The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

The air hums.

It starts soft, like wind rustling through stalks, but deeper. Denser. Like the sound is growing inside the walls. Inside my shell.

The ritual has begun.

I watch as the Myconids form their patterns—slow, fluid, synchronized. Arms raised, swaying like reeds pulled by the same current. They move without hesitation, without a single wasted motion. Not soldiers. Not workers.

Ypal stands in the center—tall, unmoving, their glowing cap wreathed in a haze of drifting spores. Three Advanced Myconids encircle them in a precise ring, stepping in rhythm—one step forward, two in place, one back. Over and over. Like orbiting moons around a quiet sun.

And around them? Thirty more.

Buds. Workers. Maybe a few older ones that don't fit into a tidy box anymore. All of them swaying, channeling, glowing from within. Their spores light the chamber in pulses—green, then gold, then a strange lavender I've never seen before.

It's beautiful.

And eerie.

And wrong.

I shift my stance and glance at the others. Goldy's crouched low, spines flexed but quiet. Tessa's tail is twitching faintly, ember strands trailing off it as she watches the glow with wide eyes. Spiky looks bored, which is just his default. Victor is dead silent. Even Vex, for once, isn't making a comment.

This isn't just a ceremony.

It's a convergence.

A rustling—quick and uneven—breaks through the rhythm.

One of the Myconid Worker Scouts stumbles into the edge of the chamber, spores trailing in erratic bursts from their vents. Their arms twitch with urgency, movements stiff with alarm as they approach the outer circle.

The ritual doesn't stop—but several heads turn.

They don't shout. Myconids don't shout. But their voice still cuts through the glow like a crack in the stone.

"We've observed movement. The Workers stationed along the tunnel outskirts… they're no longer idle."

I straighten, antennae twitching.

The scout continues, breathing heavily. "They've begun… forming. Not marching. Linking."

Victor leans forward slightly. "What kind of link?"

The scout's cap droops in discomfort. "Not defensive. Not tunnel reinforcements. They're arranged in chains. Lines. Fungus joining to fungus. Like they're forming one long root—connecting."

"Connecting what?" I ask, already knowing I won't like the answer.

The Worker hesitates, then finally speaks it aloud.

"The pattern leads directly to The Rot's base."

The chamber stills—not in silence, but in weight.

Even the ritual falters—just a beat. A stutter in the orbit of steps.

Tessa whispers, "That… doesn't sound good."

No. It doesn't.

Victor steps forward slightly, antennae twitching in that meticulous way of his.

"Well now," he murmurs, voice as calm and polished as ever, "this is most peculiar."

He turns toward the scout, his bristle-framed face angled in polite curiosity—though I can see the tension behind his posture.

"A synchronised mycelial formation extending directly towards the core of the Rot? This implies not merely a mobilisation—but a resonance. A signal, mayhap. Or worse yet… an open channel."

He taps a forelimb against the stone. "And if they are linking as one root system, then they may no longer be individuals acting under orders. They may be extensions."

Goldy tilts her head. "Extensions of what?"

Victor doesn't answer immediately.

Instead, he looks toward Ypal, still unmoving in the center of the ritual ring, spores drifting in slow orbit around them.

"Of Orbed," he says finally. "Or something deeper beneath them."

"The artifact," I say, the realization clicking into place like a snapped jaw. "It has to be tied to that artifact."

All eyes shift toward me.

"The one from Ypal's spore-vision," I press. "That jagged, rotting stone Vex tried to steal. The one Orbed guards like it's sacred."

Victor's expression tightens, thoughtful. "Ah… yes. That object. The corruption-stone."

I nod, mandibles flexing. "It's not just some cursed relic—it spreads. And now their workers are forming a line straight from that base? That's not formation—it's infection."

"Then this," Spiky mutters, gesturing at the glowing ritual ring, "this is exactly what they're trying to stop."

Victor confirms it with a crisp nod. "Verily. The Sporehaven rite—Ypal's ascension—is the menace. The forces of Orbed do not merely prepare for conflict—they conspire to bring about our demise.

Tessa shifts uncomfortably beside me. "So that's why we're here… why we're guarding this."

"Exactly," I say. "Because if they interrupt the ritual now before it's complete—"

"It collapses," Vex finishes, voice low. "And so does Ypal's chance to become Emperor."

Goldy's spines twitch with sudden energy. "Then we better be ready."

I turn back to the scout, narrowing my eyes.

"What else did you see?"

They hesitate, spores pulsing faintly around their cap as they organize the memory. Then they speak, voice even, but tense.

"Several Advanced Myconids have begun to move. Not in mass—but in patterns. Coordinated. They're not forming with the Workers. They're splitting off."

