CHAPTER 787: THE FOOL CONSORT’S PLAN (END)

"Relax," Mikhailis murmured. "We want it angry."

He took one more step forward.

He made sure the ring was clearly visible on his finger for any Technomancer scryers. He let his mana spike again, this time touching some of the sigils on the ground with his boots.

The reaction was immediate.

The dungeon roared.

He didn’t hear it with his ears, exactly. It was more like the air itself screamed. The walls flared with light as a dozen different runic lines ignited at once.

The golem moved.

It did not charge.

It raised one arm slowly, palm facing him, and then slammed its hand down into the floor.

The shockwave burst outward from that impact, a wall of pure force.

Mikhailis had enough time to think, Ah, and throw up a half-formed shield.

It wasn’t enough.

The wave hit him like a giant invisible hammer.

Air left his lungs in a single brutal rush. Pain detonated along his ribs and across his back. His shield shattered, the fragments ripping like glass through the edges of his mana channels.

He flew.

Literally.

The shockwave hurled him backward through the air, slamming him against the chamber wall, then through the arch he had entered by. The dungeon bent space around him in that moment, corridors folding and stretching so his fall became a series of violent impacts.

He hit one wall. Then another. Then the floor.

Stone scraped skin. His shoulder screamed. Something in his ribs popped with a stabbing pain that stole his breath.

For a moment, he didn’t know where up was.

He heard Rodion’s voice as if from far away.

You’ve achieved optimal catastrophic failure. Congratulations.

He coughed, tasted blood, and forced himself to roll as another delayed shock tremor passed under him.

"Thanks," he groaned. "I always wanted to become a pinball."

He wasn’t acting anymore.

The pain was very real.

He staggered, grabbed the nearest wall, then pushed himself forward. The dungeon was still shuddering; sigils on the walls flickered angrily, opening and closing like eyes.

He did not try to go deeper.

He did what a "failed" attempt would reasonably do.

He retreated.

Quickly.

Breathing hurt. Every step sent a stab through his side. His vision blurred at the edges, but he kept going, following the faint memory of the path he had taken.

Behind him, traps triggered with no one there.

Spikes shot out of walls a second too late. Illusion fields flared uselessly. A ceiling section collapsed in a controlled way, blocking further entry.

Anyone watching through scrying would see a dungeon in open rejection. A furious space closing itself off.

Outside, the light under the shattered arch seemed stronger, humming in warning as he stumbled through.

Cold air hit his face like a slap.

He staggered three more steps and then dropped to one knee, one hand braced in the dirt.

His lungs dragged in air like it was made of knives.

From a far ridge, Technomancer observers watched.

He could feel their gazes like thin, sharp pricks across his skin.

They did not approach.

They just stood there, constructs whirring softly, guiding their long-distance instruments, recording everything. His entry. The dungeon’s flare. His messy exit.

Then, one by one, their silhouettes began to move away, fading back over the ridge, taking their data with them.

His Silvarion escort rushed in the moment the pre-arranged signal flared—a small green flame Serelith had keyed to his exit.

Cerys was at the front.

Of course she was.

Her cloak snapped behind her as she ran, boots barely touching the ground. The other knights followed, but she was the first to drop to one knee in front of him.

"You’re bleeding," she said, voice flat but eyes wide.

"Good," he wheezed. "Means I’m still alive."

She glared at him so hard that, if looks could injure, he’d have needed more bandages.

"This is not the time to be clever," she snapped. "Can you walk?"

"Define ’walk,’" he said. "In a straight line? No. In a tragic zig-zag? Yes."

She made a noise that sounded halfway between a growl and a frustrated sigh.

Then, without ceremony, she pulled his arm over her shoulder and helped him stand, supporting more of his weight than she let him admit.

"Careful," he muttered. "If you hold me like this too long, rumors will start."

"Let them," she said. "If anyone complains, I’ll hit them."

"...Fair."

They moved away from the dungeon entrance, the rest of the escort forming a loose protective ring around them. No one spoke much; the mood was too tense, too thick.

Every few steps, pain flared in his side.

Every few steps, he checked the back of his mind.

The ants’ presence was still there.

Small, quiet pulses moving deeper into the dungeon’s bones.

Anchor units secured, a faint impression told him. Mapping. Tunneling. Waiting.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

Back in the command tent, Elowen didn’t wait in her formal seat.

She met him halfway.

The moment they brought him in, dusty and bruised, she stepped forward, the hem of her robe whispering across the carpets. Her hair was tied back now, hastily, some strands loose and framing her face.

Her eyes swept over him quickly—face, shoulders, chest, hands—as if checking for missing pieces.

Then she closed the distance and wrapped her arms around him.

It was not a careful hug.

It was a strong one.

Her arms went around his shoulders and back, pulling him in hard enough that his injured ribs protested sharply.

He did not complain.

His chin settled against her shoulder; he breathed in the smell of her hair, of herbs and faint smoke.

For a moment, he let himself sag against her.

"You... idiot," she whispered into his collar.

The words trembled just a little.

"Accurate," he murmured back.

She pulled away after a few heartbeats, hands sliding down his arms, fingers lingering for a second near his wrists before she let go completely.

Her expression had already shifted back to something more controlled. Queen again. But the redness at the corner of her eyes hadn’t faded.

Serelith circled him like a curious cat, eyes bright.

