The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 458: The Return and Repair (2)
Nine minutes. Mikhailis's pulse stuttered. He reached for the spectral silk the chubby Worker still held in tiny mandibles. "Fine thread," he murmured, letting the Worker drape it over his palm. Up close, the fiber glimmered translucent pink, edges shimmering like oil on water. A thousand gold pieces for a spool of this in the capital, he thought. And these little geniuses spin it over lunch.
He threaded the silk through the eye of a needle only seen properly in peripheral vision, then dipped its tip into a vial of quicksilver composite. The droplet clung like mercury dew. He plunged the needle into the capacitor's cracked crown, guiding the filament along the fracture.
The silk unfurled trailing sparks, each spark clinging to the crystal lattice and sealing it like frost closing over cracked ice. The red pulse cooled toward lavender. Rodion's chassis vented a long, relieved hiss.
Mikhailis allowed himself two heartbeats of celebration—then the HUD over Rodion's left optic jittered from blue back to static. "Hold, hold," he muttered, tapping the optic ring lightly. The display settled. He exhaled.
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"I survived," he half-laughed, half-groaned, "a master alchemic verbal thrashing from Professor Halstein for moments like this. Patch-rite incantations. Never believed I'd use them on my own AI."
He glanced at Rodion. "That pompous goat told me I was wasting talent on toys."
Rodion's reply carried a hint of mild offense. <Correction: Current chassis is not categorized as 'toy'. Category: Priority asset.>
Mikhailis snorted. "Yeah, well, if Professor Halstein could see you dual-wielding displacement chains like a circus champion, he'd pass out in his soup."
He spritzed the soldered runes with cooling tincture. Tiny plumes of lavender steam rose. A Worker scuttled forward and placed a petal-shaped fan—woven of leaf veins and silver thread—beside the wound, fluttering gentle gusts to expedite curing. Mikhailis tickled the ant's antenna appreciatively; it chirped, then scurried off for its next task.
Across Rodion's lower back, a fracture ran like lightning. Mikhailis switched tools. Tweezers now—tips so fine they could pluck photons from a rainbow. He teased apart crushed mana conduits, one by one, unfurling them like tangled hair before splicing new filament segments the Workers handed up.
Rodion's internal vents pulsed, once… twice. <Observing psychological metrics: Your respiration is elevated twenty-three percent above rest rate.>
Mikhailis grumbled but didn't look up. "That's called caring, you block of carbon fiber."
<Recommendation: Incorporate stress-relief exercises. Potential benefit to long-term performance.>
The prince rolled his eyes. "I'll schedule a spa day after the apocalypse." Yet inside he was grateful—the AI's fussing felt strangely human.
While he worked, he kept a running commentary, half for Rodion, half for the Worker apprentices.
"Mana channel integrity… sixty-eight percent," he muttered, sliding a fresh conductor strip under a cracked rune. "Adjusting phase offset… seventy-one. Good. Now, threading bypass…"
Two Workers hoisted a spool of copper-blue wire. Another pair assisted by holding a magnifying lens in place so Mikhailis could see the micro-runes etched along each strand. He fed the wire through a ceramic lumen guide, careful not to nick the rune etching.
His mind wandered to the outside world: kingdoms where trebuchets still ruled battlefields, where mages hurled raw fire because they lacked fine control. If they saw this… He pictured their wide eyes, the hunger that would follow. A chill crawled up his spine.
Yet in this secret warren beneath Silvarion Thalor, technology sang quietly. Worker Ants—nature's micro-smiths—knitted tomorrow's miracles from yesterday's ruins. All under his guidance. Responsibility feels heavy tonight, he thought. But also right.
A synth-patch sealed the last break. Mikhailis leaned back, rolling his knuckles. "Pulse check?"
Rodion's optics brightened, HUD glyphs stabilizing into crisp alignment. <System latency returned to baseline. Servo harmony realigned to three microseconds. Core capacitor functional at eighty-three percent. Fluffiness integrity—>
"Don't you dare say it," Mikhailis interrupted, pointing the solder pen like a dagger.
A pause. Then, <Withheld on compassionate grounds.>
He barked a laugh. "Thank you. Now, hold steady. I need to address that crack along your dorsal spine. It's flirting with your mana buffer and I'd rather not patch a magical aneurysm at breakfast."
He reached for a vial labeled "dragonbone dust." The pale powder glittered. Alchemic rumor said pulverized dragonbone could coax metal to remember the shape it should hold. He tapped a pinch along the crack; the dust crawled into fissures like living sand, fusing alloy to alloy. The gap sealed, leaving only a faint seam.
