The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 453: Monitor Like a Game (2)

"Excellent. Your formation gets bonus style points," he murmured, sprinkling crumbs into his mouth. The biscuit was dry but dependable—like Earl Vaelis's speeches, but far more palatable.

Rodion's private comm‑channel popped.

<Noted. I will update after‑action metrics to include 'aesthetic efficiency.'>

There was the tiniest micro‑pause, then: <Sarcasm: 0 %. Sincerity: 12 %.>

Mikhailis nearly choked laughing. "See, you do appreciate art."

While he dabbed tea off his chin, the frost pool loomed larger in Rodion's view. Its surface cracked like a mirror as new ice formed second by second. Long spears of rime spidered up surrounding vines, encasing them in crystalline tubes. Some tubes split lengthwise with gunshot pops, releasing bursts of glittery air that instantly froze again—a surreal forest of shivering glass.

Rodion crouched. Micro‑lenses unfurled across his ocular array, each one capturing different wavelengths. On tactical, Mikhailis saw data pour in: thermal dip of thirty‑one degrees within three body‑lengths of the pool; mana signature trending toward Negative‑Cryo class; latent entropy building in fractal spirals. Deliciously dangerous.

A tiny silhouette—one of the Worker Ants—scrambled ahead, antennae flicking. It tapped the ice with a twig‑thin leg, then retreated so quickly Rodion barely had to alter stride to shield it from a sudden frost burst. A moment later, that burst sculpted the twig into a snow‑white harp shape. The Worker reached back, touched the frozen twig‑harp once, and a single crystalline ping rang out across the clearing, delicate and mournful.

Mikhailis's heart did a funny flip. That's going in the travel brochure, he thought, queuing an audio snippet for later sampling.

"Alright, my knight of silky circuits," he chirped, reclaiming his role as game‑master. "I grant thee a new feature!"

His thumb spun the dial. Indigo sparks shot out, weaving into a floating hexagon. Within it, icons popped up like runes on a slot machine: a strand of iron‑veined vine, the iridescent husk of a Fire Scarab, and a severed ring of cracked, amber‑streaked steel scavenged from some Technomancer ruin weeks earlier.

Floating text materialized: [FIELD CRAFTING MODULE UNLOCKED!]

The sound effect he'd assigned—a triumphant lute riff—filled the Chamber, startling a slumbering dove in the rafters and making Lira, halfway to the doorway, glance back with tolerant exasperation.

Rodion acknowledged the update with a curt nod, but Mikhailis could practically feel the robot's curiosity spike through their encrypted link. On the AR overlay, Rodion's gauntlet pivoted, each finger segment whirring open like petals. The Ironvine strand slid into his palm: a living cable mottled with faint ferrous streaks. Its ends writhed lazily, tasting the metal in his plating, then stilled as he pulse‑calmed it with a measured mana trickle. Next, the Scarab shell—opalescent, about the size of Mikhailis's thumbnail—clicked neatly into a recess at the base of Rodion's thumb, its internal resin ducts ready to channel.

Finally, the fractured mana ring. A relic from a battle long past, once used to stabilize miniature portals. Rodion gingerly pressed its jagged edges against the pliant vine; they knitted together with hairline sparks, accepting the vine as a new circuit path. The result resembled a three‑pronged claw capped by a crystal throat.

From the sofa, Mikhailis adjusted brightness on the cinematic view, unwilling to miss any detail. Beneath the new filter, each spark glittered like fireworks trapped in molasses.

Rodion thrust the improvised siphon into the ground a handspan from the frost‑pool's edge. At first, nothing happened. Then the ice nearest the siphon shivered. Cracks radiated in symmetrical fractals toward the device, stopping just shy of contact—like wary serpents sniffing a trap. Frost vapor curled inward, sucked into the claw. The Scarab shell pulsed teal, converting volatile cryo‑mana into harmless lumens that vented as soft light from slits along Rodion's wrist. He turned those vents toward nearby shrubs; the faint glow thawed them, water droplets steaming. Controlled, elegant range‑healing—field alchemy at its finest.

