The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 574: Crumbs, Diagrams, and Guilt (End)

"Alright, Big Bubble. Let’s dance."

Rodion hovered by the archway, stubby arms folded.

<Tactical advice: avoid full frontal collision. Your density considerably lower than target.>

"Where’s your sense of slapstick?" Mikhailis took two bounding strides and jumped. He landed square atop the slime’s surface—and instantly rebounded, arms flailing. The jelly acted like a taut trampoline, launching him skyward with an undignified yelp.

He flipped once mid-air, years of acrobatics training saving him from a neck-twisting fall, and landed on the far edge of the pool in a crouch. The splash from his boots rippled across the glassy water like an applause ripple.

Rodion emitted a static hiss that might have been laughter.

<Rebound velocity measured at 6.8 meters per second. Exceptionally comedic.>

"Told you," Mikhailis wheezed, rubbing his hip. "Slapstick." He rose, dusting nonexistent lint. The slime wobbled angrily, releasing a burbling blorp that echoed off quartz walls.

He studied the creature more carefully now. No visible core, he noted, scanning for the usual glowing nucleus most jellies possessed. Must be internal, maybe shielded by suspended minerals. His hand drifted to the pouch at his belt and drew out two sand-glass bolts. He loaded one, aimed for a spot where the inner particles seemed least dense, and fired.

The bolt pierced with a satisfying shluck, vanishing halfway before stopping in the viscous mass. The slime convulsed, but there was no screech, no spray of acid—only a rippling quake that sent waves across its membrane.

Rodion’s sensors whirred.

<Penetration effective. Extraction improbable. Bolt now chemically bonded at molecular level.>

"Not worried about souvenirs." He freed a small glass sphere from another pocket—glowing faint crimson—and lobbed it overhead. The sphere cracked upon contact with the ceiling quartz, releasing a scatter of fiery motes. They rained down like sparks, fizzled harmlessly on stone, but where they struck the slime they burst in tiny pops of steam, evaporating marble-sized dents into its surface.

The slime jiggled in alarm, contracting hastily into itself. It pulled more of its mass out of the pool, rising into a semi-upright mound—like a pudding trying to stand. Then, with surprising speed, it rolled toward Mikhailis, leaving streaks of slime trailing like molten glass.

Mikhailis sprinted clockwise along the rim. The slime followed, a lumbering pursuit that nevertheless forced him to keep moving lest it flop atop him. Water splashed over his boots; droplets flew like shards of mirror under torchlight.

Rodion scuttled along the opposite edge, stubby legs surprisingly quick.

<Prince Mikhailis, environmental mapping indicates slight decline gradient near northern quadrant.>

"Exactly what I was counting on!" he shouted across the chamber. Earlier, while Rodion catalogued minerals, Mikhailis had discreetly reshaped a depression in that quadrant, lining it with thick moss to mask the dip. Just deep enough for a trap, just shallow enough not to look suspicious.

He angled his run, heart thudding, slipping once on a rogue splash but regaining footing. The slime pursued doggedly, vibrating in what he imagined was frustration. Every few strides he glanced behind to judge distance: five meters... four... The jelly’s surface quivered with stored momentum.

Another sprinting loop brought him near Rodion, who waved a stubby arm like a flag marshal.

<Trajectory aligned. Recommend braking maneuver in three... two... one...>

Mikhailis planted his heel, threw his weight sideways, and ducked. The slime barreled past, unable to halt its rolling charge. It hit the moss-covered pit. For a heartbeat nothing happened; then the ground sagged as moss gave way to the hollow beneath. The slime tipped, gurgled a disgruntled glorp, and slithered headfirst into the depression.

Mikhailis straightened, panting, hands on knees. He watched intently. The slime tried to surge upward—the mass ballooned, but the pit’s sloping walls deflected its force inward like a doughnut mold. Each attempt simply made the jelly roll back into the center, where ridged stones prevented purchase.

Rodion waddled closer, cautious but intrigued, fluff poking curiously over the rim.

<Containment confirmed. Target mobility reduced to negligible. Crown authority of Blobbo revoked.>

Inside, the slime roiled, sending translucent tendrils probing at the pit walls, but it succeeded only in smearing its membrane with green moss strands that glowed under torchlight like luminous ribbons. Slowly, the creature’s frantic movements subsided, settling into sullen jiggles. Its bio-luminescent specks drifted in slow spirals again, not unlike fish settling after a storm.

