Marigold - A LitRPG

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"What the hell did you do to this place while I was gone?" Morthak asked, his brow furrowed as he stared at the swarm of bees meticulously sculpting a waxen structure.

It was late afternoon when Morthak returned. He entered the cave with his usual ease, settling in without much ceremony. At first, he only commented on the minor changes to our camp. But it wasn't until dawn, when he finally stepped outside to inspect the full extent of the modifications, that his curiosity evolved into palpable intrigue—and confusion.

"Winter's finally over, and we've got no time to waste. Shall we get started?" I said, casually issuing mental commands through the hive.

"I'm talking about the environment. The landscape. How the hell did you transform this much terrain in such a short time?" Morthak asked, his gaze shifting from the plowed fields to the neatly leveled terrain. His expression was a blend of disbelief and genuine curiosity.

"Hmm? We haven't done all that much yet," I replied, tilting my head. "We just cleared the vegetation, leveled the land, plowed the soil, and built a few basic structures."

"That's all? Are you even listening to yourself?" Morthak scoffed. "That level of terrain remodeling takes days of coordinated labor—or the expertise of an Earth Mage skilled in advanced terraforming."

"Huh? Seriously? It's just trees and dirt. It's not like we tore down a fortress. You can handle most of it with a little muscle and magic," I shrugged.

"How?" he asked, genuinely interested now.

"We target the largest trees first. My Carpenters break them down into sawdust, which the Workers mix with wax to form reinforced walls. Tankers and Cutters grind the stones into fine gravel, which we use for paving paths. As for the soil, we dig and shape it directly. The only real hassle is the roots and weeds—they're stubborn. The fastest solution is a burst of magical energy. It scorches the pests, sterilizing the land. After that, we just replant with our own selected vegetation and—Taráa!" I said, making a grand gesture with my hands.

"Fascinating… So your species is inherently proficient in terraforming," Morthak murmured, pulling a weathered notebook from his coat and scribbling notes.

"Hey! Are you seriously writing about my species?" I asked, bristling.

"Obviously. I may be a necromancer, but I'm a scholar first. Did I not mention my passion for bestiaries? I've documented every species I've come across—sentient or otherwise. There's no way I'd pass up the opportunity to study a new one," Morthak replied, still writing.

"Could you at least be less blatant about it? Being studied like an insect isn't exactly flattering," I muttered.

"How sensitive," he said with an exasperated sigh.

"Can I at least read what you've written about us?" I asked, my curiosity overriding my irritation.

"Hmm... Sure," he said, flashing a sly, almost sinister grin as he handed me the notebook.

As I flipped through the pages, I immediately realized Morthak was both meticulous and alarmingly observant. His notes were scribbled in a strange script that looked more like a combination of runes and hastily drawn sigils than a structured language. Detailed anatomical sketches of my kind filled the margins—alongside studies of eyes, mouths, and other sensory organs. Though much of the text was indecipherable, I could still pick out certain words.

One note read: "Dangerous", followed by bullet points filled with unfamiliar terminology. But what truly unnerved me was the hyper-detailed drawing of Hans. Morthak had captured him with haunting precision—towering, intimidating, wielding a massive, gnarled wooden spike like a ceremonial weapon. The art was impressive... but disturbing.

"Why do I get the feeling you're portraying us as some sort of threat?" I asked, closing the book with visible discomfort.

"Because you are a threat. Though danger is always relative. As individuals? You're manageable. But as a hive, you pose at least a local-level calamity," Morthak said flatly.

"Local calamity? Is that an official term?"

"Yes. In the Demon Lands, threats emerge frequently. To streamline information, we use classification systems based on scale and threat level. 'Local calamity' means a group or force that could destabilize a region without outside intervention," he explained.

"Oh… that actually makes some sense. But when you say threats 'emerge frequently,' how often are we talking?" I asked, my stomach sinking.

"Often. This isn't some pastoral playground—it's a graveyard arena. Beasts devour beasts. Monsters betray monsters. Treachery, cowardice, deception—these are basic skillsets around here. The only remotely safe havens are the cities protected by their lords. Bloodspine is the nearest. It's relatively accessible... but brutal. It's ruled by the BloodFallen, an ancient vampire clan. Rumor has it they settled near the border so they could occasionally go hunting in human lands," he said, as if reciting weather conditions.

"Wait, what?! This place is that dangerous? I did notice the beasts here were more aggressive than usual—and in weirdly high numbers—but I didn't think it was that bad," I blurted.

