The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 598: Wake Up in The Lab (End)

"Run that simulation, two-hundred-year window. Compare dungeon birthrates to ley pulse amplitude."

The screen flashed graphs—curves climbing in alarming red. Dungeon births once per decade now nearing every three years. He whistled low. "Triple frequency... someone’s yanking the roots out from under us."

<External manipulation probability high. Technomancer League fingerprints consistent with sector disruptions—energy spikes coincide with unauthorized test detonations. Unknown actors also noted. Confidence ratio: 57 percent versus 43 percent.>

He frowned, tapping a new cluster in the mountains. "Forty-three percent is too big to ignore. We need eyes there."

<Agreed. Proposing resonator deployment by stealth units. Expected delay to detection: indefinite, given ant size.>

Mikhailis gave a slow nod. "Let’s start with Beta-Nine. If we can damp that node before it blossoms, maybe we prevent a century’s worth of headaches."

He added the order in careful script, then paused when the quill hovered over the next line—personnel disclosure. His gaze slid to the quiet forms on the benches. They deserve the truth. But the more people know, the bigger the target. He chewed the end of the quill. Later. One step at a time.

Rodion interrupted his rumination with trademark dryness.

<Reminder: containment depends on trust. Elowen already knows. The ladies have sufficient knowledge to unravel your omissions. Risk of clandestine pillow assault currently projected at 82 percent.>

He blinked, picturing three different styles of retaliation—Lira’s disappointed sighs, Cerys’s curt training-yard smack, Serelith’s devious grin paired with mana ropes. He shuddered playfully. "Noted. Full disclosure after breakfast. Maybe after coffee."

He returned to the map, entering a new command. "Model resonator effect—eight-point array around node cluster gamma-three."

Red pulses blinked, then dulled into yellow as virtual resonators sapped turbulence. A percentage counter ticked down, stabilizing at minus thirty-five. He grinned. "That’s the ticket. Reroute the storm before it hits the town."

<Additional perk: redirected flow may encourage minor resource blooms in low-mana farmlands. Mitigates famine probability by fourteen percent.>

"See? Science and supper." He rolled his shoulders, the tension seeping out. For a moment wonder eclipsed fear—each glowing line a system he could mend, each ant a tiny engineer in his grand design.

But shadows always lurked at edges of maps. If Technomancers learned what the resonators could do, they’d replicate, distort, weaponize. Mikhailis pictured burning crops, villages swallowed in beast-riddled labyrinths... His jaw tightened.

"This stays between us," he whispered.

Rodion answered in dimmer text, almost gentle.

<Understood. Data vault already tri-encrypted. Only your quanta-signature or Elowen’s override can extract raw files.>

He exhaled. "Good." He traced one last path across the projection—a silent vow connecting castle to grove to mountain. The stylus point lingered over the capital. "We’ll keep everyone safe. Quietly."

<Correction: Elowen already knows. And the girls have witnessed enough to warrant inclusion. Failure to do so may result in emotional damage and potential pillow-based retaliation.>

Mikhailis huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes at Rodion’s floating text. "Yeah, yeah. Can’t have them throwing cushions at my head mid-meeting." His voice was barely more than a breeze, yet in the hush of the lab even a whisper felt loud.

Behind him came the soft rustle of blankets. He pivoted just in time to see Lira’s lashes unfurl like dark fans. She blinked twice, adjusting to the amber light, then offered a slow, feline stretch that made her ponytail slip over her shoulder. When her gaze landed on him hunched at the console, a sleepy sparkle kindled in her eyes.

"Well, well... working already?" she murmured, voice thick with drowsy warmth. "And here I thought you’d still be recovering, Master Genius."

He angled a grin over his shoulder. "Genius runs on caffeine and fear of unfinished spreadsheets. Recovery’s for normal people."

Lira’s lips curved. She pushed upright, blanket sliding down to reveal her simple linen shift. One hand stayed on the bench, balancing her sleepy body; the other found her hair tie, tugging it tighter. "Mm-hm. When you keel over, remember I offered you a longer nap."

A gruff sound answered—half yawn, half complaint. Cerys cracked open one green eye, red hair a wild halo. "Too bright..." she groused, forearm thrown across her face. Even bleary, she reached for discipline—knees drawing up, spine straightening—yet the blankets swallowed her movements, turning the feared Lone Wolf into a grumbling burrito.

"Morning to you too," Mikhailis called softly, saluting with two fingers just to annoy her. "Lab sunrise waits for no knight."

Cerys responded with an eloquent grunt, but the corner of her mouth twitched—an almost-smile he pretended not to notice.

On the far cushion pile, pink curls sprouted like dawn clouds. Serelith rose with languid grace, arms above her head, the blanket sliding down to her waist. "Mmm... you should have let me sleep on your chest," she sighed, voice syrupy with recent dreams. "Softest pillow in the lab, and it smells like cedar and trouble."

"Limited seating," he replied, waggling his brows. "Reservations recommended, deposits non-refundable."

She giggled, scooping the blanket around her shoulders like a royal train and padding toward him. Bare toes met cold stone; she hissed, then nudged a glowstone with her heel. The crystal responded by spilling a warmer ray across the floor, heating her path.