"I think our big friend realizes the party’s over," Mikhailis said, voice echoing with satisfaction. He drew nearer, staying just out of reach. The slime’s outer surface bumped the stone lip but couldn’t rise higher. freёweɓnovel_com

Rodion tilted his head.

<Recommendation: sample extraction for laboratory study. Suggest puncture with minimal membrane damage.>

Mikhailis nodded. He produced a hollow needle vial—essentially a tiny glass syringe—and carefully speared the slime where its tension looked lowest. There was a faint pluk like uncorking jelly; a small rush of glowing liquid filled the tube. He capped it quickly. The slime quivered but otherwise remained docile.

"Thank you for your contribution to science," he told the blob earnestly, sliding the vial into a padded pocket.

The creature responded with a resigned bubble that rose to the top and popped like a sigh.

He surveyed their handiwork: the torch’s amber light flickered over quartz ceilings, reflecting off wet stone and the slime’s glossy surface. His own clothes were splattered with stray droplets—emerald globs clung to his leather vest like decorative beads. Rodion’s white fluff, too, bore streaks of slime, giving the AI the appearance of a dessert inadvertently dipped in syrup.

Rodion inspected the mess, stubby arms out.

<Fluff contamination at forty-seven percent. Dry-cleaning requisition imminent.>

Mikhailis laughed, tossing an errant glob from his sleeve. "You’ll survive, my plush companion." He wiped his brow, leaving a streak of green that he didn’t notice. A pleasant ache thrummed in his thighs from the sprint. Nothing like uncomplicated exercise to clear the mind.

Footsteps—tiny ones—echoed behind them. A phalanx of chimera ant workers hustled in, alerted by earlier vibrations. They formed a semicircle, antennae twitching. Spotting the trapped slime, they buzzed excitedly, as if admiring a festival float. One worker produced a miniature flag painted with the hive emblem and jabbed it triumphantly into a patch of moss beside the pit.

The procession out of the grotto felt almost celebratory. Mikhailis led the way, torch aloft like a victorious banner, the captured vial of slime essence clinking at his hip. Rodion waddled after him in a dignified wobble, every step releasing another sticky fiber of green goo that trailed from his fluff like festive streamers. Behind them marched the ant workers, still waving their tiny hive-emblem flag. The beetle-shell pole bearer strutted with such pride that two smaller scouts hurried forward just to steady the banner when it wobbled.

The return tunnel looked different in triumph’s glow. Where earlier shadows had loomed, now moss lanterns seemed to burn brighter—as though the Grove itself winked in approval. Water drips pattered a quicker rhythm, almost playful, splashing over Mikhailis’s already damp boots. He paid the puddles no mind; his thoughts drifted contentedly, untethered for the first time in days.

Halfway back, one ant scout skittered up, antennae waving like urgent semaphore. It held out a chitin tray containing three river-pebbles coated in translucent slime. Mikhailis squatted to accept the offering. "Field rations for the colony?" he guessed. The scout tapped the tray twice, pride radiating from every joint.

Rodion pivoted to scan the improvised gelatin candy.

<Nutritional analysis: eighty-four percent water, fourteen percent trace minerals, two percent mystery sweetness. Safe for ant consumption. Possibly safe for princes with questionable taste.>

Mikhailis chuckled, handing the tray back. "Enjoy your jelly bonbons, friends. You earned them." The ants buzzed, scuttling away to divide their spoils.

Soon they reached the spiral ramp that rose toward the lab complex. Each step upward stripped a little grime away—first the heavier drops slid free, then finer streaks dissolved under warm drafts channelled through ventilation vines. By the time they stepped into the main laboratory, only faint mint-green stains remained on Mikhailis’s sleeves.

Rodion, unfortunately, still resembled a sponge cake after an explosion of icing.

The lab’s cleansing vents hissed to life. Jets of herb-scented steam curled around them, carrying notes of eucalyptus and lemon balm. Mikhailis inhaled deeply; tension drained from his shoulders, replaced by a gooseflesh tingle. "Ah, the smell of success—and detergent."

Rodion stood motionless beneath a vent as hot mist drenched his casing.

<Commencing decontamination sequence. Probability of fluff salvage: forty-two percent. Acceptable.>

He spun slowly—one cautious rotation, then another—until slime ribbons softened and slid to the tiled floor with faint plops. Ant janitors hurried in with miniature squeegees, scraping up the glowing mess before it could stain anything important.

