Marigold - A LitRPG

Year 4 - Early Spring

Inside a cave with damp walls coated in mucus and beeswax, a crude wooden table sat beneath the soft, flickering light of bioluminescent creatures clinging to the walls like fireflies. On the table, scattered parchments—crafted from the skins of unidentifiable beasts—lay amidst the organized chaos.

"Damn it!" A sharp cry of frustration echoed off the cave's slick walls.

Clay jars filled with strange substances, torn schematics, and arcane diagrams littered the chamber. The creak of aged wood and the harmonious buzz of vibrating wings drew the eye to a striking, monstrous figure: a female of delicate build, yet unmistakably insectoid, who leaned over the table with clenched teeth and simmering eyes.

Her hands—keratinous and clawed, black as polished obsidian—clutched a quill fashioned from bone and feathers. With methodical grace, she inscribed convoluted formulae in a blood-red ink across parchments of varied texture and hue.

"This is going nowhere," she muttered bitterly. "I'll never complete Morthak's task if all we produce are failures and half-successes."

The insectoid girl—Hana—addressed a small assembly of kin, creatures like her in nature but more diminutive, with even more overtly insectile features.

"My queen, don't despair!" said a tiny [Wizard], trying his best to comfort her. "Your work has propelled the magic club to unprecedented progress in scroll engineering and arcane formulae!"

"Yeah!" chimed in another [Wizard]. "We've optimized magical circuits beyond anything in our archives. Once the club resumes operations, we'll revolutionize the hive's magical capabilities!"

Hana sighed. "I know we've gained insights into stability, structure, and the spell-creation process in ring-based magic systems. But what we need now is a spell that's Stable, Tangible, and Sturdy. Without that, I'll fail the task Morthak assigned."

The group of bee-like mages exchanged uneasy glances. One stepped forward hesitantly.

"Is completing this task really that critical, my queen? Surely that creature wouldn't punish you for failing something you weren't properly guided through, right?"

To the hive, punishment was a straightforward concept: avoidable mistake = punishment. Hive society operated with mechanical precision. Every member received explicit instructions through the Information Club, which functioned as the hive's command and response system. If a situation fell outside the standard protocol, it was flagged, analyzed, and resolved in seconds.

The idea of being punished for failing an unsupervised task seemed absurd to them—like asking someone to solve an unsolvable riddle, then reprimanding them for not guessing the answer.

Hana leaned back slightly. "I get that it doesn't make much sense to you. And no, I don't think I'll be punished for failing outright. But Morthak… he's different. His teaching style is harsh—rigid, even—but it works. He's never given me an impossible task before. That's what frustrates me. If he believes I can do it, then why can't I?"

The tiny [Wizards] furrowed their brows, trying to make sense of emotions that didn't quite register in hive logic.

"Maybe…" one of them ventured, "are you embarrassed you can't do it, Mom?"

Damn it. Being part of a hive can be so awkward sometimes.

From a human perspective, the hive could seem dull or emotionally sterile. Emotions like envy, guilt, or shame simply didn't exist. Only fundamental instincts—love, fear, anger, happiness—were felt. Each member of the hive was genetically and socially engineered for a single purpose: soldiers fought, workers built, nurses healed. There was no ambition, no jealousy—only function.

Envy required comparison, and comparison was pointless in the hive. Resources were allocated by necessity, not desire. Soldiers, though treated with special care, risked their lives daily. The balance was evident; no one complained.

Emotionally, the hive operated like a perfectly tuned machine. Feelings that didn't serve the function were discarded. Internal conflict? Almost non-existent. The only real disruption had come from Ciel—technically no longer a hive member, yet still intrinsically bound to them.

"The problem isn't shame," Hana clarified. "It's more like… pride, I guess? Morthak may be a tyrant, but he's never cruel for cruelty's sake. He pushes hard, but he doesn't sabotage. I don't believe this is an impossible task. I just can't figure it out."