Soon all three women hovered near the main projection, blankets draping them like differing capes—navy over Lira’s sleek black shift, army green around Cerys’s sturdy frame, silver threading over Serelith’s satin chemise. They looked like an odd council of dawn spirits called to inspect the earth.

Mikhailis cleared his throat, tapping a control rune. "Rodion’s been busy," he began, the map blossoming wider so they could see. Animated ley veins pulsed beneath township icons, each beat a heartbeat of the land. "Mapping’s almost done. Dungeon activity’s trending north—faster than we projected."

Serelith inched closer, her breath fogging the lower edge of the display. "Show me the new glyph layers. I want to confirm if that leaf’s lattice is knitting itself or if it’s just copying code."

He toggled a filter; shimmering runic spirals appeared along certain leylines, each tagged with a leaf-shaped icon. Serelith’s eyes gleamed. "It is self-repairing! Look—see how the ruptured sequence from yesterday filled its gaps? That shouldn’t be possible without an external compiler."

Lira rested her chin on her knuckles, smirking. "Translation: the plant is smarter than half the academy."

Serelith sniffed playfully. "Of course it is. It chose to talk to us, not them."

Across the console, a silent text appeared.

<Accuracy of that claim: debatable. Probability leaf simply trapped here with no better options: 47 percent.>

Cerys squinted at the glowing words, then at Mikhailis. "Your... plush friend is mouthy today."

"He’s feeling sassy," Mikhailis said, shrugging. "I haven’t rebooted his etiquette subroutine." He flicked another tab. Dungeon markers glowered red—forty-seven bold dots, fourteen outlined in orange. Three blinked ominously, ringed by violet static. "These babies are still shallow. Rodion thinks someone’s boosting the mana churn."

"Technomancers?" Cerys asked, arms folding under her blanket. "Or the Cult of Glass? They’ve been too quiet."

"Rodion’s odds favor the gear-heads," he said, zooming to a mountain pass where spikes of energy shimmered. "But there’s a slice left for unknown meddlers. Either way, we’ll prep resonators."

Lira traced a looping trade route with her fingertip, soft light dancing over her skin. "Forty-seven active dungeons," she recapped, voice low. "Fourteen fresh headaches. And three eggs about to hatch. How considerate of the world to keep you busy."

"It’s trying desperately to impress me," Mikhailis agreed. "Flattery noted."

Serelith nudged his side with her elbow. "If we anchor resonators here and here"—she tapped two ley crossroads—"we’ll reduce pressure on the southern farmland. Fewer goblin outbreaks during harvest."

Cerys’s brow knit. "We’ll need covert teams. If guild scouts see your ants planting devices, questions follow."

"I’ll send night crews." He gestured to a tiny beetle icon skittering across the map. "Our six-legged friends don’t complain about overtime."

Lira’s smile softened. "You sound like a real prince when you talk about protecting grain instead of blowing something up."

"Don’t worry," he teased. "I’ll sabotage something explosive tomorrow to balance the scales."

Cerys snorted—startled laughter escaping before she could mask it. She cleared her throat, tugging the blanket higher. "Just warn me so I can bring a bigger shield."

A lull settled, filled only by the gentle ticking of mana engines. The glowstones warmed the circle, gilding hair and blanket hems. Mikhailis leaned back on his stool, watching them bicker—Lira poking holes in Serelith’s grammar, Serelith doodling mustaches on the map’s guild emblems, Cerys muttering about logistics but secretly enjoying the banter. Something in his chest loosened.

Serelith flicked his ear, light as a moth’s wing. "You’d be lost without us, you know."

He caught her wrist before she could retreat, thumb brushing over her pulse. "True," he said, voice dropping sincere for a beat. "But I’m very good at pretending I wouldn’t be."

They shared a look—teasing yet earnest—before he released her. She chuckled, cheeks pinker than the glowstone hue could explain.

Lira rolled her eyes fondly. "Enough flirting—show me the glyph cross-references. If that leaf is building a syntax tree, we’ll need to rewrite half our translation matrix."

Cerys lifted her hand like a student. "And somebody explain why the west-ridge node pulses every third cycle. That’s a pattern, not random flux."

Mikhailis pivoted, fingers dancing across runes as new data columns slid into view. The three women leaned close, blankets brushing, their hair mingling in a tapestry of black, pink, and crimson under the soft light. They fired questions; he answered, sometimes with quick logic, sometimes with a joke that earned an eye roll and a smile. The lab, once sterile, now felt like a bustling hearth—ideas snapping like sparks, warmth radiating in every shared glance.

Rodion’s text scrolled at a respectful pace, the AI skipping sarcasm in favor of concise graphs. Chimera ants marched past with fresh quills, one pausing to pat Mikhailis’s boot in earnest solidarity. He saluted it with a grin.

In that moment—even surrounded by swirling crises, ancient artifacts, and political landmines—Mikhailis felt a rare steadiness. A belief that intellect, humor, and hearts could weave together into something stronger than the threats outside.

And as Serelith hummed a tune while recalculating rune arcs, as Lira penciled neat columns of figures, as Cerys plotted guard rotations in the margin of a map, he allowed himself one honest, silent thought:

Maybe I should have told them from the very first place...

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