Victor's brow rises. "Detachment behavior. Possibly leading strike units."

"Likely," the scout nods. "But—no sighting of Orbed themselves. Nor of the artifact."

I feel a twist in my gut.

"They're keeping both buried," I mutter. "Hidden until it's time."

Victor adds, "If the artifact is their final move, they won't bring it out until Ypal reaches the critical point. Until it's too late to stop them with subtlety."

Goldy's spines pulse. "Then we stop them before that."

Tessa stands, her glowing fur catching the spores like starlight.

"Let 'em come," she says quietly. "They're not breaking through."

And for once, none of us argue.

We just look out at the dark beyond the tunnel and wait.

Then—

The air shifts.

Not a sound. Not a word. Just a pressure.
The Spikeward Mothkin speaks.

Not aloud. But directly. Clean. Firm. Unmistakable.

"No."

Everyone turns. Even the Myconids in the ritual falter for a breath, sensing the weight in the air.

"That would be a bad idea."

His voice ripples through our thoughts—not cold, not panicked—but like steel dragged through still water.

I step forward, antennae twitching. "Why? You said we had to hold this ground."

"We do," the Mothkin replies. "But not bunched together."

A pause.

"The artifact—they'll bring it."
"If they do, and we're clustered here... we'll be wiped out."

Victor narrows his eyes. "Explain."

"It doesn't strike with just magic. Or energy. Or thought."

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
"It also rots. Everything."

Their wings twitch, slow and stiff. Not for show. Pain.

"During my capture... it touched me."
"One scratch. That's all it took."

The silence deepens.

"Stone-like disease. It spreads through whatever lives, and it doesn't stop. If they drop it into the middle of us, this whole defense burns from the inside out."

Goldy stiffens. "So we spread?"

"We have to," the Mothkin affirms. "Guard the ring, yes. But with space between. If they release the artifact here… we can't afford to fall all at once."

Something's not right.

I shift my stance, eyes narrowing slightly at the Spikeward Mothkin's words as they echo through my head.

The way he's talking about the artifact...
It doesn't add up.

From what I saw in Ypal's spore-vision—
that jagged stone didn't just rot things.
It melted through a Myconid Emperor.

An Emperor.

One supposedly as strong as Mother.
Which is—you know—crazy strong.
Unimaginably strong. World-breaking strong.
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit—but you get what I'm saying.

And yet…

In that same memory, I saw the Myconid who wielded the artifact get flattened by some random black Myconid not long after.

Crushed. Like it was nothing.

How does that make any sense?

If the artifact's really that powerful, shouldn't the black Myconid have been rotted, melted, obliterated?

Instead… nothing.
One moment they were waving around decay like a sword, and the next, they got knocked on their ass like a rotted log.

Was the artifact… battery-powered or something?
Did it run out of juice mid-fight?

Or—
maybe that black Myconid just conveniently had some freaky natural resistance. Some perfect immunity to whatever corruption the artifact unleashed.

Either way, it doesn't feel clean.

It doesn't feel right.

"Nur?"

I blink, snapping out of it.

Tessa's staring at me, tilting her head, ears perked. Her reddish-bronze fur flickers faintly under the ritual light. She squints. "You alright there? You did that thing again. Y'know—the super hard-thinking face."

I rub the side of my head, trying to pull the pieces back together. "Yeah. Just… wondering."

She leans closer, tail wagging slightly and leaving a faint ember trail behind her. "Wondering about what?"

I glance at the Spikeward Mothkin, who stands silent, calm, and unreadable with their torn wings folded close.

"You said the artifact rots, right?" I ask, raising my voice just a little toward them.

He don't flinch. He just incline his head once, the pressure of his psychic presence brushing faintly against the edges of the air.

I cross my legs, antennae twitching. "Then answer me this—how exactly did it melt through a Myconid Emperor in Ypal's vision... and yet the Myconid who used it got their ass handed by a random black Myconid right after?"

The words land heavy.

Even Goldy stops wiggling.

Tessa's eyes widen a little. "Wait… yeah. That does sound weird."

I watch the Spikeward carefully.
Because depending on how he answer…
it's going to tell me a lot more than just what the artifact can do.

The Spikeward Mothkin tilts his head slightly, his wings giving a faint, stiff twitch.

Then the voice presses into the air again—steady, controlled.

"I speak only from my own experience."

His psychic presence feels tighter now, more reserved. No embellishments. Just fact.

"When I fought against it when I was captured... it rotted my strength. My speed. My body. It was not immediate, but it was certain. It weakened me until resistance was impossible."

He pauses, letting the weight of that settle.

"I did not witness it destroy an Emperor. I did not see how it reacted against others. I only know... what it did to me."