Data streamed across the tactical half: SIGIL VALE POOL #1—STATUS: PARTIAL NEUTRALIZE; CORE SIGNATURE CAPTURED. A progress ring clicked to 33 %.

Mikhailis gave a pleased hum, reaching for another biscuit. This one he dipped into honeyroot tea until it nearly collapsed, then devoured it in a single bite. "One down, cold as ice. Move to pool two, static central. And remember—don't toast the insects; they're electrified enough."

Rodion pivoted, cloak sweeping a crescent that scattered frost shards like crushed diamonds. The Worker Ants mobilized in fluid silence, Fire Scarabs skittering between them, heat sacs dimmed to avoid melting their own footprints. Antenna clicks formed a soft staccato, eerily musical under the valley's unnatural hush.

Halfway to the second pool, Rodion passed a cluster of fungi glowing aquamarine, shaped like miniature starbursts. Each time the bots' footfalls vibrated the earth, the fungi expelled tiny rings of bioluminescent spores that floated, popped, and dimmed—like hovering soap bubbles made of moonlight. In the cinematic pane, Mikhailis slowed playback, letting the spores drift in graceful ballet. He caught himself grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

His delight almost masked the beep warning: AURA FRACTURE 6 M AHEAD. He zoomed the tactical feed: a thin crack rippled through the ground, where electric blue grass tussocks sparked rhythmically. That was the edge of the static pool's influence.

"Spot the crack, Roddy. Step light," Mikhailis whispered, commandeering a stylus to draw a neon arrow directly on Rodion's HUD.

The robot complied, toes placing with surgeon precision. The Worker Ants hedged wider, using fallen bark slabs as stepping‑stones to avoid direct soil contact. One Scarab, bravest of the lot, hopped across, its shell briefly arcing with visible electricity. It landed smoking but otherwise unscathed; internal gel sacs must have dispersed the charge. Clever little incendiary.

At the pool's rim, the air thrummed like a hundred harp strings plucked all at once. Insects—a chaotic stew of gnats, beetles, and shimmering-maned dragonflies—swarmed above, occasionally zapped midair into puffs of lightning. The smell was bizarrely sweet, like burnt sugar laced with ozone.

Read 𝓁at𝙚st chapters at ƒrēenovelkiss.com Only.

Rodion's ocular slit narrowed. He extended two fingers; arc micro‑spikes popped from the tips, each a grounding rod. With a twirl reminiscent of a street performer's baton, he planted both rods into the soil, triangulating his position. Then he unlatched the crafting UI again.

Mikhailis leaned so far off the sofa that the robe finally slipped fully from one shoulder. He ignored the chill. On his end, he dragged an "ADVANCED CRAFT" banner into Rodion's feed, bouncing it like a carnival sign. If Rodion noticed, he pretended not to. Methodical as ever, he unsealed a vial of null‑gel, let two drops hiss onto the ground; they spread, forming a glossy membrane that swallowed loose sparks before they could jump. Next, he slotted a translucent quartz lens—salvaged from an old mage‑scope—into a circular frame fashioned from yet another Scarab husk. A mini Faraday cage, improvised insect‑style.

Lira re‑entered right then with a cloth, ready to scold. She stopped, seeing her liege balanced on the sofa's edge like a bird on a twig, half‑clothed, muttering "Yes, yes, ground that current, baby," to a floating hologram. She decided silently that cleaning the already spotless tea‑table could wait and retreated without a word.

Rodion's device finished assembly. He tossed it—not at the pool but above it. Mid‑arc, tiny hind‑legs unfolded: the lens‑cage sprouted wings of polished ironvine, catching an updraft and hanging almost stationary ten paces over the crackling water. Threads descended from its belly, silver and hair‑fine. They dipped into the kinetic soup, lit like neon licorice, and began funneling charge skyward into the cage.

Mikhailis watched, awed. The insects below calmed, drawn to the glowing lure; their own charges bled harmlessly up the filaments. Static levels fell by measurable notches.

"Gorgeous,"