"Oh!" said one of the [Wizards], eyes lighting up. "So you're frustrated because you believe you should be able to do it—but can't?"

"Exactly. I'm no Harry Potter, but I thought I was doing well in the 'magic' department. Looking back, though… every spell I've created has been accidental. Improvised adaptations. I haven't truly created anything on purpose."

The little [Wizards] listened carefully. Then one of them, after a long pause, spoke up.

"Isn't that what inventing is? Nobody invents something with a perfect plan in mind. You test, fail, adapt—right?"

"Hmm… Maybe," Hana admitted. "But that's not what I'm doing. I'm not inventing. I'm uncovering something that already exists. It's like the path is there—I just can't see it. And Morthak? He's not showing me the map."

"Then why not create your own path, my queen?" another [Wizard] asked with childlike earnestness. "You're the queen of the hive. There's nothing you can't create or solve."

Hana smiled faintly and stood, brushing her hand across the small mage's fuzzy mane.

"Thanks for believing in me, little one," she said gently. "But it's not that simple. I wish it were."

"Hans... do you think I'm capable of creating anything I want?" I asked the hulking figure beside me, encased head to toe in thick, segmented armor.

In front of us, hundreds of soldier bees were in formation, training with makeshift weapons forged from thorns, branches, and bone. Some darted through the air, dodging obstacles in tight flight drills, while others clashed in intense, high-speed sparring that looked more like life-or-death combat than training.

Hans, ever since his evolution, had stopped leaving the nest. He'd become a stationary troop—an anchor of the hive's defense. There were two key reasons for this shift.

The first: he was simply too powerful.
In this world, XP distribution is unusually "fair," which is to say: realistic. Just like in real life, splitting resources evenly doesn't always equate to an equal reward. If Hans were to join the fray—even just standing in the rear—he'd still receive the majority of the XP, simply because his overwhelming presence lowered the danger level of the encounter. For Hans, that XP gain was negligible. But for the soldiers? That loss mattered.

The second reason was more personal. Hans is a protector. As one of the hive's elite, he chose to stay behind to train the next generation and guard the nest. He's got that whole big brother complex, coupled with a "family-first" personality that's less weird and more... endearingly cheesy. It's very "Hans."

"Hmm? That's a strange question..." Hans replied in his usual blunt tone. "No one can create anything they want. Not even gods. But you're the queen of the hive. If you told me you could build a world in the palm of your hands... I'd believe you. Body and soul."

I let out a laugh. "That doesn't help much... but thanks for being honest, sweetie."

We sat side by side watching the soldiers train. I perched on a damp log, soft with the season's first moss. Hans sat beside me on the ground—despite being lower, his massive frame still forced me to tilt my head up just to meet his bright golden eyes.

Spring had arrived.

The brutal winter I feared would bury us in ice had passed. In its place were puddles, butterflies, blooming moss, and the chirping of birds. New life had begun—but time was against us. We needed to prepare: housing, defenses, food reserves. A wall. A supply line that wouldn't poison us.

So many things to do. So many unknowns to face.

That's when I realized—we weren't in the Fallen Forest anymore. The landscape around us had changed. New animals. New plants. A whole new biome. I hadn't even taken the time to notice until now.

So much to learn. So much to feel. And yet I felt like I was drowning—trapped in a spiral of worries with no end in sight.
Why am I trying so hard...?

No. No negative thoughts.

The last thing I need is her haunting my dreams again. The world may be flawed. I may be flawed. But I do understand why I fight.

I glanced at Hans. He sat peacefully, watching the soldiers with quiet focus.
I wish I were more like him. Able to enjoy the moment, grounded. Act when action is needed, rest when it's not.
But I know the truth: I don't carry this burden for myself. I carry it for them.

The boys.

Without me, the hive dies. They'd be lost. And though I might one day forgive myself for giving up on me…

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
I could never forgive myself for giving up on them.

