The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 383 : When Strength Becomes a Gamble

He moved closer, quietly brushing a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. Even now, unconscious, her jaw was tense, stubbornly holding onto dignity and strength. "Sorry about this, Cerys," he murmured softly, his voice edged with genuine regret. "You deserved better than my reckless decisions."

His gaze shifted to Lira, whose elegant face, though lined with exhaustion, still held the quiet dignity he'd come to expect from her. Even unconscious, her presence seemed graceful, refined, a stark contrast to their rough, makeshift refuge. The superficial wounds across her slender arms and shoulders were already beginning to dry, though the faint tremors of pain in her breathing showed the deeper toll she'd endured. Mikhailis knelt briefly beside her, carefully brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. His fingertips lingered gently, feeling the delicate warmth of her skin—a reminder of the humanity he was fighting to protect.

"Sorry, Lira," he whispered, his tone softer, almost apologetic. "You followed me without question. I promise I'll fix this."

Vyrelda, at the far edge of the bedding, stirred slightly, her brow furrowing briefly in her sleep as if protesting even in dreams. Her fierce pride, normally so visible in every stubborn glance and sarcastic comment, was momentarily subdued by vulnerability. Mikhailis moved toward her carefully, kneeling close enough to gently check the injury near her temple. The small gash had already begun to close, yet her pale complexion worried him—her exhaustion had clearly reached its breaking point.

He sighed quietly, the weight of responsibility heavy upon his shoulders. "I owe you an apology, Vyrelda," he murmured softly, his voice gentle, touched by an uncommon tenderness. "I promised you adventure, not pain."

For a moment, silence filled the abandoned watchtower, broken only by the soft breaths of his companions and the distant crackle of fires consuming the city outside. The world seemed suspended, hanging by a fragile thread, the air thick with uncertainty and tension. For the first time since he'd arrived in this foreign land, he felt genuinely isolated, painfully aware of the consequences of his every choice.

<Mikhailis.> Rodion's voice broke into his thoughts, carefully modulated yet subtly empathetic, catching his attention. <Preparations are fully complete. Chimera Ant variants and soldiers stand ready.>

Mikhailis nodded slowly, turning his gaze downward, studying his trembling hands once more. "Alright, Rodion," he said quietly, resolve beginning to edge back into his voice. "Give me one final medical scan."

Rodion complied immediately, the glasses flickering as they displayed a detailed bio-scan. Visual readouts cascaded across the lenses, charting his heart rate, muscle tension, and neurological response. Mikhailis studied the readings quietly, eyes narrowing at the results. His physical stats were spiking far beyond what he'd thought humanly possible—strength, speed, and reflexes nearly quadrupled compared to his baseline. It was exhilarating, exhilarating even. Yet a glaring warning flashed insistently at the corner of his vision, marked red and pulsing ominously:

<Warning: Extended exposure to augmented physical condition significantly increases risk of neuromuscular degradation, irreversible neurological strain, and severe psychological side effects. Recommend immediate cessation or significant moderation.>

He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. His gaze fell again to his companions, sleeping deeply under the gentle hypnotic spell of the Hypnoveil. He clenched his fists tighter, grappling internally with the reality of his situation. The strength that filled him now was undeniably intoxicating—like an alluring whisper promising victory and dominance. Yet the warning Rodion provided was crystal clear: the longer he relied on this alien force, the higher the risk of permanently damaging his body and mind.

He paced restlessly, rubbing at his temples, tension radiating sharply from every muscle. The moment stretched painfully, silence amplifying his doubts. Was it worth it? Would the price he inevitably paid later overshadow the victory he sought now? He swallowed hard, eyes flickering closed briefly as he struggled with his conscience. He'd brought them all here, endangered lives he genuinely cared about—people who trusted him implicitly, who followed him without hesitation. The weight of their faith pressed on him relentlessly.

"Rodion," he murmured quietly, his tone carrying a rare note of vulnerability, "Am I really fit for this?"

Rodion hesitated briefly, an unusually human hesitation in the AI's normally confident response. <You are capable, Mikhailis. But even I must admit... the emotional variables are far more complicated than initially anticipated.>

Mikhailis smiled weakly, grateful for Rodion's rare honesty. "You're learning, Rodion."

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

<Indeed. Though I'd prefer simpler circumstances.>

Mikhailis chuckled softly, though it held little humor. "Me too."