The air thickens with the unsaid.

Tessa shifts beside me, uneasy. Goldy glances at me like she's waiting for a verdict.

I narrow my eyes.

So what he's saying is—
He's not lying.

But he's only telling the truth he know.

And that leaves a lot of blanks.
A lot of danger.
And no guarantees about how much worse that artifact could get.

Then—

I feel it.

A prickling across my back.
A chill sank into the edge of my shell.

Like something—someone—is staring straight through me.

My antennae twitch sharply. I tense instinctively, eyes scanning the dim chamber, the slow, swaying ritual circle, the far-off fungal walls.

Is it the Spikeward Mothkin?
One of the Myconids?
An enemy scout hidden in the tunnels already?

I can't tell.

Whatever it is, it's subtle. Not heavy like psychic pressure. Not loud like hostility.

Just... watching.

I glance around slowly, careful not to move too fast, trying not to draw attention. The others are still focused—Tessa shifting her paws restlessly, Goldy mumbling under her breath, Spiky fidgeting like he's seconds away from picking a fight with a mushroom.

Nothing looks wrong.

Nothing feels wrong—

Except for that crawling itch under my skin.

Huh.

I shake the feeling off. Try to shove it down deep where it can't mess with my head.

Anyway...

I glance back at the ritual ring—Ypal still locked in perfect focus, the glowing spores swirling heavier around them now, the Myconids weaving their arms in that endless, steady pattern.

We don't have the luxury to second-guess everything right now.

I exhale slowly, mandibles tightening.

"We still have to take the Spikeward Mothkin's advice," I mutter under my breath, mostly to myself but loud enough that Tessa and Victor catch it.

"We don't know what that artifact is really capable of... not yet. Not right now."

Victor inclines his head slightly, an acknowledging flick of his antennae.

Tessa lets out a puff of ember-scented breath. "Better safe than roasted."

"Exactly," I mutter.

I glance again toward the Mothkin—silent, still, their tattered wings trembling just faintly.

Maybe they're not telling the whole story.
Maybe they don't even know the whole story.

But until we figure it out ourselves—

We have to act like that thing is worse than anything we've ever faced.
Because if we don't—

There won't be a later to figure it out.

I straighten, the decision solidifying in my gut like a stone.

"We're splitting up."

The others turn to me—some surprised, some already expecting it.

"We can't all crowd the ritual site. It's too risky with that artifact in play," I say, voice steady. "But more than that—if Orbed's coming, if they're really moving to stop this—they won't be alone. They've got twice the number of Advanced Myconids we do. We can't afford to wait for them to make the first move."

I point toward the tunnels. "We need to intercept them. Far from this place. Keep them from getting anywhere near the ring."

Victor nods slowly. "A forward defense. Target their formation paths."

"Exactly," I say. "Some of us will stay. Guard the ritual. Hold the line."

My gaze flicks to the Spikeward Mothkin.

"We follow your warning—spread out, cover the area, don't clump. But we also draw the threat away. The ones who go forward will strike first. Slow them. Break their rhythm. Keep Orbed and that artifact from ever getting close."

Tessa grins, her fangs faintly glowing. "Finally. I was getting tired of just watching mushrooms sway."

Goldy bounces on her legs. "Do I get to explode things?"

"No unnecessary explosions," I mutter. Then pause. "...But yes."

Spiky just grunts. "About time."

The ritual's glow pulses stronger now. The humming rises.

We don't have long.

And if we wait too long to act—

We might not get another chance.

I turn, scanning the chamber until my eyes land on the Myconids stationed just beyond the ritual circle—those not part of the harmonic weave.

Astor sits slumped but upright now, still bandaged with glowing spores, their body charred in places, but stable. Gyldis stands beside them, hands faintly glowing as they apply slow, careful healing. Neither are fit to fight.

"You two," I say, voice clipped. "Stay here. Guard the perimeter. If anything slips past the line, stall them. Don't engage unless you have to."

Astor nods once, their burned frame creaking faintly as they shift into a sturdier stance.

Gyldis meets my gaze with quiet certainty. "We'll hold our ground."

Then I turn to the ones who matter even more—
Victor, and the other two Lesser Spiky Caterpillar siblings from our brood. Familiar faces. Familiar bristles. All three watching me closely.

"You're staying."

Victor inclines his head. "Understood."

"You three are fast, precise, and you don't flinch. I need you to anchor the inside ring. Guard Ypal and the ritualists directly. No distractions. Nothing gets through."

One of my siblings clicks their mandibles sharply. The other gives a quick flick of the antennae—barely hiding their excitement.

Victor rests a forelimb against his chest, a formal nod. "We will not fail them."

