The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

The Enforcer flickered forward without warning, a blur of shadow and steel slicing toward Mikhailis's exposed throat. It was the same lethal precision he'd already witnessed, but this time, Mikhailis's body reacted instantly, honed by desperation and the fierce thrum of the brand in his chest. The Crymber Ant gauntlet surged to life on his right arm, fire and ice swirling violently as he raised it, meeting the deadly blade with an elemental blast.

Steel clashed against the roaring tempest of fire and ice, exploding into a cascade of sparks and glowing steam that lit the dim chamber like a stormy sunrise. For a split second, Mikhailis felt the raw, monstrous force behind the Enforcer's attack pressing him backward, his boots sliding over loose, crumbled stones that bit into his heels. His heart hammered painfully, adrenaline blazing through every nerve ending as he strained to hold the assassin's blade at bay.

Through the chaos of sparks and smoke, the Enforcer's eyes remained calm—almost disinterested—yet Mikhailis glimpsed a twitch at the corner of his enemy's lips, subtle but revealing: frustration, perhaps even grudging surprise. The assassin shifted his weight slightly, angling his saber downward in a lightning-fast attempt to slice into Mikhailis's exposed shoulder.

Strike one.

Mikhailis moved instinctively, pivoting sharply to his left as the Riftborne Necrolord cloak responded instantly, surging upward in thick, shadowy tendrils. The hardened webbing materialized midair, clashing loudly against the blade in a screeching scrape of metal on hardened silk. Sparks flew again, bright and stinging, illuminating the cold intensity etched into Mikhailis's expression.

He pivoted smoothly, feet slipping slightly on loose gravel, yet he caught himself gracefully, each motion honed by adrenaline and determination. His breath hissed sharply between clenched teeth as the brand pulsed warmly, offering both strength and a burning reminder of his limits.

A flash of movement behind him snapped his attention away, instincts flaring hotly. From the shadows, a Technomancer trooper lunged, a long, energized spear humming dangerously as its crackling tip reached for Mikhailis's spine. A flash of panic flickered in Mikhailis's chest, but before he could fully react, two Chimera Ant Soldiers sprang forward with lethal speed. Insectoid limbs blurred as they intercepted the attacker, scythe-like pincers snapping viciously. The trooper staggered backward, shrieking in panic, his weapon dropping uselessly from his grasp as he crashed into a half-collapsed pillar.

Strike two—deflected, but far too close.

Mikhailis drew another ragged breath, feeling sweat trace a cold path down his temple. Around him, his ants moved with mechanical precision, their presence reassuring, their coordinated rhythm steadying his frayed nerves. He'd planned their deployment meticulously, but witnessing them in action was different—equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

A sudden explosion of sound erupted as a massive scurabon unit thundered across the shattered marble, its enormous bulk and armored carapace plowing mercilessly through four Technomancer troopers who had been attempting a counterattack. Arcane rifles spun through the air, snapping and clattering on the debris-strewn ground as soldiers screamed, flung aside like scattered toys. Mikhailis registered their screams with a grim satisfaction; the Technomancers' confusion and fear grew louder, echoing off the broken walls, a chaotic symphony of battle.

Strike two.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mikhailis saw Auron stagger upright again, his face twisted with hateful determination. A familiar gray mist danced between his fingertips, his spellcasting ragged yet dangerously potent. Their eyes met briefly—Auron's filled with manic hate, Mikhailis's with icy disdain. In that instant, he recognized clearly what fueled Auron's desperate fury: humiliation, wounded pride, and the panic of realizing the advantage was slipping away.

With a furious yell, Auron hurled a swirling vortex at Mikhailis's unguarded flank. Instinctively, Mikhailis pivoted, summoning another furious burst from his Crymber gauntlet. Fire and ice met the mist in an explosive hiss, steam erupting violently between them, forcing Auron back with a startled cry. The traitor stumbled, covering his face against the scalding backlash, his posture hunched, the last remnants of arrogance draining from his eyes.

Strike three.

Across the ruined chamber, Technomancer troopers shouted frantically, desperately attempting to form a defensive line. But their movements grew clumsy and disoriented as the Hypnoveil variant crawled swiftly across broken columns and ruined walls, raining down faint, violet spores. Troopers began coughing violently, eyes rolling back into their heads before collapsing into limp heaps, forced into a dreamless sleep.

The tension in the chamber surged anew, its echoes twisting around Mikhailis like an electric storm. He kept moving, focused and merciless. Gone was any hesitation; each movement was sharp, precise, lethal. No witty quips now—his normally playful eyes had hardened to chips of frozen steel.

He felt no remorse, only steely resolve as his gaze flicked from enemy to enemy, calculating the swiftest way to end their threat permanently. Each fallen trooper fed the brand in his chest, the fire inside him roaring louder, sharper, guiding his strikes with razor-edged clarity.

Strike three and counting.

Above, the Tempestrike Drakeant soared briefly through gaps in the shattered ceiling, its wingtips crackling with charged energy. Bolts of lightning lashed out from above, cooking technomancer troopers within their gear, armor sizzling and smoking, shrieks mingling with the scent of scorched metal and flesh. The smell was acrid, sickly sweet, turning Mikhailis's stomach even as it heightened his senses to a painful pitch.