They aren't like me. They love life. They live it, fiercely.
And maybe—just maybe—that love is enough to keep me going too.

A small brown bird fluttered down and perched gently atop Hans's helmet, pecking curiously between the gaps in his armor. I couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle.

Hans, the iron wall of the hive… with a tiny bird nesting on his head as he observed the battlefield like a living fortress.

Simply adorable.

"Hehehe."

Hans turned to me. "Hm? Something funny, my queen?" he asked, dead serious—the bird still perfectly balanced atop his helm.

"You have a bird on your head," I said, smiling and leaning back on my arms. "I just thought it was adorable."

"Oh. These little creatures like to forage between the gaps in my armor," he said matter-of-factly. "I tried scaring them off, but they always come back. So I've stopped."

"Hahaha! You don't have to explain, sweetie. I only said it because it's cute. You—this big mountain of armor—with a little bird perched on top."

Hans looked slightly uncomfortable, clearly unsure how to handle the situation. Maybe it was the image thing, or just genuine awkwardness. But I didn't care.

The moment made me smile.
And just like that, I forgot why I was even upset.

Today... is a good day to be queen.

"The situation isn't ideal, but with winter finally over, we can begin taking meaningful initiatives," said Steve as he hovered in front of me, a tiny notepad in one hand and a bulging satchel full of folders and scrolls slung over his shoulder.

Why he needed scrolls and physical notes in a world where mental communication was possible? I had no idea—but Steve always knew what he was doing.

This was our version of a "tactical briefing." With the arrival of spring, everything became more urgent. Like a slumbering titan beginning to stir, we had to act fast before inertia slowed us again.

"According to the data," Steve began, eyes scanning his notepad, "13% of our mana crystal reserves are unusable due to structural degradation or full corruption. Approximately 62% show early signs of wear. 9% qualify as high-grade crystals, and the remaining 6% are classified as virgin-quality."

He turned to the group gathered around him.

"Mana crystals are essential for manipulating life energy. Without them, we'll burn through our magical reserves quickly—and lose the ability to produce food, medicine, and other essentials." His expression hardened.

We use the [Node] located on the Earth Flame to extract latent magical energy, converting it into Life Mana—my affinity. But Life Mana isn't pure magic. For it to be usable by others, it must be refined into Common Mana. A deceptively simple process—let it decay until the energy stabilizes.

The issue? The conversion is incredibly inefficient. It takes three units of Life Mana to produce a single unit of Common Mana.

If I were to absorb the raw crystals directly, I'd have a perfect 1:1 conversion rate. But for anyone lacking the right affinity, absorbing Life Mana is like injecting radioactive sludge into your veins.

That's where mana crystals come in. They handle the burden of conversion—absorbing the corrosive energy and refining it into something stable. But the process damages them both during charging and discharge, making them a precious and fragile commodity.

And in our current state? We're essentially beggars operating out of a damp hole in the ground.

"With spring's arrival," said Max, pulling a thick leather-bound tome from his assistant's pack, "we can reduce our reliance on the magic generator. The magic club will prioritize developing mechanisms powered by Life Mana—maximizing the conversion rate through engineered circuits."

"The Gardening Club has already begun preparing the soil," Buck added with a warm smile. "We start sowing in three days."

"The Foraging Club is busting its wings too, okay?!" Matt buzzed excitedly. "We're collecting all the info and materials we can about the region!"

"T-The projects a-a-a-approved by the Construction Club... a-are already underway..." Levi mumbled, barely audible as he disappeared inside his over-sized shirt.

"Mapping continues smoothly," Trevis said, arms folded. "Some unknown beasts have shown up, but nothing worth worrying about."

"So... the main problem is our mana reserves?"

"If we simplify the situation—yes," Steve nodded. "We're critically low on mana, and many key operations are stalled because of it."

I turned to Max, the eccentric head of the magic club. The bags under his eyes practically screamed stress status effect.

"Max, what's the state of your team's personal mana reserves?"

