The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

That thing…

The way it moved. The texture of its skin. The low glow threaded under its arms. I've seen the description before—heard it, whispered in those half-creepy, half-reverent tones the Myconids use when talking.

Myconid Dusk.

Combat-oriented evolution.
Not frontline bruisers like Astor and Lypor.
Different.

If I remember right—
Physically? Not that impressive. Slower. Heavier. Less precise in close combat. A Combatant would outmatch them in a fair brawl any day.

But the Dusk? They don't fight fair.

They specialize in Deception Spores.
Illusions. Visual scrambling. Veils. Fog.

They mess with what you see.
Twist your perception. Obstruct your aim.
Make you strike where there's nothing—or worse, not strike where there is something.

I grit my mandibles, eyes narrowing as the Dusk Myconid steps forward—slow, deliberate, spine still clutched in one hand.

"Well," I mutter, pulse already starting to climb, "guess it's time to see through the lies."

The Myconid Dusk doesn't move.

They just stand there—arms loose, spine still held, gaze locked on us like a statue carved out of ash and rot.

Too still.

Too perfect.

My gut twists.

"…Why isn't it—"

Then it hits me.

No movement. No breath. No pulse.

Almost like an ima—

"Shit—SPIKY!"

I spin fast.

"WATCH OUT—BEHIND YOU!"

A second figure drops from the tunnel wall—silent, hazy, flickering through a cloud of spores like it bled out of the stone itself. No glow. No footsteps. Just there.

A second Dusk.

Not an image. Not an illusion.

The real one.

The second Dusk lunges—fast, arms sweeping in a blur of trailing spores, aiming straight for Spiky's unguarded back.

But Spiky's not just any Caterpillar.

He's from our brood.

Just before the strike lands, he feels it—his body twitching with instinct sharper than sight. In one smooth motion, his entire back flexes.

CHHK—

A dense burst of sharp bristles erupts from his carapace in every direction, like a living trap snapping shut.

The Dusk's strike lands—
But it hits bristles.

Hard.

There's a wet hiss, and I hear the satisfying crunch of something slicing too close to the wrong target. The Myconid stumbles back, spores trailing like torn silk, one of their forearms slashed by the sharpened bristle field.

Spiky growls low, twisting around to face it, his bristles still flared wide.

"Nice try," he hisses. "Wanna go again?"

I don't wait.

The moment Spiky's bristles slash through the Dusk's strike, I move—firing a spine clean from my thorax with a sharp twitch and a snap.

Thhk—

It cuts through the air, fast and direct, aiming for the Dusk's center mass.

But they're quicker than I thought.

They rip their arm free from Spiky's bristles—fluid bursting, strands of shredded mycelium trailing behind—and in one smooth, unnatural motion, they twist their whole body sideways.

The spine misses.

Barely.

It slices past their shoulder and embeds itself deep into the stone wall with a dull thud.

The Dusk lands in a crouch, low and twitching, the haze of spores starting to thicken around them—already building the next deception.

"Damn it," I hiss.

They're fast.

Not in raw movement—but in reaction.

This one's no amateur.

"Spiky," I growl, sliding into position beside him, "we're doing this together."

"Of course," Spiky grunts, already surging forward without another word.

He lunges—mandibles wide, bristles flexed but drawn tight to avoid another burst. No hesitation. No buildup.

Just straight-up, dirty-close violence.

His mandibles slam toward the Dusk Myconid's side with a force that makes the stone floor crack beneath him.

The Dusk tries to dodge—but it's too late.
Spiky clips them, gouging a chunk out of their shoulder, mycelium and thick sap-like fluid spraying into the air.

I smirk, circling the flank.

"Well, well," I mutter under my breath. "Spiky fighting close quarters. What a sight."

He growls without turning. "Shut up and cover my left."

"Gladly."

I scuttle toward Spiky, my legs scraping against stone, eyes locked on the Dusk's flickering form. I'm almost there—almost close enough to sink my mandibles in—

Pfft.

A soft burst.
A hiss of gas.
The air goes hazy in an instant.

"Damnit," I curse, pulling back instinctively as the spores spread like smoke underwater. "I can barely see anything in here—"

Then—

BAM!

A blunt impact slams into my side—hard and sudden. I stagger, breath knocked out of me, vision reeling.

BAM!
Another hit, opposite side. Sharp. Low. My legs stumble. I can't catch my footing in the haze.

"Shit—!"

The pain's blooming fast, creeping along my carapace. I hear Spiky shout something—maybe my name—but I can't focus, can't track—

Then—

BAM.

A heavy uppercut slams into me from below.

