The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 394: The Battle of Princes (End)

He forced himself to take a calming breath, reminding himself to focus on the immediate danger rather than drowning in anger. But beneath the surface, he could feel jealousy simmering, pushed aside yet never truly silenced. He resented the way Auron spoke so confidently about Elowen, as if she were merely an object to be owned rather than a woman with her own heart and choices.

"Admiring my handiwork?" Auron asked suddenly, breaking the tense silence with that arrogant smirk still plastered across his lips. Even bound as he was, his voice dripped confidence, each syllable carefully chosen to irritate Mikhailis further. "You seem rather fascinated. Perhaps envy suits you."

Mikhailis tilted his head, feigning mild amusement, though his muscles tensed slightly at the provocation. "Envy? Nah, I just like appreciating how desperate some people can be. It's fascinating how far you've fallen, relying on tricks to keep up. Tell me, is there anything genuinely impressive about you, or are you completely artificial?"

Auron chuckled softly, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "It's funny you should talk about things that don't belong here," he remarked casually, tilting his head as though studying a curious insect pinned under glass. "Your presence itself is a mistake—an anomaly. A nobody who came from nowhere. How did you end up like this?" His eyes scanned Mikhailis slowly, almost mockingly. "How exactly did a useless stranger, a mere accessory of a queen, suddenly gain such prowess?"

Mikhailis grinned slightly, hiding the sharpness behind a lazy expression. He was used to this kind of probing, attempts to dig beneath his surface and find weaknesses. "Oh, you know, good genetics, a healthy diet, and lots of squats," he said airily, deliberately dismissing the underlying seriousness of Auron's question.

Auron's eyes narrowed slightly, clearly displeased by the flippancy. "Laugh all you want, but you've meddled in things far beyond your comprehension," he replied coldly, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper. "Tell me—does Elowen know what you truly are capable of?"

Mikhailis gave a light chuckle, ignoring the faint unease prickling at the base of his neck. "Does she know about what? My devastating charm or my impeccable fashion sense? Honestly, you'll have to specify—there's a lot to choose from."

Auron's lips tightened into a thin line, irritation flickering beneath his mask of composure. "Play dumb all you want. Your strength isn't normal. According to my intel, you're supposed to be a harmless fool, a decorative figurehead at best—someone barely able to wield a sword without cutting himself."

"Well," Mikhailis quipped, shrugging slightly with mock humility, "I guess I'm just exceptional at defying expectations. Or maybe your intel is just trash. You really should demand a refund."

He carefully maintained his easygoing facade, refusing to give Auron even a hint of real information. Let him question, let him wonder—Mikhailis knew well the power of uncertainty. If Auron underestimated him, so much the better. It was a tactic he'd learned early on: never show all your cards, especially to someone as cunning and ruthless as this prince.

But his refusal to engage seriously seemed to push Auron further towards the edge. Anger began to replace the amused arrogance in Auron's expression. His body tensed beneath the webbing, veins straining visibly at his temples. And suddenly—with a surge of unnatural strength—he wrenched one arm free, tearing through a portion of the necrotic strands binding him.

Mikhailis felt his pulse quicken slightly. He's stronger than I thought—those damned enhancements are no joke. Instantly, he fell into a defensive stance, body shifting subtly, muscles coiled and ready. Yet, despite the burst of danger, he resisted the urge to unleash his full strength just yet. He needed to learn more about Auron's fighting style first, to understand exactly how far his enhancements could push him.

Auron didn't hesitate. His blade flashed forward in a silver blur, the swirling grey mist around him whipping into a frenzy, echoing his frustration. "You should be weak!" he snarled, swinging again, his voice raw with disbelief and fury. "The information I received said you were worthless in battle—completely useless!"

Mikhailis dodged smoothly, moving with calculated precision, the blade passing close enough to feel the air split sharply against his skin. "Guess that just means I'm doing my job right," he remarked dryly, forcing his voice into a casual calm even as his heart pounded fiercely within his chest.

Auron growled in annoyance, swinging more aggressively now, desperation fueling his movements. His strikes were quick and vicious, but they lacked precision. Anger made him predictable, easy to evade if Mikhailis kept his cool. Yet Mikhailis could sense something shifting, a dangerous tension growing within Auron.

