The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 359 A Corridor of Twisted Fates

"Alright, so these mirrors are clearly enchanted to mess with our heads. No one look too hard at themselves, or you might get self-conscious."

Neither Lira nor Rhea responded immediately. The illusions lingered, their horrifying implications gnawing at the corners of their minds. But they all understood that standing here was dangerous, that time was slipping away while the catacombs threatened to bury them.

Another tremor, sharper this time, rattled the glass panels, creating a discordant chiming. Dust sifted from the ceiling, making it hard to see past the swirling haze in the corridor. Rhea exhaled, pulling her gaze from her reflection as if snapping out of a trance. "We keep moving," she said, stealing the words from Mikhailis's own thoughts.

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He nodded. "Whatever these visions are, they aren't real. Just the catacombs trying to screw with us." His voice was quieter now, the humor forced. Inside, he couldn't shake the images of a future warped by darkness, or Rhea's heartbreak, or Lira's silent grief. But he pushed that aside. They had more immediate concerns—like not getting flattened by the next collapse.

Rhea tore her gaze away from the panel with visible effort, anger and fear swirling in her eyes. She gave one curt nod, then moved on, blade held at the ready in case anything else jumped out at them. Lira lagged for half a heartbeat, still looking at the twisted reflection of Mikhailis. Her gloved hand hovered near her face, as if she'd been about to reach for the glass. Then she, too, turned away.

They advanced down the corridor, the reflective panels flickering with scattered images that gradually faded with each step. The next juncture came more quickly than any of them expected—a large, arched space where two tunnels branched. Faint inscriptions glittered on the floor, forming what might have been an ancient map, but the lines were too worn to decipher clearly.

And then, from the passage on the right, a familiar voice called out with relief and urgency. "Mikhailis!"

Cerys and Vyrelda strode into view, both covered in dust and grime. Cerys looked them over in a swift, appraising glance, her red hair messy and her face set with the stoic wariness of a seasoned knight. She seemed more relieved than she'd admit, though her eyes flicked to Rhea, then to Lira, verifying they were intact.

Vyrelda, by contrast, allowed herself the faintest smirk. "You look awful," she remarked, sounding almost amused. "Glad to see you're still breathing."

Mikhailis's tension eased at the sight of them. He put on a grin. "I'd say the same about you, but we both know you'd kill me first if I commented on your hair."

Cerys crossed her arms. "What happened?" she asked curtly, ignoring the banter.

He explained the events—how he'd tried to seal the warden, the chaos that followed, and their escape through the creepy mirror corridor. Cerys nodded, her expression growing stonier at the mention of the illusions. Then she told them about encountering the Technomancers, stumbling across a strange half-constructed device that seemed intended to manipulate the mist. Rhea listened with her arms folded, looking troubled by the idea that the enemy might harness these energies for themselves.

Lira's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "They're trying to suppress the mist's power."

"Or hijack it," Vyrelda cut in, her tone grim. "Maybe they think controlling the Mistborn Entity is their ticket to ruling Luthadel without challenge. Or worse."

Silence followed as they all weighed the implications. Mikhailis looked over the two diverging tunnels. One path led toward the rumored Deep Sanctum, a place where old wards guarded something unbelievably potent. The other path, bearing obvious signs of recent foot traffic, likely snaked toward the Technomancers' position. It was a fork in the road in every sense—choose to stop the enemy now, or delve deeper to uncover more secrets (and more power) that might give them an advantage later.

Cerys lifted her chin, her gaze steady as she regarded him. "So. What's the call?"

He ran a hand over his dusty hair, wincing at how grimy he felt. His heart still pounded with adrenaline, uncertain of what next danger lurked around the corner. Well, I can't just pass the responsibility to someone else now, he thought. I'm the one with the key, after all. He forced another little grin, though his stomach churned with worry.

Confront the Technomancers now and deal with their device, or push forward and uncover the catacombs' true power? Either choice could end in disaster. \\n\\nHis smirk returned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Decisions, decisions," he said softly. "And here I thought today was going to be boring."

