The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort Chapter 480: The New Problem

Rodion's internal chronoter marked every tenth of a second while the external world seed 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 milliter 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. "Custor 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 tal kissed tal with a soft tink. Focus, he reminded himself, one wrong torque and the whole servo alignnt 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 ti, hidden "ghost" undertones riding just beneath audible range. Glitches danced across the lowest band—code fragnts 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.

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

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 dimd 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 tallic 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 erged cooler than the solder point.

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

He glanced up just in ti to see Elowen re-enter. She paused at the threshold, cloak shimring in erald 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 farrs 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 mont flickered, gentle as candle-fla, 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 lancholy, 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?"

A white pointer stabbed a side channel.

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.

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

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

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

Rodion conceded with a minimal nod. Mikhailis caught a faint flicker of amusent in the sentinel's optics—a half-second pulse of warr 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 sar above an eyebrow. "Now… talk through your plan."

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

He zood to Stratum -27's entrance: a fissure hidden behind basalt spires.

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

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

Rodion's servo emitted a faint whirr resembling a sigh.

"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 cara."

_____

The Nest's forward staging chamber pulsed like a subterranean heart: vast, vaulted, every wall alive with soft glimr 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 ti a brush passed, fine static leapt between the bristles and the mbrane, raising faint crackles that slled like sumr 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 t 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 flas one breath, freezing vapour the next, like a living forge decided to learn winter.

By contrast, the Sliweave Ant stood almost still—if "still" could describe a creature whose gelatinous dermis undulated in waves of translucent erald. 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 Sliweave 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. Sliweave viscosity optimal. With each completed line, he offered a faint, satisfied chirp—music amid the clank of armor and hiss of coolant.

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