He saw it a second too late: Auron's hand flashed toward his belt, fingers closing swiftly around a small vial glowing faintly with an unnatural luminescence. Another doping agent, another boost to his already augmented strength. Mikhailis moved forward instinctively, ready to intercept, to stop the vial from reaching Auron's lips—

But a large, gloved hand reached out first, seizing Auron's wrist with crushing force. The unexpected move froze everyone, tension exploding through the room like a shockwave.

Mikhailis felt the air around him thicken, his instincts screaming sharply. A sudden sense of dread gripped him, and he knew instantly something had changed dramatically.

Rodion's voice sliced urgently through the tense silence, sharper and more commanding than before.

<Mikhailis. That man is the famous "Enforcer" of the Technomancers.>

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It is kind of annoying and confusing for Mikhailis at first as there are other enforcers as well within the technomancers that he just faced, but at the same time, a bell rings within him when Rodion warned him.

At those words, Mikhailis's heart lurched sharply in his chest. The Enforcer—the infamous, terrifying assassin and warrior whose mere name carried death. The realization of who stood before him made his stomach twist with anxiety. He had heard the whispers, knew exactly how dangerous this enemy was supposed to be. This was no mere adversary—this was a true monster.

Rodion continued, tone darker, colder than ever.

<He is the one that killed the planted people we hypnotized using the Hypnoveil. He is also responsible for the massacre. Be careful.>

Mikhailis stood perfectly still, every nerve in his body screaming in alarm, adrenaline roaring through his bloodstream. His eyes met the Enforcer's, a shiver crawling down his spine at the absolute emptiness he saw reflected there—cold, ruthless, utterly devoid of mercy.

He barely whispered the words, throat dry with sudden fear. "Rodion… give me an estimate."

Rodion was silent for a split second, calculating, analyzing rapidly before delivering his chilling assessment.

<Power signature analysis complete. This individual's combat capability ranks on par with Elowen and Vyrelda.>

Mikhailis's breath caught painfully in his throat. He swallowed hard, voice tight with tension. "Then he's…a [King]-ranked fighter?"

<Affirmative.>

The room seemed colder now, as though a silent winter had suddenly crept into every corner, chilling the very marrow of Mikhailis's bones. He could almost taste the heaviness in the air, a stifling presence pressing down on his chest like a physical weight. His muscles tensed, coiling like a predator sensing imminent danger, every fiber of his being screaming at him to prepare, to brace himself for something terrifying.

Mikhailis narrowed his eyes, focusing sharply on the towering figure now gripping Auron's wrist. Despite the prince's desperate thrashing, the Enforcer's hand remained steady, unyielding, fingers like iron clamps around Auron's flesh. He watched the sinewy muscles of the assassin flex slightly beneath his dark armor, noting with reluctant admiration the effortless control the Enforcer exerted over his captive.

Auron's expression twisted into something raw and panicked, a stark contrast to the arrogant smirk he'd worn mere moments before. His eyes widened in shock, disbelief flickering across his face as he attempted in vain to break free, his mouth opening in a silent gasp as the reality of his situation finally struck home. The confident prince who once believed himself invincible was now reduced to a frightened man, caught helplessly in the grip of someone infinitely more dangerous.

Mikhailis's heart hammered frantically in his chest, each beat echoing painfully loud in his ears. His instincts were screaming, a shrill internal warning that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He knew better than anyone to trust his gut when faced with imminent peril, and right now, every nerve in his body buzzed urgently, telling him to run, to fight, to do anything except stand frozen in place.

But before he could even fully form a coherent plan, the Enforcer vanished.

No warning. No flicker of movement or subtle shifting stance. One moment, he stood holding Auron's wrist in an unbreakable grip, and in the blink of an eye, the space in front of Mikhailis warped, twisted, and suddenly filled with a presence so violently powerful that it was all he could do to draw in a startled breath.

He barely glimpsed the lethal flash of steel—a blur of reflected torchlight off a razor-sharp saber slicing toward his exposed throat.

Mikhailis acted purely on instinct, his body responding without conscious thought. He activated the Riftborne Necrolord's teleportation power, his form dissolving instantly into shadows just as the lethal blade passed through the space where his neck had been a mere heartbeat earlier. The air hissed sharply from the speed of the strike, a clear reminder of just how close he had come to death.

When he reappeared, now behind the Enforcer, adrenaline surged wildly in his veins. He had a brief, critical moment—a precious split second in which to strike. He pivoted swiftly, cloak billowing as he prepared his counterattack, hands crackling faintly with energy from the necrotic threads at his fingertips. His eyes sharpened, locking onto the Enforcer's exposed flank, calculating precisely how he'd deliver the blow.