He felt, rather than heard, the Riftborne Necrolord slither quietly across the battle lines, shadows manifesting around panicking enemies, weaving hallucinations that fractured their ranks. When the dark veil lifted, troopers fell one by one, cut down by scythe-like appendages, their lifeless eyes wide with shock.

Auron's expression twisted into one of horrified astonishment, all former bravado utterly shattered. His desperate attempts at casting more spells were repeatedly interrupted by bursts of organic webbing, courtesy of strategically positioned workers. Trapped, he cursed Mikhailis with frenzied desperation, spittle flecking his lips.

The Enforcer, previously composed, barked silent orders to surviving troopers, urging them to rally. But each regrouping attempt dissolved under relentless assaults from Mikhailis's ant swarm. The assassin himself fought with frightening skill, slashing through worker ants that drew too close, but every ant felled was immediately replaced by two more. Even his flawless swordsmanship couldn't stem the insectoid tide closing in relentlessly.

Amidst this chaos, Mikhailis noted something new in the Enforcer's rigid stance—a subtle shift of uncertainty, perhaps a realization dawning that the balance of power had irrevocably shifted. Mikhailis drew a fierce satisfaction from that tiny moment of vulnerability in his formidable enemy.

Finally, the Enforcer realized the tide had turned decisively. Wounded troopers lay scattered across the floor, limbs trapped beneath rubble or pinned by silken webs. Some groaned feebly; others lay silent, eyes staring blankly at nothing. Auron crawled desperately behind a chunk of fallen masonry, screaming obscenities and threats at Mikhailis. But Mikhailis no longer registered his words as anything more than a distant buzzing of meaningless noise.

He moved forward deliberately, ignoring the intensifying throb of the brand in his chest—a warning it knew he would ignore. A cold, precise clarity filled his vision as he focused fully on the Enforcer, who stood defiant but clearly cornered. The assassin's sword trembled faintly, his once-unshakable confidence now visibly cracked, exposed beneath the weight of defeat.

In the surreal quiet of the aftermath, Mikhailis's every footstep echoed off broken stone, a steady rhythm approaching inevitable judgment. Auron, half-hidden behind rubble, screamed furious curses laced with desperate panic, his bravado extinguished entirely. The Technomancers' fear-soaked cries faded, replaced only by tense, uncertain silence.

Mikhailis didn't stop, didn't hesitate. He simply stepped forward, each stride calculated, bringing him closer to delivering final justice.

Finally, the Enforcer realized the tide had turned. Wounded troopers littered the floor, pinned or dead. Auron crawled behind a chunk of rubble, screaming curses at Mikhailis. With cold precision, Mikhailis advanced, ignoring the brand's throbbing warnings.

He felt no joy, no triumph—only grim resolve. They had crossed a line they shouldn't have, and now they would pay the price.

But just as he formed a plan to finish them, a searing bolt of agony ripped violently through his chest, hotter and sharper than he'd ever felt before. His vision blurred at the edges, dark spots swimming across his sight as he stumbled forward, gasping desperately. The brand flared wildly, an uncontrollable firestorm surging through his veins, punishing him relentlessly for pushing the Mist synergy far beyond any reasonable limit. A strangled sound escaped his lips, one of raw, breathless pain.

It was as if someone had plunged a molten spear straight through his heart, twisting it cruelly with every beat. He hunched over slightly, clutching at his chest with trembling fingers that felt oddly numb despite the blazing heat radiating from beneath his skin. Sweat trickled down his temple, tracing paths through grime and blood as his breath turned shallow, coming in short, agonized gasps.

<You pushed too far, again,> Rodion remarked inside his mind, voice tinged with irritation hidden behind layers of formal calm. <How many times must you gamble with your life, Mikhailis?>

The AI's reprimand barely registered through the roaring pain. Mikhailis squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back nausea as the fiery sensation spread further, creeping outward from the brand like tendrils of living flame. He staggered forward another step, knees threatening to buckle beneath him as exhaustion threatened to drag him under.

Every sound in the chamber seemed suddenly muffled, distant as though heard underwater. He dimly recognized the frantic shuffle of his Chimera Ant soldiers moving around him, instinctively sensing their master's distress. But even their proximity offered little comfort now—the agony was too overwhelming, eclipsing all rational thought.

It felt like an eternity of torment before he managed to open his eyes again, only to find his vision hazy, wavering between moments of clarity and utter darkness. He forced a breath through his gritted teeth, feeling each shallow inhale slicing into his lungs like blades of ice.

His gaze flicked involuntarily to the scene unfolding around him. Through the shifting blur, he saw Technomancer troopers sprawled on the cracked marble floor, some twitching feebly, others completely motionless. Their armor reflected the flickering torchlight in eerie patterns, casting dancing shadows on the crumbling walls. The once fearsome Enforcer knelt in the dust, eyes wide with stunned disbelief, his severed limbs still seeping blood onto the pale stone beneath him.