"Not great, my queen," he admitted gravely. "We're running on fumes. If things don't improve soon, we risk pushing some junior mages into [Magic Exhaustion]."

Mana is beautiful—but dangerous. Depleting your mana over and over in short succession damages both mind and body. If pushed too far, mages develop the condition known as [Magic Exhaustion]—a crippling effect that blocks all spellcasting for a time.

We initially thought it was temporary. But we were wrong.

The effect has stages. After it "disappears," it enters a dormant state—still present, just hidden. If triggered again during this period, the penalties become far worse, and the recovery time increases drastically. We still don't fully understand the mechanics behind it, but we know one thing for certain:

Too much mana usage in too little time = danger.

"Alright, here's the plan," I said, closing my eyes to issue mental commands to the field patrols and information club. Multitasking while keeping my eyes open still gave me migraines, but I was getting better at it.

"For now, shift our focus to foraging and hunting. Use corpses of stronger creatures to extract 'juice' if necessary. Food production takes top priority—once that stabilizes, we'll reallocate resources to reopen the magic, alchemy, livestock, and carpentry clubs."

I opened my eyes again and looked to Jon—the walking wall of a bee.

"Jon, you'll take over Hans's old role as troop lieutenant. Lifeguardians are yours to command. Train your squads, and keep them sharp."

"Yes, my queen!" Jon saluted, his voice firm.

I turned to Trouble, the most volatile member of the hive—a wasp-like brute with a short fuse and unmatched tracking skills.

"Trouble, I'm assigning you to the live-capture team. Remember: we need prey alive for juice extraction. Control yourself."

"Of course! Hehehe..." Trouble cackled, launching into the air like a missile. His wings left a buzzing streak behind him.

'He never stays to hear the whole plan... typical.'

"Radyo, any updates from the Journalism Club?" I asked, turning to the fashion disaster in stripes. His too-human suit was so garish it looped back around to being oddly charming.

"Nothing worth reporting—yet!" Radyo said dramatically, gesturing like a stage actor. "The club thirsts for scandal, sensation, something to report! But alas... for now, we just help amplify signal coverage!"

"Uh-huh..."

Before I could comment, a more modestly dressed bee peeked out from behind him. Pyper. Radyo's right hand and emotional support bee.

"...Nothing worth mentioning..." Pyper murmured, bowing shyly before retreating behind Radyo like a shadow.

The Journalism Club, once the beating heart of hive-wide gossip, had been mothballed along with others: Theater, Cooking, Carpentry, Research, Manufacturing—you name it. All non-essential clubs were put on hold and their members reassigned.

Except for one.

The Whisper Club.

Run by Yan. No defined structure. No real hierarchy. Just shadows in corners and messages passed in code.

It was... embarrassing.

Yan even tried to create a secret handshake at one point. I nearly died from secondhand shame.

But the benefits are undeniable. Through the club, I get access to anonymous concerns and feedback—things that never reach me otherwise. Sometimes it's trivial:

"I don't like the taste of this food."

"My bed's lumpy."

Other times, it's gold:

"A concave hammer would make this easier."

"We should have staggered lunch breaks."

Without the Whisper Club, all of this would be lost in silence.

Some suggestions are... well:

"Why hasn't the queen killed that horned monster yet?"

"When do we get to go home?"

Yan wanted me to be furious. But honestly? I find it endearing. It just means we need to be more proactive about communication. Steve had dismissed updating the hive as "nonessential," but I disagree. Newborn bees are only given the information they need—no more, no less. After that, it's our job to fill in the blanks.

"Very well, then," I said, clapping my hands. "Back to work. We've got a lot to do."

The hive buzzed in unison—literally—as dozens of bees took to the air. From the outside, it looked like chaos. But there were no crashes. No delays. Just... fluid, instinctive movement.

The magic of the hive.