I look at them each in turn—my brood.
Then back toward the tunnel, where Orbed's threat is already growing like mold on the edges of our world.

"Good," I say.
"Then I'll deal with what's coming before it gets too close."

I breathe in slow, steady.

Then I point north.

"Tessa, Vex—you're heading to the northern tunnel. Track down whatever's going on with those Myconid Workers forming the link. Disrupt them—scatter the line, burn it if you have to, if you find them. But be careful. There's a good chance they've got an Advanced Myconid or more guarding them—or even Orbed themselves."

Tessa's already stretching, fire flickering at her paws. "Finally."

Vex rolls his eyes but nods, already adjusting the straps on his gear. "You're sending me with the pyromaniac. That's either trust… or punishment."

"Both," I mutter.

Then I point down the central tunnel.

"Goldy, you're going straight through the central path—you and the two Spiky Caterpillars from our brood. Your job is to spot anything trying to flank or slip past and deal with it fast. I want nothing to get close to this chamber without us knowing first. And if you find the link—disrupt it. Tear it apart if you can."

Goldy salutes, spines puffing proudly. "Understood! Boom duty engaged!"

The two siblings with her click excitedly, already inching forward.

Finally, I turn to the south tunnel.

"Me and Spiky will take the southern flank. Same as everyone else—we'll locate and scatter the Workers forming the link. Can't let them reinforce whatever Orbed's planning."

Spiky hums beside me, already bristling with anticipation. "Nice. Been itching for a proper skirmish."

Then I glance up—toward the edge of the chamber, where the Spikeward Mothkin stands in quiet readiness.

"You can fly. You'll have the sky view. Watch us. Cover our flanks. You're the strongest here—you might have to deal with the most Advanced Myconids if they show up."

The Mothkin tilts his head slightly, his wings shifting with slow gravity.
No words—just a pulse of agreement.

I take one last look at the group.

"This is it. We move now. Strike hard. Keep the rot away from the ritual."

And with that—we scatter.

I head into the southern tunnel, Spiky trailing just behind me—quiet, alert, his bristles half-flexed.

The further we move, the colder the air gets—not in temperature, but in feel. That prickling tension of something unnatural humming just out of sight. The walls pulse faintly now, the fungal growths along the edges beating in rhythm with something deeper.

Then we see it.

Just like the scout said.

The Myconid Workers.

Dozens of them—standing in perfect intervals, connected by thick ropes of fungal matter growing between their bodies. Stalks pressed to stalks. Caps bowed. Arms rigid. Each one is rooted partially to the ground, but not still. Not passive.

They're pulsing.

Not randomly.

In perfect synch.

A slow, heavy thrum of energy runs through the chain—rippling down the line like a current through a circuit.

Mana.

I can feel it now, thick and sour in the air. Not wild like most magical energy, but focused. Guided.

"These aren't just Workers," I mutter. "They're conduits."

Spiky steps beside me, mandibles tight. "What are they powering?"

I clench my fists.

"Something worse than this."

I glance up, just past the twisting fungal growths that arch over the tunnel mouth.

And there—cutting through the haze and sporelight like a dark, silent shadow—
The Spikeward Mothkin.

He circle above, gliding in slow, deliberate arcs. Wings stiff, wide, steady—like a predator scanning for motion beneath still water. He don't flap, don't shimmer, don't show off.

Just quiet vigilance.

Watching.

Tracking.

His presence alone makes the tunnel feel tighter. Sharper. Like we're not just marching blind into rot.

He's got our backs.
At least from above.

I look down the line of pulsing Myconids again, the mana still thudding in the air like a second heartbeat.

I narrow my eyes at the pulsing line ahead, then glance at Spiky beside me.

"Shoot a spine," I murmur. "Just one. Aim for the Worker in the center. Let's see if breaking the link disrupts the chain."

Spiky nods silently, his bristles stiffening as he takes aim—shoulders rising, abdomen tightening in that precise little way he always does right before firing.

Fffssht—
A spine whistles through the air.

Then—

BAM.

Not a hit.
Not a scream.

A catch.

Something grabs the spine mid-flight—fast, clean, and deliberate. Not just deflected. Intercepted.

A tall, ashen-black figure steps from the fungal mist at the far edge of the Worker chain. Humanoid shape, but with limbs too long, skin too sleek, glowing with threads of violet that pulse in sync with the line behind them.

An Advanced Myconid.
But not like any I've seen before.

Their cap is jagged, sharp like a crown of splinters, and their arms are wrapped in trailing strands of growth that hiss faintly as they flex. Their eyes burn faintly—not bright, but aware.

They lower the caught spine.

And stare straight at us.

"Well," I mutter, my mandibles twitching into a smirk.
"About time you show up."

End of Chapter 34