"Oh, it gets worse. The most dangerous creatures only emerge during the coldest day of the year. This region's unstable climate—thanks to its proximity to human lands—disrupts natural magical flows. That, in turn, affects low-tier beasts, which directly influences the spawning of high-level threats," Morthak continued, tone unchanged.

"You make it sound like living among low-level beasts is a bad thing. Who in their right mind would want to live somewhere teeming with apex predators?" I asked.

"Anyone chasing elite resources," Morthak replied. "High-level beasts only inhabit zones saturated with dense magical energy. Because they constantly battle for survival, they evolve unique skills, traits, and magical components. Anyone strong enough to slay one can harness that power."

"Isn't that a bit… extreme? Risking your life for loot?" I asked, skeptical. "Sure, resources matter, but not more than comfort and safety."

"Ha! You really are a tower-bound princess," he said with a mocking grin.

"Excuse me?" I snapped.

"Let me break it down. In this world, power rules. Money, politics, titles—they're just accessories. Real authority comes from strength. You either inherit it, or you earn it. And for most people, that means putting their lives on the line every day just to claw their way a little higher," Morthak said, now serious.

"Ugh, I don't believe raw power is the answer to everything," I muttered, crossing my arms.

"But it solves many things," he countered. "Take the Minotaurs of the Galar Islands. The strongest rule through might, overseeing war and defense. Weaker members run agriculture, diplomacy, and crafts. It's a symbiotic system. The powerful remain powerful, and the rest don't need to chase strength—they rely on those who have it."

"Okay… and what does that mean for me?" I asked, uncertain.

"It means raw strength won't fix everything, but it attracts the people who can. The strong lead. The weak follow. The only question is—are you content being weak?" Morthak said. "Living in someone else's shadow may seem safe… but never forget—shadows can swallow you whole." His eyes bore into mine.

"Ugh—"

"You're a fascinating creature. Your kind isn't physically dominant like trolls or overflowing with [Skills] like Oni, but you possess something rarer: innate, adaptive magic. It's almost… artificial in how refined it is. With proper mastery, you could rise to the level of the Mistress of Nightmares… or even the Master Dreamer," he said, exhaling deeply.

"You're back on this 'limitless potential' nonsense again? If I'm so special, then why don't you teach me something useful already?!" I snapped.

"I am teaching you. The basics. The kind anyone can learn from a scroll or a training guild. But do you really think true power can be taught?" Morthak said, flipping pages in his book. "No. True power is seized. Conquered. Mastered through pain, experience, and will. I could dump a library's worth of knowledge into your skull, and you'd still be ordinary—just louder. Pain teaches. Failure teaches. Experience is the only real path to mastery. I'll give you enough to start. The rest? Find it yourself."

"You spiteful old man!" I yelled, fuming.

A sharp crack of pain bloomed across the top of my head.

"Instead of sharpening that useless tongue, sharpen your mediocre skills," Morthak said coolly, lowering his staff after smacking me.

In front of me stood a small wooden enclosure. Inside, a two-headed snake with glowing red eyes lay coiled, basking peacefully on sun-warmed stones. Occasionally, one of her heads slithered forward to taste the air, forked tongue flicking lazily.

She was supposed to be Morthak's "test subject" for a curse-practice session. His words, not mine. But… she was too cute. I couldn't go through with it. So I took her from him and let her live.

In her place? Some unfortunate [Boomer] ended up being the target.

Yes, I know it's hypocritical—deciding who lives or dies based solely on appearance. But honestly? I don't feel that guilty about it. It's like people who would rather save a panda—an animal that literally mistakes signage for food—over a mole rat, which actually contributes to the ecosystem. Cuteness always earns sympathy. It's just how our brains work.

So no, I'm not playing god. I just followed what felt right.

I've always had a thing for exotic pets—snakes, lizards, birds, hedgehogs. But back in the old world, living in a cramped studio apartment made even owning a fish a logistical nightmare.

"Uhm… I guess if I'm taking responsibility, I need to name you, huh?" I said, gently stroking one of her heads. She flicked her tongue against my finger in response—a soft, ticklish sensation.

"What do you think of Doppel? Two heads... yeah, that's literally the entire thought process. Not exactly poetic, I know," I added with a sheepish smile.

She didn't seem to care. Or understand. Honestly, I half-expected something dramatic—a spark of light, a magical sigil glowing on her scales, maybe a divine system message proclaiming our eternal bond. I don't know—something.