In seconds, I was "alone"—just me, Yan, and Emi. That's as close as I ever get to solitude. Normally, I'm surrounded by a small army of [Royal Knights], camped at my feet like overly protective puppies. But with Hans in the nest, they'd been reassigned to more "urgent" duties.

After a very long debate on whether guarding a queen in a cave or exploring the outside world for XP held more strategic value.

They chose XP.

Back at the workbench, I couldn't help but feel the familiar sting of frustration creeping in again. Creating a spell that's tangible, stable, and fixed—a spell that doesn't unravel the moment it's touched—had proven far more difficult than I'd hoped.

My available attempts were dwindling. Animal hides were relatively easy to gather, but each one came with its own properties and quirks. They all reacted differently when exposed to spell inscriptions. From my personal trials, the treated hide of a magical creature known as the [Blizzard Goat] had yielded the most promising results. When carefully cured using a mixture of [White Oak Sap] and [Yvern's Blood], the parchment became receptive, durable, and resilient to arcane imprinting.

Unfortunately, what we lacked was magic ink—or rather, Morthak's version of it.

That foul-smelling, questionably colored sludge was more than just writing fluid. It was the heart and guts of any spell scroll. And all I had left of it was a single small pot, along with the odd feather quill he gave me. I still don't understand why he insists on quills—I've always preferred my own claws. They're sharper, more precise.

I'd had a fair share of failures—scrolls that fizzled, exploded, misfired, or didn't do anything at all. But they weren't all wasted. The more I failed, the more I learned. Even if I hadn't reached the exact result I wanted, I'd still created a strange little pile of scrolls—each containing bizarre but fascinating effects.

Scrolls are interesting. Unlike traditional casting, which requires mental shaping, incantation, and raw visualization, scrolls are more like pre-baked spells. You just need to pay a portion of the mana cost to activate them. Days of experimentation had taught me that you could actually optimize their "cost-efficiency"—lowering the mana required while maximizing the output. It wasn't easy, and I'd burned through more scrolls than I'd like to admit. But every failed attempt brought me closer.

I sighed.

Returning to the original project, my thoughts drifted to an idea that bordered on reckless. The core issue with my current scrolls was space. There simply wasn't enough arcane integrity to fit everything onto one scroll. It was like trying to cram an entire book onto the side of a leaf. You could cut out parts, simplify patterns, reduce complexity—but in the end, it was trial and error.

And if it was going to be trial and error anyway, then why not try something new?

I brought my index fingers together in front of my face and concentrated, visualizing a golden line—the same shimmering thread I'd seen within the [Heart of Mana]. Nothing happened at first. No magic. No line.

Just silence.

Frowning, I pushed a stream of life mana toward my fingertips. A small spark flared to life.

Not quite what I wanted, but... it was a start.

I kept adjusting the mana flow, fine-tuning the stream, until a delicate golden thread formed between my fingers. Carefully, I drew them apart. The thread stretched and trembled like a spider's silk, but with focus, I managed to stabilize it.

As soon as I released it, the thread floated upward—dancing like ash from a fire. It twisted, shimmered, and then vanished in a burst of faint golden sparks.

A small magic show. That's what it was. I had been hoping for more—something structured, something usable. I'd dreamed of creating magic formations like the ones I saw within the [Mana Node Heart], but that felt impossibly far off from where I was now.

Still...

I repeated the motion, generating another thread between my fingers. It was easier this time—faster, more responsive. I was getting better.

This one broke between my fingers and evaporated.

But instead of frustration, I felt something else. A quiet pulse of anticipation. It was almost like instinct—deep, primal. The same kind of intuition that had guided me through the creation of the first successful bees. Only this time, it wasn't telling me how to raise a larva.

It was whispering something new.

Keep going. Make it stronger. Let it flow.

It reminded me of what the little mages said: that invention isn't about certainty—it's about pushing forward through uncertainty. About failing until something takes shape. About not giving up because the outcome isn't clear yet.

About finding my own way.

This wasn't failure.

This was the first spark of invention.

Again.