She crouched slightly to get a better look at his side where the coat had torn.

"Well," she said, sounding annoyingly pleased, "the dungeon absolutely hated you. Perfect."

"Good to know I made a strong first impression," he said weakly.

"Oh, it wasn’t just ’strong.’ It was violent." She tapped her chin. "The resonance patterns the Arcane Order scryers picked up were beautiful. Panic spike, mana rupture, sudden forced ejection. Very dramatic. Completely believable."

Vyrelda stood near the map table, arms folded, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth now. Not mocking. Satisfied.

"Not even Mikhailis can enter?" she said, voice carrying a hint of grim humor. "Good. Let the League waste time elsewhere. They’ll be too busy arguing about what went wrong."

Cerys hovered at his other side, close enough to intervene if he fell over, far enough to pretend she wasn’t hovering.

"You scared the hell out of everyone," she muttered.

He glanced sideways at her.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed, probably from running earlier, but her eyes betrayed more than anger.

"Good thing my specialty is emotional damage," he said.

She looked like she wanted to smack him and hug him at the same time.

She settled for a small shove to his shoulder.

"Sit down before I actually hit you," she said.

He sat.

Lira moved in quietly with a basin, bandages, and a small box of salves.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Her hands were steady now, but he could see the thin tremor in her fingers when she unbuttoned his torn coat, peeling it carefully away from the bruised skin beneath.

He winced when the fabric stuck to dried blood.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"It’s fine," he said. "Pain reminds me I’m still handsome."

She huffed very softly, almost a laugh, but her eyes were wet.

She cleaned the scrapes on his arm, the shallow cuts on his shoulder. Her touch was gentle, as if he might break even more if she pressed too hard.

Around them, the tent hummed with quiet conversation.

Serelith and Vyrelda were already discussing what the Technomancer reaction would be.

"They’ll see the golem activation," Serelith said. "They’ll see the shockwave and the forced rejection. With their own diagrams saying this area is high-risk, they’ll be cautious now. Especially with Ryline involved. She won’t want to waste lives."

"Good," Vyrelda answered. "Let their caution slow them down."

Cerys kept glancing back at the tent entrance, as if expecting Technomancer assassins to leap in at any moment, even though she knew that wasn’t how they worked.

Elowen stood near Mikhailis’s chair, one hand resting lightly on the back of it, grounding herself through the contact.

When Lira finished bandaging his arm, Mikhailis rolled his shoulders carefully.

Everything hurt.

But his mind felt strangely clear now.

He looked up at them.

"At least the obvious part worked," he said. "They’ve seen the dungeon slam its doors on me. They’ll hesitate."

Vyrelda nodded.

Serelith gave him a small approving tilt of the head.

But Elowen watched him a bit differently.

"You’re not finished," she said quietly. "Are you?"

He met her eyes.

Then he let the real victory out.

"The ants are inside," he said.

Silence.

The word inside seemed to linger in the air, heavy and unreal, like a stone dropped into a fog.

Serelith’s mouth actually fell open for a moment.

"You—" she started, then laughed once in disbelief. "You— you what?"

He leaned back, wincing slightly as the chair pressed against his bruised ribs.

"Deeper in the corridors," he said. "Blind spots in the scry lines. Hairline cracks. I released multiple scout units. Shadow-adapted. Necromantic-tuned. One anchored early. Others followed the current of the dungeon’s mana."

He tapped a finger lightly against his temple.

"They’re mapping already," he added. "Slowly. Quietly. The dungeon felt them, but it can’t separate them from its own corruption easily. Not yet."

Serelith nearly choked on her own breath.

"You infected an S-ranked dungeon," she said, half horrified, half delighted. "Mikhailis, you absolute menace."

Vyrelda’s eyes widened, then narrowed again in thought.

"Do you understand what that means?" she said, looking around. "While Technomancers and the rest of the continent treat this dungeon as off-limits, our little hive will be drawing its floor plans from the inside."

Her voice gained energy as she spoke.

"Decades of advantage," she said. "Maybe centuries. Exclusive access. Hidden paths. Artifact locations. Monster nests. All mapped underground where no one can see."

Cerys dragged a palm down her face.

"So your plan was ’let a death dungeon throw me around like laundry’ and ’secretly plant a living infection in it,’" she said. "And everyone agreed this was a reasonable idea?"

"Yes," Serelith said proudly. "We’re very supportive."

Lira’s hands, which had been resting in her lap now that the bandaging was done, curled into the fabric of her dress again.

She looked at Mikhailis with a mix of fear, relief, and something like awe.

"You really put them inside..." she murmured.

He nodded.

"They’ll move slowly," he said. "No rushing. No big structural changes yet. They’ll study. Learn the patterns. Find safe hollows. Later, when we decide it’s time, they’ll carve tunnels. Passages only we know. Escape routes. Ambush routes. Supply routes."

He exhaled.

"Right now, everyone above ground thinks the dungeon has slammed itself shut," he said. "But underneath, it’s already... being chewed through."

Elowen closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply.

When she opened them again, they shone with a strange mixture of emotions—fear, pride, unease, and something like gratitude.

"You look like a man who has lost a war," she murmured, "and won a different one."

He let his head fall back against the chair, staring up at the tent ceiling for a moment as his bruised ribs complained.

Then he smiled, slow and tired, but real.

"The plan was done perfectly."