches above his head. One of the enormous fruit bats swooped so close its furry belly brushed his fringe, leaving a faint smell of overripe figs and damp feathers behind. The creature’s wingbeats thundered through the tunnel, stirring stray motes of dust into swirling spirals. Mikhailis laughed, the bubbling sound ricocheting off rock walls and dripping stalactites. With his free hand he swatted gently at another bat that dared buzz him, the motion more playful shooing than actual defense.

They’re bigger than barn owls, he mused, tipping his head to watch them wheel overhead, but as threatening as a sack of cushions. Unlike the spike-jawed cave wyverns he’d faced last spring, these creatures only wanted to investigate—and maybe steal—anything sweet.

"Easy, friends! Not tonight," he called, voice echoing into the shadowed rafters of stone. He doubted the bats understood Common, but tone counted. He backed toward the wall, eyes skimming the floor until he spotted a ragged mat of lime-green moss clinging to smooth rock. The stuff was dense with sugary spores, its scent reminiscent of spun sugar left too long in summer sun. Perfect bait.

He crouched and ripped up a double-handful. The moss came away in a springy sheet that tickled his palms. Quick as a kitchen baker kneading dough, he rolled it into a lopsided ball, squeezing until sticky sap oozed between his fingers. Standing again, he lobbed the fragrant clump down a side tunnel like a lazy pitcher tossing a softball.

The effect was immediate. The flock’s sleek heads snapped toward the scent; leathery wings angled mid-air, and—with a chorus of delighted squeaks—the bats streaked after the moss. Their departure stirred a small hurricane of stale air that rippled Mikhailis’s coat. Within moments only the fading echo of squeaks remained, replaced by the steady drip-drip of cave moisture.

Behind a stalagmite roughly the shape of a melted candle, Rodion’s white, plush-bodied frame eased into view. Twin optic slits widened to exaggerate alarm, glowing a luminous sky-blue.

<Reminder: update internal fear-calibration protocols. Current bat-related threat assessment deemed excessive.>

His stubby arms flapped once, as if testing whether adrenaline existed for synthetic bodies.

Mikhailis’s grin broadened. He ruffled Rodion’s smooth head, leaving faint streaks of torch-green light dancing across polished polymer. "Good job surviving the terrifying fluffy bats." The prince’s thumb shot skyward in an exaggerated gesture of praise. Rodion remained stoic, his optics flattening to an unimpressed line.

They pressed on. The ceiling dipped, forcing Mikhailis to hunch for a dozen paces, then rose again into a vaulted corridor. After several turns the tunnel pinched, walls creeping close enough that his shoulders nearly brushed damp stone. Here, sound softened; even Rodion’s rubbery footsteps melted into the hush, and the torch’s glow cast cozy, overlapping halos on every irregular surface. A faint fragrance drifted on the cool air—clove and something peppery. Mikhailis inhaled and smiled as memory recognized the spice: mustard-seed pickle from the palace kitchens.

Right, the sandwiches. Hunger flared now that adrenaline faded. He located a shoulder-high alcove beneath a fossilised overhang. A natural bench, smoothed by water and time, jutted out just wide enough for two.

"Lunch break," he announced, swinging his satchel forward. Leather straps creaked while he fished out a cloth-wrapped parcel still slightly warm from the kitchen hearth. He untied the twine and unfolded the linen to reveal two massive sandwiches: thick brown bread, smoked trout still glistening with oil, curls of pickled radish that released a nose-tickling tang.

Rodion toddled closer, optics brightening as he accepted one half with exaggerated delicacy. He didn’t eat in the human sense—nutrient gel in his core was enough—but protocol demanded courtesy. He raised the sandwich to his sensors as if sniffing a rare bouquet.

<Dungeon exploration at forty-five percent complete. Casualties: zero. Sandwich consumption imminent.>

Mikhailis barked a laugh that bounced merrily along the passage. "Are you sure your protocols allow humor?"