Workers squeaked applause. Mikhailis bowed theatrically. "Thank you, thank you. I'll sign cloaks later."
He breathed, let shoulders relax. Rodion's frame looked steadier—no more convulsive whir from the gyros, no sparks shedding like fireflies. Still a ways to go, he reminded himself.
He lifted a palm to Rodion's forehead plate, thumb rubbing soot from the crest. He's more than code, the prince admitted silently. He's a friend. The idea startled him, but felt true.
To mask the sentiment, he focused on parts. "Next up: resonance wiring." He peeled back a dented side panel to reveal a lattice of silver threads glowing faint sky-blue and umber. Some were dull—mana flow disrupted. He selected new lines—spectral fiber shimmering rose and indigo—and began weaving them under the plate, locking each with a chirped syllable of binding magic.
The threads pulsed on connection, lighting the cavity in soft pastel hues. Rodion's chest chimed—a single harmonic note as the currents found symmetry.
Mikhailis smiled, small and proud. "Better?"
<Diagnostics confirm resonance efficiency increased by eleven percent. Sensory static reduced.> Rodion paused. <Appreciation: Your craftsmanship remains exemplary.>
Heat flushed Mikhailis's cheeks. Praise from a near-omniscient AI carried weight. "Don't get mushy," he muttered, but the corners of his mouth stayed lifted.
Workers handed him wafer-thin graphene scales inscribed with shielding sigils. He layered them over previous armor gaps, each segment clicking neatly into hex-slots. Ants dabbed resin, smoothing the seams. The composite flashed silver, then settled matte, seamless.
Alongside, a pair of Workers wove another cloak panel from jet-black leaf silk reinforced by carbon strands. They stitched it directly onto the tattered original, overlapping edges so perfectly the repair looked designed. Mikhailis watched, amazed. "They learn after seeing it once," he whispered. "One demonstration and they outpace journeyman tailors."
Rodion inclined his head the slightest degree. <Adaptive learning rate: 412 percent baseline human. Impressive.>
Sparks of possibility leapt in Mikhailis's imagination: medical microsurgeons, self-assembling bridges, city lights powered by ant-woven nanogrids. Focus, he chastened himself. One miracle at a time.
He guided the last graphene plate into place, sealed it with a rune-kiss, and exhaled through pursed lips. Sweat dripped from his temple. A Worker skittered up his sleeve and offered a fold of mint-scented cloth. He dabbed, chuckling. "Thoughtful."
Rodion ran internal checks. Optical glyphs danced—green across the board. <All primary systems restored to operational status. Secondary cosmetic protocols awaiting refurbishment.>
Mikhailis raised an eyebrow. "Cosmetic protocols are half your charisma, friend. We'll address the shiny later." He rotated a wrist, stretching cramped fingers. "All right, final connection."
He lifted the solder pen again, dipped tip into rune flux, and traced one last serpentine line across Rodion's spine. "Mana channel integrity… seventy percent. Threading bypass… reinforcing coil…"
He layered the new resonance wiring beneath the cracked chestplate, each filament no thicker than a mosquito's leg but thrumming with power like harp-strings just before a symphony. Tiny micro-sparks leapt from the binding points, snapping in and out of existence faster than blinking, while Mikhailis whispered the rune-sequence under his breath—soft consonants that tasted of ozone and pennyroyal on his tongue. Ink-thin glyphs coiled across the fresh metal, sinking in until the weave accepted them, and a mellow aquamarine glow rolled outward in a slow pulse that settled the buckled plating with an audible sigh of tension releasing.
A hush rippled through the Chimera Workers. Their antennae rose in perfect synch, as though some invisible conductor had lifted a baton. Then they moved—scores of glossy black forms scurrying with single-minded purpose. Every claw-tip mirrored Mikhailis's angle, every mandible clicked in time with the rhythm of his breaths. It was like watching a string of lanterns light one by one down a dark street—order blooming out of chaos purely through observation.
One squad focused on Rodion's knee actuator. Six ants formed the base, bracing their hindlegs on the dais; two climbed their backs to use them as living ladders; the last reached the joint and pushed a bead of golden sap into the hairline split. The sap fizzed, crystallised, and sealed the seam smoother than any blacksmith's weld. When the uppermost ant chirped approval, the whole column disassembled, each member springing away in a perfect half-circle to avoid overlapping tasks. Mikhailis's jaw slackened.
"Look at that," he murmured, eyes shining like a proud parent at a school recital. "They even break formation with flourish."