"Meh. You don't care, do you? Honestly, it's weird talking to someone who can't even understand me."

I tilted my head in thought.

"Maybe each head deserves its own name? It feels wrong to assume they share a single mind. Like what Yan does with Kuriel."

I paused, contemplating.

"Asmond? Ronny? No... People names feel weird. But I'm definitely not calling her Mr. Pickles."

A moment of silence.

"Would giving a snake a biblical name be bad luck?" I muttered. "I already named my son Levi, and Yan used Samuel… so it should be fine. Snakes and the Bible do go hand-in-hand, after all."

"Seraphin? Seras? Hmm… Seraphity. Yeah, I like that. Sera for one head, Phity for the other. Together, you're Seraphity."

The snake offered no acknowledgment.

"...Could you at least flick your tail or hiss? Give me something, damn it."

This world veers between extremes—sometimes overwhelmingly magical, other times shockingly mundane. My mind reflects that duality. And apparently, I'm not the only one living inside it.

Most people hear inner voices—conscience, memory, the occasional intrusive thought. But mine? They're complete. Distinct. Self-aware. And now… they have names.

The obvious explanation is insanity. But when magic's involved? Who knows anymore.

Maybe I've changed so much that even the broken pieces of my psyche developed form—personality—consciousness.

"I should probably tell the Hive about this. But... would that help?" My memory of the dream was vivid, too vivid. If I shared it through the link, they'd feel it as if it were real.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

And honestly? I don't even know how I feel about "the others." Could one go rogue? Lock me away and hijack the body?

Our body.

It's… complicated.

"The Lady" never seemed malicious. Not like Her. That one radiates malevolence—practically oozes it.

Is this some Kumo Desu ga, Nani ka? scenario? Am I just the one piloting the body? Then why can I only hear them in dreams?

Maybe they're not strong enough yet. Or maybe they aren't real. Just hallucinations echoing through a fractured mind.

Still, I've always had the voices—especially Bee Me. She's been with me from the start. Her instincts guide me when I need racial abilities. I owe her a lot.

Honestly, I'd like to meet all of them someday.

"Ugh. What a mess. I'm not the kind of person who enjoys mind games. So why me?" I sighed. "Maybe it's the bee thing. If I'd been reincarnated as a butterfly or a ladybug, maybe I wouldn't have to deal with this cerebral circus."

But the Hive is mental. Memory-sharing, telepathy, coordination—it's at least 80% mental infrastructure. The brain is the hive. The hive is the brain.

And honestly? If I weren't a bee, maybe the boys wouldn't exist.

Anyway, dwelling on hypotheticals is pointless.

I have a Hive to lead.

I'm starting to feel uneasy about the "Aura" of this place.

Ever since my last evolution, my sensitivity to mana has ramped up significantly. I can see it, smell it, even feel its flow. It's not just raw mana either—this racial trait lets me perceive the specific type of mana present in objects, environments, or even people. It's not like I get a pop-up or system window announcing enchantments or properties, but it's more like… intuition filtered through experience. For example, if I look at an object glowing faintly with a yellowish aura, I know it's infused with [Air] mana.

It's subtle, but incredibly useful—especially when combined with [Spectral Tuning], an ability that allows me to interact with spiritual entities.

Together, these abilities let me see and even partially communicate with ambient mana spirits—very similar to the ones I encountered in the Fallen Forest. Only, the ones here are... different. This place is far more diverse in its spiritual composition. There are swirling clouds of elemental energy, mostly aligned with [Earth] and [Air], with the occasional appearance of [Water] or [Mud] spirits.

I'm not entirely sure if it's wise to mess with these little guys. They seem harmless, but that's usually when things go wrong. From experience, just because something doesn't have a clear "owner" doesn't mean it's up for grabs. Still, I think the risk is worth it. These spirits hold astronomical research potential. Why? Because they're the only living beings I've encountered that can naturally consume ambient magical energy—and then expel it with a defined [Affinity].

And that brings me to the real issue: something around here—specifically, the Earth Flame—is attracting magical creatures to our camp.

At first, I chalked it up to coincidence. Then it became a pattern. Now? It's practically an established rule: the Earth Flame draws in monsters.

That may sound like a disaster in the making, but Hans calls it a "profitable misfortune." From his perspective, it's a steady XP farm. Why venture out to hunt when enemies come to you? As long as we can hold our defenses, we can grow stronger and stay relatively safe. I can't exactly fault his logic.