Rodion paused, as if toggling an internal switch.

<Humor module is at seventy-two percent operational capacity. Attempting levity may result in mild awkwardness. Proceeding with caution.>

"Well, let’s risk it." Mikhailis took a giant bite. Flavours of smoky fish and sharp radish flooded his mouth, followed by the sweetness of buttered bread. He chewed slowly, savouring each note, while his gaze wandered around the nook: glimmering mineral veins in the ceiling, tiny silverfish skittering in torchlight, droplets collecting on stalactite tips before falling like lazy comets.

Rodion mimicked a bite—jaws closing around air just shy of the bread—and then carefully dissected the sandwich with a fingertip stylus, lifting molecular data into a blue hologram above his hand.

<Mustard seed detected at a concentration liable to provoke mild sinus stimulation.>

"Sinus stimulation," Mikhailis repeated around a mouthful, amused. "That’s called flavour, Rodion."

Five peaceful minutes passed, punctuated only by distant drips like a water clock. For Mikhailis, who’d spent the day juggling ant tunnels, ritual awkwardness, and the possibility of cosmological prophecy, the lull felt blissful. He stretched his legs, boots crunching harmless gravel, and contemplated nothing in particular.

A faint rattle slithered into the silence. At first he took it for some quirky echo of dripping water, but the sound sharpened, resolving into the hollow click of bone on stone—one, then two, then many. He swallowed the last bite and brushed crumbs from his glove. "Ah, right on schedule."

From the corridor emerged three skeleton soldiers. Their rust-flecked armor hung loose, straps half-rotted. A cracked shield wedged on one arm, and another clutched a sword so corroded it looked sculpted from sponge. Green bioluminescent moss wrapped several ribs, giving them a faint, eerie glow. Yet their advance was anything but menacing—they shuffled forward in lopsided cadence like tipsy dancers at a village fair.

Mikhailis hopped to his feet, excitement sparking again. "Gentlemen! Care for a spar?"

He felt the reassuring weight of his compact crossbow in hand, thumb flicking the safety rune. With a flourish worthy of the cheapest traveling circus, he spun, aimed, and loosed a sand-glass bolt. The projectile hissed through the air, striking the lead skeleton square on its wrist joint. There was a brittle crack, like snapping a chicken bone, and the entire sword arm detached, tumbling across the ground. The skeleton halted, staring at the stump as though shocked by its own disassembly, then bent stiffly to retrieve the severed limb—evidently intent on reattaching sword and arm in one convenient bundle.

Behind Mikhailis, Rodion waddled in a frantic retreat pattern, sensors ping-ping-pinging alarms. One shambling corpse veered off, fixated on the fluffy white figure. With unsettling eagerness it wrapped bony arms around Rodion’s midsection, ribs clinking against smooth polymer.

<My sensors indicate I am being hugged by bones—please assist!>

Mikhailis clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle hysterics. Focus—hero time. He dashed forward, planted a boot against the skeleton’s pelvis, and yanked on its ribcage like a stubborn drawer. Bones came away with surprising ease; vertebrae clattered as he spun the creature in a neat pirouette. "Bad skeleton! No hugging the medic." He tapped the skull with two fingers; centuries-old cervical joints gave way. The skull popped clean off, bounced once, and rolled toward a puddle. The body staggered after it, arms still open for futile affection.

Rodion straightened, fluff slightly ruffled. His optics narrowed at the departing attacker.

<Encounter recorded under "traumatic cuddling incident." Purging emotional residue.>

The remaining skeleton, now short one sword arm but still dogged, swung its corroded shield in slow arcs. Mikhailis sidestepped, catching the shield rim with his gloved hand—runes flaring—and gave a casual shove. The undead toppled backward into a shallow crevice filled with slime drool. Bones rattled, slid, and finally settled in a pathetic heap, green moss dimming like embarrassed glowworms.