Even through the throbbing haze of pain, Mikhailis registered the faint traces of satisfaction—that fierce, savage triumph at seeing an enemy who had once been so confident reduced to something broken, defeated. It was a bitter victory, yet victory nonetheless.

From the corner of his eye, a sudden flicker of movement yanked him violently back into the present. The Enforcer, sensing Mikhailis's sudden vulnerability, lunged forward in a final desperate bid, his face contorted into a grim mask of determination and rage. Mikhailis's heart skipped sharply, adrenaline flooding his system with a fresh jolt of desperate clarity.

Instinct took over where reason failed; he moved without thinking, driven purely by survival reflex. The necrolord cloak surged upward in a twisting mass of darkness, shadowy threads wrapping fiercely around the assassin's sword arm. The blade swung wide, its lethal edge scraping across the marble with a harsh, ear-splitting screech. Sparks scattered in a cascade of flickering embers, briefly illuminating the grim determination etched across both combatants' faces.

But the Enforcer was relentless, moving fluidly despite his injuries. Mikhailis saw the assassin shift stance, pivoting slightly, his remaining hand darting forward with another lethal strike, seeking any gap in Mikhailis's defense. Panic surged in his chest, and with a primal roar, he summoned every ounce of strength left in his battered body.

The Crymber gauntlet flared violently to life, an explosion of fire and ice swirling together in a chaotic storm around his fist. He met the Enforcer's strike head-on, the collision erupting in a deafening blast of elemental fury. Heat and cold surged outward in equal measure, sending out rippling shockwaves that rattled the chamber's fractured walls.

The assassin's eyes widened momentarily in shock, his calculated composure faltering as he realized—far too late—the severity of his mistake. With a sickening crunch, the elemental energies tore viciously through flesh and bone, severing the Enforcer's right hand entirely. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as the sword clattered uselessly onto the stone, echoing sharply.

For a fleeting instant, stunned disbelief ghosted over the Enforcer's usually impassive features. He reeled backward, instinctively clutching at the ruined stump, his once lethal grace reduced to clumsy desperation. But even disarmed, he refused to yield, lunging again with a guttural snarl, reaching desperately with his remaining hand.

Mikhailis, driven by sheer adrenaline despite the scorching agony radiating from his chest, reacted swiftly. The necrolord cloak surged once more, shadowy strands weaving upward with lethal precision. The Enforcer's remaining limb fell away in a spray of blood and sinew, spinning through the air before landing with a sickening, wet slap on the marble.

Instantaneous silence descended heavily upon the chamber, punctuated only by the soft dripping of blood from the assassin's fresh wounds. The Enforcer staggered back, his normally unflappable expression now twisted into one of sheer shock. Around them, Technomancer troopers stood paralyzed in horror, eyes wide with disbelief at their commander's swift, brutal defeat.

Mikhailis stood trembling, his chest rising and falling rapidly, each breath tearing painfully through him. He glanced downward at the severed limbs, his vision swimming sickeningly. The finality of the moment hung thickly in the air, the bitter scent of blood and defeat almost tangible.

Sweat poured down his brow, mingling with the grime and dirt caked on his skin. He felt utterly drained, body trembling as his legs threatened to collapse beneath him. The pain from the brand still seared violently, a constant reminder of his limits—limits he'd recklessly disregarded again.

The Enforcer crumbled slowly to his knees, disbelief and confusion overtaking his expression. This man who had once struck terror across countless battlefields now knelt broken, reduced to helplessness. Mikhailis felt a fierce, primal satisfaction—but also a strange pang of exhaustion-fueled empathy. This was no ordinary victory. It was bitter, costly, and deeply unsettling.

He swayed dangerously, blinking rapidly to clear the encroaching darkness from the edges of his sight. He could faintly sense Rodion's silent disapproval, the AI's presence radiating weary resignation at yet another reckless gamble. Mikhailis wanted to offer a witty remark, a reassuring joke, anything to ease the heaviness—but no words would form, swallowed by pain and fatigue.

Then, through that suffocating stillness, a new voice emerged—a voice cool and composed, yet threaded unmistakably with authority and subtle rebuke.

"Just as I expected. Thank you, Rodion, for leading me here..."

The familiarity of that voice slammed through Mikhailis like an electric jolt, sending his already erratic heart into a frantic rhythm. His head snapped upward sharply, gaze piercing the gloom toward the sealed chamber exit. The darkness stirred softly, parting gracefully to reveal a poised figure stepping calmly into view.

Silver-white hair glistened faintly under the dying torchlight, framing a face that radiated quiet power and confidence. Golden eyes, bright yet inscrutable, took in the scene of devastation with practiced calmness. Her presence filled the space effortlessly, shifting the entire chamber's atmosphere in an instant.

Mikhailis's breath trembled, caught somewhere between awe and embarrassment. He stared, frozen momentarily by a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—relief, guilt, confusion, and something deeper, something he couldn't fully articulate, yet felt acutely in his weary bones.

His voice was a shaky whisper, hesitant yet filled with genuine disbelief.

"E...Elowen?"