But I was still curious about the "why." So I turned to the closest thing I have to a walking Wikipedia—Morthak.

According to him, magical beasts operate on a different logic than humanoids. Humanoids seek mana sources compatible with their innate nature. Beasts? They adapt to whatever energy is most abundant. That's why you see dense elemental zones swarming with beasts of the same affinity—[Fire] zones with flame hounds, [Ice] valleys with frost serpents, and so on.

Which raised a question in my mind: are beasts born with affinities?

I mean, technically, I'm classified as a beast… monster… or abomination of nature—take your pick. I wasn't born with any particular affinity. I only developed one after evolving. So, did my environment shape that affinity? Was the place I came from saturated with [Life] mana?

Bullshit. That place was a toxic cesspool of foul, corrupted magic.

Still, Morthak confirmed it—[Beasts] aren't born with affinities. They develop them over time through exposure. [Monsters], on the other hand, are different. They're typically born with a fixed affinity. I'd never really stopped to think about the distinction between beasts and monsters. To me, most things in this world fall under "monster" anyway. But if the system itself draws a line, there must be a reason.

And there is.

According to Morthak, [Beasts] are natural creatures, born from magical environments. They can be tamed, domesticated, even bred. Think livestock—just glowing and sometimes fire-breathing.

[Monsters], however, are anomalies—distorted beings that don't belong to the natural order. They can be former beasts, humanoids, spirits—anything, really—that mutated under the right (or wrong) conditions.

The most common cause? Mana Corruption.

Beasts that consume too much mana too quickly often die, but the rare survivors are warped into monsters—abominations born from unstable, chaotic magic. They're extremely dangerous: unpredictable, hyper-aggressive, often permanently feral.

And here's the kicker: mana corruption isn't limited to beasts. It can happen to anyone—humans, elves, even demons. Morthak warned that corrupted humanoids are far worse than corrupted animals. They sometimes retain some intelligence—enough to speak, to scream, even to beg. But they're beyond saving. The only responsible action is termination. Mercy only risks more lives.

That revelation chilled me. How many times have I handled mana recklessly? Especially [Life] mana, which I'm increasingly aware is... unstable in large doses.

What if—during one of the magic club's experiments—one of my children had become a monster?

Would the [Hive Link] be affected? Would I be forced to kill my own?

Thankfully, that nightmare scenario never played out. So far, my mana doesn't "corrupt"—at worst, it degrades back into standard mana. I've never seen it reach a full Corrupted state.

Still... I have more to worry about.

There's something else—something strange and unsettling in this area.

Ghosts.

Well, Morthak calls them "Spirits," but these aren't like the mana-aligned spirits I see with [Spectral Tuning]. These are gray, amorphous entities streaked with shades of lilac, green, and purple. They radiate the [Death] affinity and drift near Morthak constantly.

According to him, these entities aren't naturally native to this region. Normally, spirits of death manifest in places like mass graves, ancient battlefields, or plague zones. But due to Morthak's presence and his undead nature, he passively emits a Death-aligned aura that serves as a catalyst for their creation.

They're not malevolent. At least, not the weak ones. The formless, drifting ones without purpose seem... neutral. According to Morthak, they're manifestations of pure death energy. Spiritual echoes, not souls.

Still, they unnerve me.

They give me a feeling—a terrible, crawling sensation, like something is scratching at the inside of my skull every time I glance at them.

They have no faces. No eyes. But I feel them watching.

I can't help but wonder if it's a clash of affinities. My affinity is [Life]. Theirs is (probally), [Death]. Are we naturally opposed? Like light and shadow?

But the idea that life is the "enemy" of death seems too simplistic. To me, it's more like yin and yang—two parts of a whole. Life gives death its meaning. Death defines the boundary of life. Neither can exist without the other.

So why do these spirits repulse me?

I don't feel that way toward Morthak. He's literally death incarnate, and yet I can tolerate—no, respect—him. But these spirits? They make my skin crawl.

Maybe I'm overthinking it. Maybe it's just a system mechanic—[Life] vs. [Death] being hardcoded as incompatible.

Or maybe... it's something deeper.

What bothers me most is that I can't talk to Morthak about this. Not without revealing my affinity. I have no idea if he suspects what I am. He probably knows I have a unique affinity, but I doubt he's pieced together that it's [Life]. And I intend to keep it that way.