My body lifts.
The tunnel spins.

My back hits stone, hard, and for a second everything's silent—except for the throbbing ache across every limb.

I hit the ground and slid.

I don't get up right away.

Through the thick haze, shapes twist and flicker—light bending in ways it shouldn't. My breath rattles through clenched mandibles as I force myself upright, legs shaky, vision swimming.

Then I see it.

The Myconid Dusk.

Barely visible—just the faint outline of their jagged cap and the glint of fluid still dripping from their wounded shoulder. They move slowly, deliberately, stepping through the fog toward me like a predator confident the kill's already secured.

I try to brace—

But before they can land another strike—

Spiky appears.

From the mist behind them, quiet, low, his silhouette lurches forward with a sudden burst of movement. His mandibles swing wide, aiming to clamp down on the Dusk's spine with a clean, brutal bite.

He's close.
Too close.

Then—

The Dusk twists.

One smooth motion, body folding into the fog—rolling under Spiky's lunge like mist turning in on itself.
No weight. No sound.

Just—

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Gone.

Disappeared into the haze again.

"Shit," I wheeze, dragging myself fully upright. "They're playing ghost."

I push myself fully upright, legs wobbling just a bit, my side aching like someone jammed a rock into my ribs and twisted.

Spiky moves beside me, scanning the haze, his bristles still half-flared and twitching in tension.

"You alright, Nur?" he asks, voice low. "Sounded like you got hit pretty hard back there."

I exhale sharply. "Yeah. Pretty much almost got boxed into pulp."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "You're still standing."

"Barely."

I glance at him, then mutter, "Anyway… thanks for the assist."

He shrugs. "Didn't like the idea of carrying you home in pieces."

I look around at the thick, clinging fog. "But how did you find me in this? I can't see shit. This haze scrambles everything."

He grins—actually grins—and turns toward me with a glint of pride. "Hehe… that's the thing."

Then I notice.

His eyes—all nine of them—are shut.

"What the—"

"Don't use your sight, Nur," Spiky says, his voice suddenly a little softer, steadier. "This is the time to use what we were born with."

He taps his own chest lightly.

"Our gift. Psychic."

I stare at him, dumbfounded.

Then he takes a slow breath and closes his eyes again.

"Shut your vision. Feel the space around you. Feel us. It's all there… in the air. In the static. We're bristly bugs with built-in proximity radar, remember?"

I hesitate.

Then close my eyes.

And listen.

With my eyes shut, the world shifts.

No more light. No more haze.
Just… sensation.

I reach outward—not with limbs, but with that part of me. The soft psychic hum curled deep beneath the bristles, the part I never really used, never had to. The part Mother always said was ours.

And there it is.

The spores—countless, tiny—float like lazy dust motes, drifting harmlessly through the air. Slow, aimless.
Predictable.

But between them…

Something else.

Something moving.

It's faint—barely there. But it cuts through the space like a scratch against silk. The rhythm's off. A twitch here, a glide there. Erratic. Too sharp. Too deliberate.

"Got you," I mutter.

Then I sigh under my breath. "If I knew this was going to happen, I should've dragged Victor along. He's way better at this sensing crap."

Spiky smirks, even with his eyes shut. "Yeah, well. He'd probably narrate the whole experience."

"…'The spores ripple with ill intention,'" I mock in his tone.

Spiky snorts.

But I keep focusing.

Because it's there.

It's close.

"Wait," I whisper—through the psychic thread between us.

Spiky hears me. Feels it. His breathing slows.

We hold.

The haze swirls gently, undisturbed to the eye—but my mind?
My mind feels the static.

That wrong movement cuts through the spores again. Shallow, low. Near. It brushes the edge of my awareness like a cold finger trailing across my shell.

Closer.

Closer.

I crouch slowly, sinking low into the tunnel floor, letting my body settle.
Wait.

One more step.

There—now.

My limbs lash out with a snap, and I grab.

Contact.

Fungal flesh. Dense. Twitching in surprise.

I've got their leg. Tight in my grip.

"Now!" I snap through the psychic link.

The moment I clamp onto their leg, I feel the whole body jerk—off balance, caught. They try to twist away, but it's too late.

Spiky's already there.

With a sharp, practiced motion, he grabs their shoulder—firm, bristled limbs locking down like a trap closing on bone.

We move in perfect sync.

I pull back. He pulls forward.
Opposite directions. No hesitation.

The Myconid Dusk doesn't even have time to scream.