But the assassin was already reacting, almost as if he had anticipated Mikhailis's teleportation from the beginning.

The Enforcer spun effortlessly, his movements fluid like liquid steel, each step precise and calculated. His blade arced through the air, another vicious strike aimed at Mikhailis's ribs with devastating accuracy. It was as though he anticipated every maneuver, every subtle shift of stance. Mikhailis's pulse spiked again, panic flaring in his chest at the cold realization that this man wasn't just strong—he was impossibly skilled.

Damn it! Mikhailis cursed inwardly, knowing he couldn't afford another mistake. With desperate agility, he twisted his body backward, leaning far enough away to narrowly evade the blade. But even this avoidance was incomplete—the sheer force behind the attack sent a wave of pressured air slicing across his cloak, shredding it as if the fabric were mere paper.

The force nearly knocked him off balance, his footing skidding unsteadily across the debris-strewn floor. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as he steadied himself, his heart pounding so violently he feared it might burst. A trickle of sweat slid coldly down his spine, a reminder of the terrifying closeness of the encounter.

For a heartbeat, he locked eyes with the Enforcer, trying desperately to glean something—anything—about the man behind those cold, expressionless eyes. But all he found was emptiness, a complete absence of humanity that sent a shiver down his spine. It was like staring into the abyss, a void so profound it swallowed everything around it.

He's different, Mikhailis realized grimly, the stark reality hitting him with crushing force. This man isn't just strong or skilled. He's something else entirely. Something monstrous

The Enforcer said nothing. He didn't gloat, didn't mock or taunt—he simply stared, quiet and calculating, sword still poised perfectly in one hand, his posture unnaturally calm. His silence was somehow louder, more terrifying than any threat he could have spoken. It conveyed absolute certainty, an implicit promise of inevitable victory that chilled Mikhailis to his bones.

This wasn't an opponent he could outwit easily. This was someone who could read his movements as though they were painted clearly on canvas. Mikhailis shifted slightly, weighing his options, conscious that each passing second diminished his chances. He quickly reassessed his situation, calculating strengths, weaknesses, and escape routes with frantic urgency.

He could see Laethor from the corner of his eye, watching him with a blend of awe and fear. The captured prince's expression had shifted from rage-filled defiance to a stark realization of just how dangerous the situation had become. Mikhailis could almost feel the weight of Laethor's unspoken plea: Don't die. Not now, not here.

Mikhailis's fingers twitched reflexively, feeling the pulse of energy from the Chimera Ant variants woven seamlessly into his armor, a comforting reminder that he still held some hidden advantages. The Crymber Ant's fiery ice gauntlet tingled on his arm, humming with restrained potential. The Riftborne Necrolord's shadows danced restlessly along his torn cloak, eager to be unleashed. Yet he hesitated, unwilling to show more than necessary. The risk of revealing his true capabilities was too high.

Auron, meanwhile, had stumbled back, breathing raggedly as he clutched his wrist, glaring venomously at both Mikhailis and the Enforcer. Despite his arrogant bravado earlier, there was now clear, genuine fear etched into his features. He seemed smaller, diminished somehow in the presence of this new figure—a bitter irony considering his earlier posturing. It was evident even Auron hadn't anticipated this level of threat.

Mikhailis exhaled slowly, forcing himself to regain control. Panic was his greatest enemy right now, and fear would only lead to mistakes. He assessed the battlefield again, eyes flicking swiftly from Auron's trembling form to Laethor's chains and finally back to the silent, imposing presence of the Enforcer.

This assassin moved with terrifying efficiency, his stance balanced perfectly, his body radiating restrained violence. His blade rested casually in his hand, as though daring Mikhailis to make the first move, challenging him to test his luck again.

Every instinct within Mikhailis screamed warnings, urging him to retreat, to reassess. But beneath the fear was a stubborn spark—a fierce determination that refused to be extinguished. He had faced danger before, had fought battles that had pushed him to his absolute limits. And he had survived each time, clawing his way back from the edge through sheer cunning, luck, and stubbornness.

Yet, even knowing his own strength and capabilities, the dread wouldn't subside. It coiled in his gut, tightening painfully, whispering warnings into his mind.

Because for the first time, facing this assassin, this relentless Enforcer who watched him with calm indifference, Mikhailis felt genuinely unsure if cunning or cleverness would be enough to save him this time.

For the first time, true fear whispered along Mikhailis's spine.