I like Morthak as a mentor. But trust him? Not even close. I wouldn't eat in the same room as him, let alone hand over my deepest secret.

I think this distrust is part of the Hive's influence. It's nearly impossible for me to fully trust anyone outside the Hive. Even when I try to convince myself otherwise, there's a persistent whisper in the back of my mind warning me: "Don't."

Is it the voice of the Hive?

Or one of the "Others" inside me?

If I had to guess, I'd say it's Bee Me. But who knows? It could be another fragment. Or maybe it's just my own paranoia—the residue of a collective mind that thrives on caution and internal loyalty.

The Hive is incredible, no question. In terms of research, coordination, production, organization? We're unmatched. But diplomacy? Flexibility? Trust in outsiders?

We're… fragile.

There's no better word for it.

"Explain that better. What do you mean by orchids?" I asked, confused, as a wave of mental alerts came flooding in from the panicked [Farmers].

"Y-Yes, my queen!" one of them stammered. "Strange orchids have overrun the eastern garden. Several [Soldiers] are wounded, and the Life Guardians are actively engaged in combat!"

The moment I received the message, I shifted my perception to Jon's eyes—and what I saw was… baffling.

Hovering amidst garden flowers and twisted vines was a creature that looked like a cross between a floral deity, a pink orchid, and a fae. It blended so naturally into the scenery that, for a moment, I thought it was part of the garden.

It had a humanoid form, but its arms resembled the limbs of a lotus god. Its face lacked a mouth, but two slender antennae curled upward from its head. Its entire body was cloaked in vibrant orchid petals that shimmered with an unnatural luster, giving the impression that the creature was a flower come to life.

It was slightly larger than a [Kingsguard] and floated gracefully through the air, despite having no wings.

Before I could admire it further, the creature turned its gaze on Jon, who charged forward with unwavering resolve. In response, the creature's eyes locked onto him, and a sudden gale erupted around its body, scattering rose petals and pollen like a magical storm.

Jon struggled against the pressure but was ultimately forced back. Simultaneously, a barrage of thorns rained down upon the creature—but the same swirling wind dispersed them with ease.

"It's the eyes!" the [Information Club] sent through the link. "It can only use its wind manipulation if it's looking directly at its target!"

Immediately, our strategy shifted.

Aldy, our venomous assassin-bee, broke stealth and launched a direct assault, while Jon, Zack, and Ral spread out to approach the creature from different directions.

The orchid-creature hesitated, unsure of whom to focus on. It emitted a deep, rumbling growl, its petals flaring in warning. Aldy didn't flinch—within seconds, he closed the distance and drove his stinger into the creature's leg.

The monster howled in pain and swung at Aldy—only to find the stinger embedded deep and Aldy already retreating to recover. Distracted, it didn't see Ral approach from behind and fling an inky black spell that splashed across its large, luminous eyes.

Blinded and poisoned, the creature roared again. This time, it opened its mouth, revealing rows of jagged, serrated teeth. A burst of wind radiated from its core, and with it came a flurry of razor-sharp orchid scales, spinning violently through the air and slashing at everything nearby.

"Retreat!" Jon ordered, shielding his allies as he pressed forward alone.

As a [Guardian], Jon was a walking fortress. He lacked speed, but his sheer resilience allowed him to push through the storm of petals. The creature lashed out in desperation, but its attacks were erratic—driven by panic rather than precision.

Jon reached it and slammed into the beast with all his weight, locking it in a crushing embrace. The creature let out a strangled, hissing cry as its exoskeleton cracked under the pressure.

Zack and the other Life Guardians quickly followed. Zack formed a thorn-shaped blade and drove it into the creature's core. It shuddered, convulsed—and then went limp in Jon's arms.

Its body rapidly withered, petals shriveling like dry parchment. Within seconds, the vibrant creature had turned into a gray husk.

"What the hell is a [Valley Nymph]?!" I snapped, overwhelmed by the absurdity of the encounter.

That thing had bypassed our defenses entirely. It wasn't powerful enough to justify summoning Hans—but anything that could infiltrate our camp unnoticed was dangerous on a fundamental level.

"Wait… weren't they called invaders?" I muttered, piecing the details together.

Another tug on the [Link] redirected my sight to Trouble, who was engaged with more intruders. This time, the creature looked more like a sunflower—complete with a large floral disc blooming on its head. Next to it stood a companion, similar in shape but tinged in rich violet hues.