He exhaled slowly, the brief levity fading quickly. The silence returned, heavier now, laden with unspoken tension. His gaze drifted back to the gentle, steady breathing of his companions. Each rise and fall of their chests was a silent accusation, a reminder of his failings—his arrogance, his miscalculations. For someone who prided himself on reading people, on predicting every move, he'd allowed himself to be outplayed by a force he hadn't fully understood. He could practically hear the whispers of doubt mocking him from the shadows, urging him to accept defeat, to surrender to his failures.

But he refused.

He drew a deep breath, feeling resolve begin to build once more, sharpening his focus. His mistakes were his own, but so were his successes. He wasn't defeated yet—not while he still drew breath, not while he still had strength left to fight.

"Your Highness?" Lira's quiet voice carried a delicate edge of concern.

Mikhailis hesitated, caught momentarily by her tone—calm, composed, yet with an unmistakable note of worry threading through it. He glanced at her, meeting her steady gaze, which shimmered softly in the dim light filtering through the cracked walls of the watchtower. Her eyes, usually calm and unwavering, were now clouded with exhaustion, but beneath it, there was genuine worry—concern directed solely at him, not herself.

A pang of guilt hit him hard. Lira had always been the epitome of elegance and quiet strength, someone who never doubted him, never questioned his choices. Now, as he stood on the precipice of another dangerous decision, it was clear she saw something different in his eyes, something he'd tried desperately to hide: hesitation, regret, the crushing weight of responsibility.

He knelt slowly beside her, gently brushing a stray strand of her long, black ponytail from her forehead. Her skin felt warm beneath his touch, warmer than usual, likely from the stress of the fight and her injuries. Yet even now, she didn't show fear or panic—only trust.

"I'm sorry," he murmured softly, regret thick in his voice as he looked into her eyes. "This wasn't supposed to happen. I never meant to drag you all into my own mistakes."

She gave a gentle shake of her head, the movement slight but resolute. Her fingers brushed his wrist softly, as though trying to reassure him despite her weakened state. "You didn't drag us anywhere, my lord. We chose this path willingly."

He managed a small, bittersweet smile. Lira always had a way of comforting him, even when he least deserved it.

But there was no other choice. He couldn't afford hesitation—not now. The burden of command pressed heavily against him, demanding difficult choices for the sake of their survival. With a heavy heart, he straightened and turned his attention toward the darkness lingering in the corners of the room.

"Hypnoveil," he said quietly, almost whispering the words, but the command was unmistakable. "Make them all sleep."

The air shimmered gently, a subtle shift in the shadows signaling the appearance of the Hypnoveil Chimera Ant. It stepped quietly forward, silent on its insectoid limbs, the flower atop its carapace pulsing softly with an eerie violet glow. The delicate petals unfurled gracefully, and from them drifted a gentle mist—a soothing lavender cloud that swirled through the air toward the injured women.

Rhea stirred slightly, murmuring indistinctly in discomfort, but as the mist caressed her pale face, her breathing slowed, easing into a restful rhythm. The tension gradually eased from her features, replaced by peaceful serenity.

"What... is this?" Rhea murmured faintly, eyes struggling to stay open as she fought the sudden wave of drowsiness. Her hand twitched weakly, trying to reach toward him, but soon fell limply to her side as sleep overtook her.

Beside her, Vyrelda's eyes snapped open, hazy but full of stubborn resistance. She glared weakly at Mikhailis, clearly sensing his intentions.

"What do you think you're..." she began sharply, voice thick with fatigue, but the mist gently curled around her, softening her expression immediately. Her eyelids fluttered heavily, her fierce defiance fading as quickly as it had appeared.

"I... won't forgive you... for this..." she muttered faintly, words trailing off into silence as her head slowly tilted to the side, succumbing at last to peaceful unconsciousness.

A small sigh escaped Mikhailis's lips. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Vyrelda," he whispered, a soft, rueful amusement in his voice, despite the gravity of the moment.

He turned to Cerys next, watching her face carefully. The Lone Wolf had already drifted halfway into sleep, exhaustion finally breaking through the wall of stubborn pride she'd carefully maintained. Her usually tense features softened slightly in sleep, the lines around her mouth and eyes relaxing. She looked strangely vulnerable now, stripped of the armor she always seemed to wear around others.

"Rest well, Lone Wolf," he murmured softly, a touch of fondness lingering in his voice. "You've earned it."

Rodion's voice suddenly cut in, quietly cautious, directly in his ears. <Are you absolutely certain about this decision?>

Mikhailis hesitated briefly, gaze fixed on the sleeping forms of his companions. He clenched his fists, nails biting sharply into his palms. "They'll be safer this way. We can't risk them getting hurt further."