Silence returned, aside from Rodion’s internal fan humming. Mikhailis holstered the crossbow and dusted nonexistent lint from his armor. "Routine exercise," he said cheerfully. "I’d rate their coordination a generous three out of ten."

Rodion smoothed his belly, striving for composure.

<Structural integrity compromised on skeletal targets. Your victory probability approached certainty. Recommendation: no formal boasting required.>

"But boasting feels good." Mikhailis winked. "Also builds character—mine, not theirs."

They walked on, deeper into the belly of the dungeon. The air cooled further; occasional tremors rippled through the flagstones as if an enormous drum pounded far away. Mikhailis felt the vibrations through his soles like distant thunder or perhaps a giant’s heartbeat. He and Rodion exchanged knowing looks.

Rodion performed a quick scan; an orange glyph flashed across his optics.

<Heat signature ahead: single large slime mass. Diameter estimate: three meters. Mobility: sluggish.>

Mikhailis’s grin lit his face like morning sun breaking through clouds. "Boss time." He pumped a fist with boyish glee, the leather of his glove creaking. Can’t remember the last time I fought something that couldn’t bite, burn, or curse me. A giant jelly sounds blissfully simple.

Torches lining the walls sensed new motion and shifted hue, their green moss light fading to deep amber crystals that pulsed as if applauding the pair’s arrival. The slanted floor gleamed wetly; shallow puddles caught the amber and green in overlapping ripples, creating a living kaleidoscope at their feet. Each step squelched softly, damp leather against wetter stone.

They paused beneath a massive archway carved from a single slab of basalt. Someone—an optimist or a prankster—had chiseled fat little slimes along the keystone, each wearing a crooked crown and an even crookeder smile. Beneath the carvings a weather-beaten plank hung by tarnished chains, its paint peeling but message still readable: GOOD LUCK, DON’T SLIP! An arrow pointed down, as though the dungeon itself shared a private joke.

Rodion inhaled with exaggerated drama, synthetic chest inflating then deflating.

<Encounter recorded under "traumatic cuddling incident." I request hazard downgrade from skeletal hugs to gelatinous hugs.>

He gave himself a hearty shake. A lone finger bone, apparently wedged in his fluff ever since the skeleton scuffle, rattled to the floor and rolled into a crack. Rodion watched it vanish, optics narrowing in mild disgust.

Mikhailis snorted. "Now you’ve literally lost your skeletons in the closet." He bent, scooped the bone, and with a casual flick sent it skittering down a drainage channel. "There—proper burial."

With a flourish, he stepped into the final chamber—and stopped, breath caught at the sight.

The grotto stretched wider than the great ballroom at Silvarion Castle. Its ceiling curved high overhead like the inside of a vast eggshell, crusted with quartz so thick it glittered like a captive sky. The floor was dominated by a mirror-smooth pool perfectly oval, its surface reflecting the ceiling crystals until it appeared lit from beneath by a million trapped stars.

And in the center of that pool: the boss.

A slime, but no ordinary puddle-level pest. It was the size of a royal carriage tipped on its side, perhaps larger, a wobbling mass of sea-green jelly that pulsed with slow, deliberate rhythm. Tiny particles of light drifted inside—some blue, some gold—like shrimp caught in a living lava lamp. Each pulse squeezed those particles closer, then relaxed, sending rings of color shimmering toward the outer membrane.

Rodion’s optics widened, awed despite himself.

<Bio-luminescence pattern irregular. Suggest emotional state: mildly cranky.>

Mikhailis raised an eyebrow. "How cranky can gelatin get?" He took a testing step onto the wet stone rim surrounding the pool. The slime’s membrane tightened, the whole mass lifting a few inches as if poised to lunge. Mikhailis’s grin only grew. Sensitive to vibration—good to know.

He rolled his shoulders, tossed his moss torch to an ant-carved sconce on the wall where it stuck like a dart, and drew his crossbow. "Alright, Big Bubble. Let’s dance."

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