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Rhea gave a weary sigh. "Mikhailis."

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as though preparing for a sparring match. "Alright, let's pick our poison." He glanced at the corridor they'd come from, half expecting another quake to rattle the walls. Yet, for the moment, things seemed stable—by catacomb standards, at least.

The look he gave them all—Cerys, Rhea, Lira, and Vyrelda—held a trace of earnestness beneath his usual playful surface. They were his allies, each driven by their own scars and motives, but they'd stood by him so far. He couldn't fail them.

Better do this right. He steeled himself. A faint, half-worn symbol near the floor caught his eye, some archaic script that whispered old promises of power and ruin. In a place like this, he mused, it was easy to lose yourself to the mysteries. But they had a mission: to prevent the Mistborn Entity from ravaging Luthadel and beyond.

A chunk of stone shifted overhead, sending a patter of dust across their shoulders. No time to dawdle, he told himself. He swallowed, squared his stance. "We—" he began, only to be cut off by another small tremor. The group instinctively tensed, glancing at the walls and ceiling.

He forced a crooked grin. "I call it an interactive learning experience," Mikhailis quipped, already turning toward the nearest corridor. "And the lesson is: Run."

They barely managed to sprint into the adjoining passage before the entire chamber behind them gave way, swallowed by a deafening collapse. Dust and debris billowed through the corridor, forcing them forward in a frantic rush. Stones crashed, and the roar of falling rock reverberated like thunder, pressing them onward until their lungs burned with every breath.

Eventually, the rumbling died down. The group slowed, stumbling to a stop as a fresh wave of powdered stone filled the air, making their eyes water. Mikhailis coughed and fanned a hand in front of his face. His throat felt raw, and his heart pounded so hard it almost drowned out the fading echoes of destruction. That was close… too close, he thought, a flicker of relief mixing with leftover panic.

Lira was the first to find her composure, brushing a layer of dust off her dark coat. Even in such chaos, she somehow managed to look almost refined—though the slight tightness at the corners of her mouth gave away her concern. "That was reckless," she said quietly, her voice carrying no accusation, only an understated firmness. She adjusted her gloves, as if routine gestures might help steady her nerves.

Mikhailis raised a dusty hand to wipe his brow, revealing a faint grin underneath it all. "Reckless? Maybe," he admitted, forcing a little shrug. "Effective? Absolutely." Despite the adrenaline still coursing through him, a tiny spark of mischief lit his eyes. He couldn't help it—cracking a joke felt more natural than confronting the knot of fear in his chest.

Rhea sighed heavily, though she didn't snap back at him this time. Her short hair clung to her face, damp with sweat, and she pressed her lips together, focusing on the corridor ahead rather than scolding him. "Where are we now?" she asked, her tone edging toward impatience. The tension in her posture made it clear that she was still on high alert, muscles coiled tight as if she expected another collapse any second.

They turned to study their new surroundings. The corridor they'd stumbled into stretched out, long and narrow, its walls lined with an odd material—reflective, rune-covered glass that glinted in the gloom. The glow of runes pulsed, sending faint ripples of light dancing across the floor. When Mikhailis stepped closer, he caught his reflection in the panels. It was a distorted image, shaped by the uneven glass, making him look taller and narrower than he really was. The effect was unsettling, as if the catacombs themselves were mocking him.

He laughed under his breath, half-amused, half-uneasy. "This place has a sense of style, I'll give it that," he murmured, running a hand through his dust-caked hair. At least it's not caving in… yet, he added in silent relief.

But then, without warning, the reflections shifted.

Mikhailis blinked. "What…?" he muttered, stepping closer to one of the panels. His heart gave a strange jolt. He saw himself—not in the present, but changed. Gone was his usual smirk, replaced by a grim, hollow stare. Dark tendrils of mist coiled around his limbs like living chains, pulsing with a sinister energy. The Mikhailis in the reflection looked isolated, shadows curling at his feet. Is that me if I lose control…? The idea made his throat tighten.