Trouble dove into combat with reckless joy, landing punch after punch on the sunflower-being. It hissed in pain. The violet one, attempting to assist, unleashed a cloud of spores—dense, shimmering violet particles that cloaked the entire battlefield.

I felt the pain ripple through the [Link]—Trouble recoiling as the spores tore through his system.

"HAHAHA! Now we're talking!" Trouble laughed, stumbling out of the spore cloud, blood gushing from his nose, mouth, and ears.

Clearly, the spores were poisonous.

The sunflower creature then began emitting a strange hum. A pinpoint of light formed above its head, rapidly condensing into a focused beam. It fired the energy directly at Trouble, scorching through his chitinous armor and searing his flesh.

But Trouble only grinned, wild and euphoric.

"You're the first one I'll kill!" he shouted.

While both creatures focused on Trouble, Trevis slithered through the underbrush like a snake. By the time the violet creature turned, it was already too late. Trevis drove a serrated bone dagger deep into its throat and twisted.

The creature spasmed, then fell, its final moments spent writhing in agony.

The sunflower creature stared in stunned silence as its companion collapsed. Crimson blood stained the garden's perfect roses. It looked toward Trevis—stoic, silent, still clutching the blade. Trevis didn't stay. He turned and walked away, offering no parting glance.

The sunflower twitched, charging up another beam of light, but before it could release the attack, Trouble slammed a heavy fist into its jaw.

"Oi! You ignoring me?!" he yelled, teeth bared in rage. "Trying to piss me off, flower-face?!"

The creature's jaw hung at an unnatural angle, shattered by the force of the punch. Still, it didn't fight Trouble. It searched frantically for Trevis, who had already vanished from the battlefield. Unable to find him, something broke within the creature.

It let out a guttural, primal wail.

Trouble, enraged beyond reason, activated his skill {Uncontrolled Fury}.

Damn it, Trouble! I told you not to use that! I thought furiously.

His black eyes flared crimson. His demeanor shifted—from a seasoned warrior to a savage beast. He lunged at the sunflower creature and sank his fangs into its flesh.

The creature shrieked as Trouble tore into it, blood pouring from the wound. It tried to escape but couldn't. Its body began to glow, petals fluttering like wings. Prismatic beams of light circled around it—one last desperate attack.

Its flower bloomed violently, launching a storm of radiant seed-pods—miniature light bombs that exploded on impact.

The blast threw Trouble across the battlefield. But even mid-air, he didn't let go. He tore another chunk from the creature's body before hitting the ground.

Despite fractured bones and deep wounds, Trouble dragged himself forward, driven by sheer rage.

The creature tried to lift itself, trembling, panting. It was on the brink of collapse. It wasn't trying to win anymore—it was trying to survive.

It crawled across the garden, leaving behind a trail of blood, inching toward the corpse of its fallen partner. Its petals were torn, its eyes dim, but it moved with pure will.

It reached the body, now gray and lifeless. Its head rested on the cold corpse, letting out one last trembling breath.

It looked back—just in time to see Trouble, eyes aflame, inches away.

He drove his claw into the creature's chest, ripped out its heart, and stared down at the dying form.

The creature sighed, eyes drifting toward the sky. It didn't resist. Its face, contorted in pain just moments ago, now looked almost… peaceful.

And I hated every second of it.

We were the victims. They attacked us. We were defending our home. So why did I feel this cold knot in my chest?

Was it their behavior? The way they fought—not like beasts, but like soldiers? Like people?

Their pain was real. Their grief was real. And for some reason, I felt it. Trouble didn't stop. Even after the creature was dead, he kept ripping it apart—flesh, organs, petals—scattering the remains like confetti in a crimson celebration. The garden was soaked in blood, its beauty now a twisted mockery. The Hive felt victorious. I felt… empty.

I should be horrified. I should scream. Cry. Throw up. The person I used to be would've done all that.

But now?

Now I feel nothing.

The Hive has rooted itself too deeply inside me. This wasn't just a slaughter—it was a massacre. And yet… no horror. No disgust. Only cold indifference.

Does that make me a monster?

I'm not even human anymore—so maybe the question doesn't matter. But losing my humanity? That still scares me. This world has changed me—systematically, spiritually. I'm still me, but I no longer think or feel the way I used to. They hurt my children. I can't forgive that.

And yet...

Something inside me is still screaming that what we just did wasn't war. It was an execution. And the worst part?I didn't even flinch.