Mikhailis set the moss torch by a crystalline workbench. At once, bioluminescent filaments folded inward, dimming politely. "Good torch," he praised, patting its shaft. He turned to another bench, unclipped the slime-essence vial, and slotted it into a brass rack marked Pending Analysis. The vial’s liquid glowed like bottled moonlight, faint pulses matching the rhythm of his earlier adrenaline spike. He made a mental note to catalogue viscosity and luminescence decay tomorrow.

Rodion shuffled over, fluff mostly restored to pristine white. A lone slime droplet clung stubbornly to the back of his head; an ant worker climbed his torso, plucked the glob with needle-tipped mandibles, and marched off like a tiny janitorial hero.

<Dungeon completion status: 100 percent. Severe fluff contamination resolved at minimal resource cost.>

There was the slightest huff in Rodion’s tone—relief disguised as textbook report.

Mikhailis unbuckled his leather harness, flexing cramped shoulders. "Thank you for bravely surviving slimes and bats." He placed the harness on a peg, then began sliding potions from belt loops. Each vial clicked against wood in satisfying rhythm.

Rodion’s optic slit half-closed, the AI equivalent of a modest shrug.

<Your gratitude noted, though perhaps overstated. My core directive prioritises your continued non-gooey existence.>

"Still." Mikhailis tapped Rodion’s side with two fingers—thunk, thunk—like knocking on a trusty door. "You were excellent backup." He retrieved a polishing cloth, wiped stray slime from his gloves, and watched the liquid shimmer before it was absorbed.

The ants finished cleaning and dispersed, some heading deeper into tunnels with the hive flag, others scurrying up ventilation shafts. The lab grew quiet, the hush of satisfied industry.

With chores done, the day’s exertion settled into Mikhailis’s bones. Ankles throbbed pleasantly; forearms tingled where crossbow recoil had jarred muscles. "Time for an actual bath," he murmured. Torch-light glittered on damp strands of his hair, making him look part mer-folk.

He exited the lab via a hidden lift—really a repurposed grain elevator—rising through layers of stone until polished wood panelling replaced raw rock. A familiar corridor branched toward his royal chambers. Soft carpets muffled footsteps; sconces burned with lavender-oil lamps, a far cry from earthy torchlight. The sudden luxury made him smile—two halves of his life brushing shoulders again.

Inside his suite, he swept the door shut and shrugged off slime-spotted tunic. Hot water already waited in the bath, courtesy of efficient castle staff. Steam painted the mirror, blurring his reflection into a ghostly shape. He sank into the tub with a hiss of pleasure. Muscles loosened; slime scraps floated off like wilted petals.

He closed his eyes and let thoughts drift—not forward to mysteries, not backward to rituals, simply drifting. Images surfaced: Rodion’s frantic bat dance, the skeleton’s hopeless hug, the boss slime’s resigned bubble. Each memory brought a grin that refused to fade.

Ten serene minutes later he emerged, wrapped in a towel, hair darkened to chestnut by water. At his writing desk sat the vial containing the emerald leaf, its dim glow now steady as a heartbeat at rest. He toweled his hair, eyes fixed on the vial.

"Tomorrow," he told the leaf softly, "I’ll tackle those secrets with a clearer mind." The day’s simple victories had hammered home a truth: not every puzzle needed solving at once. Some blessings earned patience.

Across the room, Rodion had commandeered a drying rack. He rotated like a slow-turning confection, internal fans whirring. Moisture sprayed outward in an even mist that coated nearby chairs.

<Drying cycle fifty-nine percent complete. Alert: collateral dampening of royal furniture at acceptable thresholds.>

One bead of water landed on Mikhailis’s cheek. He flicked it away, laughter bubbling under his breath. Rodion looked absurd—white body whirring, stubby arms elevated like an overjoyed toddler claiming the whole room.

"Thanks, Rodion. Today was exactly what I needed." He meant it. No grand prophecies, no Elders, no suffocating court politics—just good company, silly monsters, and a reminder that joy often hid in smallest quests.

Rodion slowed his spin, fluff now unmarred and gleaming. Optics brightened—a wordless you’re welcome. The room, still dotted with droplets, felt lighter, as if laughter itself lingered in the steam-sweet air.

Mikhailis smiled warmly, deeply appreciative. "Thanks, Rodion. Today was exactly what I needed."

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