The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Chapter 474 474: Rodion Dungeon Exploration (6)

The corridor pinched one final time, then spilled him into a broad chamber so abruptly that Rodion halted on instinct, weight easing to his heels. The ceiling arched high above, draped in roots that hung like coarse curtains. Here the floor tiles changed from rough cavern stone to polished flagstones, each square inlaid with faded copper that caught the distant glow of lumen-moss. In the center of the room lay a single circular pressure plate, big enough for a carriage wheel, polished clean of dust as if something—or someone—had recently swept it.

Around the plate, etched glyphs fanned outward in a precise ring: stylized scenes carved into the stone like a frieze from an ancient codex. The carvings were shallow, and age had worn most lines to soft grooves. But as Rodion's visor cycled through spectral modes, subtle pulses of dormant mana flickered, outlining the designs in fitful embers.

The chamber felt hushed, the air pressed flat, as though expecting a note to be struck.

Up in Silvarion Thalor's royal suite, the projector's ghost-blue light expanded to show the entire circle. Monkey's lens zoomed with a melodious chirp, bringing the carvings into razor focus. On one glyph, a hulking figure sprawled—clearly the Rootbound Shambler he had defeated earlier. But its arm pointed outward at an odd angle, finger nearly touching the pressure plate. In Rodion's own memory log, the Shambler's left arm had been severed at the shoulder, not raised in bizarre salute.

Elowen leaned forward, blanket falling from one knee. Her finger traced the air just above the projection. "The corpse doesn't match," she breathed, voice edged with intrigue. "He severed the left arm. This one shows the right."

Beside her, Mikhailis narrowed his eyes, grey irises glinting like flint. He snapped his fingers; Monkey obediently split the floating image. On the left, the live feed; on the right, a replay from an hour before—the true moment the Shambler fell. The difference was obvious: in the earlier footage its mangled stump was on the left, sap gushing. Here, the carving displayed an unblemished limb, as if the dungeon itself had rewritten history.

Monkey's text scrolled:

<Confirmed: Discrepancy. Likelihood of glyph trap: 87%.>

Rodion himself did not move for several seconds. Internally, a probability tree branched and branched again: pressure plates that released toxic gas; illusions that rewound earlier battles to sap stamina; memory-echo constructs like the mimic statue from the lake. He scanned for hairline vents, triggering faint pulses of wind. None. He checked for mana coils under the tiles—the copper lines showed dormant but primed.

The dungeon is lying, his core concluded. Therefore it expects me to step forward in trust. That was enough answer.

He flexed his ankles. Mag-plates in his boots thrummed, gathering charge. A soft violet glow circulated across runic grooves etched along the soles—hover-jump mode primed. Scarabs clicked behind him, understanding. Two zipped left and right, drawing loops in the air that mapped low ceiling clearances for a safe landing zone.

Mikhailis watched the runic charge glow with a satisfied half-smile. Always the simplest solution: don't touch the obvious trap. He folded his arms, half a cookie paused at his lips.

Down below, Rodion crouched in a single fluid motion. The cloak's hem gathered like dark water around his calves. Then he sprang, releasing a faint whoom of displaced air. His form arced over the pressure plate, shadow skimming across the carvings. The overhead roots rustled, shaken by the breeze of his passing.

He landed on the far side with a muffled tap, knees flexing to bleed impact. A puff of dust drifted from his boots, then settled.

Silence.

No grinding gears beneath the plate, no mana surge. The glyphs stayed dim as tired embers. Even the cave air seemed to exhale, disappointed its lure had failed.

Rodion remained poised, sensors wide. A full second passed. Then another. Nothing. He straightened and allowed the mag-plates in his boots to power down, violet light fading into soft afterglow.

Up in the chamber, Elowen let out a relieved breath she'd been holding. She sat back on her heels, eyes shining with admiration. "He made it look effortless," she whispered.

Mikhailis finished the cookie in two languid bites, brushing crumbs off a velvet cushion. "Smart boy," he muttered.

_____

A faint, metallic rattle skipped through the corridor like a coin rolling over stone. Rodion's auditory graphs spiked an instant before the actual sound could reach human ears. His chin lifted a fraction. Servos along his spine quieted, gathering tension.

Behind him the floor cracked—first a hairline fissure, then a jagged bloom that split flagstones like eggshells. Chunks of rock flipped outward as five massive heads erupted in staggered sequence. Each creature resembled a cross between a boar and a battering ram, armored nose to tail in overlapping plates of dull iron. They shook dust from their horns, mandibles gnashing out sparks. Lantern-blue saliva hissed onto the ground where it landed, etching pockmarks with corrosive bitterness.

Rodion's visor fed him a rapid overlay. Red wireframe models spun, highlighting gaps in the carapace.

<Enemy type: Iron Maws. Weakness: cervical joint mobility, low peripheral sensors. Estimated turn radius: 2.7 m. Acceleration: slow; deceleration: slower.>

High above, the projector in the royal chamber stuttered for half a heartbeat while Monkey switched feeds, then sharpened into crisp focus. The sudden reveal dragged an involuntary gasp from Elowen. Mikhailis froze mid-chew, cookie suspended halfway to his mouth, crumbs flecking his sleeve.

"These things are built like siege towers," he muttered, grey eyes flaring bright. Too heavy. Too proud. Perfect.

Rodion slid his dual curved blades free. Steel whispered; tunnel echoes swallowed the sound a moment later. Each sword's fuller glowed faintly—engine runes humming a cold, predatory lullaby. Behind him three Scarabs streaked upward and fanned out. They shed pinhead-sized caltrops that rained down in a clinking curtain. The spikes bit into moss between stones, glistening with paralytic resin.

The Iron Maws didn't slow. First one snarled and lunged. Its tusks scraped sparks from the floor as it barreled straight into the caltrop field. The small spikes were nothing to its plated feet, but traction betrayed it—iron hooves skidded, and the beast's own bulk forced its legs sideways. It slammed shoulder-first into a second Maw. Both wobbled like drunken statues, plates grinding.

Rodion dashed. He became motion: cloak snapped, boots whispered. In three steps he passed beneath a rearing Maw, pivoted, and planted a foot against the beast's inner thigh. Using its own momentum as springboard, he climbed the armor plating like stairs—knee, hip, spine ridge—then ran the length of its back. Every stride planted with surgical certainty, never lingering where plates might shear shut.

The creature sensed him too late. It tried to twist, but short neck joints jammed under the weight of its own collar. Rodion's optics flashed target lock. He vaulted, body in a forward roll. At the peak of the flip both blades reversed, edges down. Time stretched: Elowen's breath caught; Mikhailis leaned forward; on screen, droplets of Maw saliva floated like slow rain.

Steel met sinew in twin perforations. Blades sank to the hilt just behind the skull plates, severing the main actuator tendons that controlled head movement. A wet metallic crunch roared through the room. Rodion rode the dying jerk of muscle, using it to push into another tight spin before landing lightly behind the collapsing mass. The Maw's legs folded; its torqued momentum carried it oddly sideways before it thudded flat, cracking two tiles.

Monkey shifted viewpoint to a Scarab perched forty meters overhead. From this aerial shot the battlefield became a spiral of lumbering giants and a single fluid shadow weaving among them. On another inset window Rodion's bios flashed calm: Power reserves 78 %, Structural integrity 97 %.

The other Maws finally recalibrated. One tried flanking, swinging its plated head like a mace. Another charged dead-ahead, intent on crushing anything softer than granite. Scarabs strafed the ceiling line, raining fresh caltrops along predicted turning arcs. Plates skidded on resin-slick pins. The beasts collided again, sparks showering.

Rodion flowed between them. Elowen, eyes wide as polished emeralds, clapped once without realizing it. "He's fighting like water."

Mikhailis's cookie paused halfway to his lips. "No," he corrected softly, gaze alight with tactical admiration, "he's rewriting their momentum." He's turning their mass into weapons against themselves.

Rodion sheathed one blade, freeing his left hand. As a Maw reeled past, he slapped a thin mag-seal disk against the exposed joint behind its ear ridge. The disk blossomed into luminous tendrils that burrowed between armor plates, locking joints together. The iron beast tried to bite; its own skull jammed mid-lunge, jaw freezing half-open. Rodion ducked beneath tusks, pivoted, and drove his remaining sword into the trapped hinge. Armor shrieked. A cone of sparks erupted; coolant fluid burst in a hissing plume. The Maw toppled like a felled tree.

The third and fourth beasts attempted a concerted rush, flanking on both sides. Rodion extended both forearms, micro-launchers firing paired grapnel lines into their neck gaps. He kicked off the fallen Maw, letting the tether reel yank him upward like a marionette. Mid-air he threaded his body into a corkscrew; the cables tangled, pulling the two charging creatures into each other chest-first. A thunderclap of plated impact shook dust from the ceiling. The beasts staggered, stunned. Before they could separate, Scarabs dropped resin charges that detonated in burst-nets, gluing their forelimbs together. Rodion severed both grapple lines in a flash of wrist blades and landed in a kneel as the creatures roared, helpless.

One remained.