CRKCH—

A sickening crunch echoes through the haze as their torso tears apart at the seam, fibrous muscle snapping, spore-sacs rupturing in wet bursts. One limb flails—then falls still. The lower half kicks once before slumping to the floor, limp and twitching.

The air fills with the sharp stench of ruptured rot.

Spores hiss out around us, fading like breath into silence.

"...Well," I mutter, still holding part of what's left. "That worked."

Spiky exhales, flicking gore from his mandibles. "Told you. Proximity radar."

"Well, that's one Advanced Myconid taken care of," I mutter, brushing spore-gore off my leg. "Now, back to that cursed Worker chain—"

"Uhh… Nur?"

Spiky's voice cuts in, quieter this time. Hesitant.

I turn, antennae twitching. "What?"

He doesn't answer right away—just gestures toward the ground near where the body fell.

I scuttle over, brow furrowed. "What is it, Spiky?"

Then I see it.

The corpse we ripped apart…

Wasn't the Myconid Dusk.

It's smaller. Softer. The glow patterns along the cap are wrong—faint and unfocused. The limbs lack the reinforced muscle fiber. There's no residual haze. No deceptive spore glands.

It's a regular Myconid Worker.

Just a worker.

"...Shit."

I glance around, heart pounding, every sense flaring.

If this one wasn't the Dusk—
Then where the hell is the real one?

I snap my eyes shut.

Breathe in.
Feel again.

The haze is still thick, spores brushing past like feathers in water. But amidst them—there it is. That flicker. That wrongness.

Movement. Subtle, but real.

It's coming.

Closer.

Closer.

Now.

I lunge forward with all ten legs, pressing low, fast—like a coil snapping loose. My body slams against something solid, fungal, and warm. They barely react before my mandibles sink in deep—

CRUNCH.

I bite down, straight into the cap.

A wet snap. The neck tears loose, spore-sacs rupture, and the head comes free in my grip, twitching.

I breathe hard, braced for the recoil—

Then open my eyes.

And freeze.

It's not the Dusk.

Another Worker.

Slumped in my hold. Just like the last.

"No," I whisper, stepping back. "No, no, no—"

Another decoy.
Or worse.

We're not just being tricked.

We're being led.

A sudden whistle—
sharp and fast—cuts through the haze.

Something passes through me.

Not physically—just close enough for my instincts to spike, my limbs jerking back in reflex.

I look up.

A spine.

Stuck deep in the head of another Myconid Worker just a few steps ahead—impaled clean, slumped over in a wet heap. The body twitches once. Then goes still.

I stare. My head snaps around.

Spiky stands a few paces back, one foreleg still raised from the throw, a smug grin curling across his mandibles.

"You're welcome."

I exhale hard, the tension still knotted under my shell.

"Show-off," I mutter.

But yeah…

Thanks.

Spiky steps up beside me bristles twitching, eyes narrowed into the haze.

"What's happening, Nur?" he mutters. "Are we getting the Green Stalker treatment or something?"

I pause.

The Green Stalker treatment.
That movement that we saw.
Overwhelming something powerful not with strength, not with strategy, but with numbers.

Endless swarming. Sacrifices by the dozens. Chipping it down until even legends die drowning in bodies.

"That can't be right," I mutter, shaking my head. "No way."

"Why not?" Spiky asks, already glancing around.

I click my mandibles.

"Because for one—Myconid numbers are low right now. They can't afford to throw fodder like that."

Spiky tilts his head. "Fair."

"Two, most of their forces are busy doing that weird chain formation—powering something." I gesture vaguely at the tunnel behind us. "They're not here to drown us."

"And three—"

I glance at him sideways.

"Why the hell would they waste that tactic… on a couple nobodies like us?"

Spiky grunts. "Speak for yourself."

I roll my eyes. "You know what I mean."

So then… what are they trying to do?

Then I hear it.

A grin.

Not a laugh. Not a word.
A grin.

It echoes faintly—not in the air, not in the stone—
But inside my head.

"Having trouble, aren't you?"
"Little worms."

The voice slithers through my mind like mold creeping along a wall. It's soft, almost playful, but laced with that wet rot kind of malice that Myconids breathe when they're already picturing you in pieces.

It's not spoken.

It's carried.

Through the spores.

The floating haze isn't just vision-obscuring anymore—it's a conduit. A network.

They're in it.
Speaking through it.

Spiky stiffens beside me. "You heard that too, right?"

"Oh yeah," I whisper. "They're talking through the spores."

I glance around, but everything's still moving slowly. Too slow. The fog makes it impossible to track the source.

But that voice…

It knows we're here.
It's been watching.

"You're lost already," the voice hums.
"You just haven't realized it yet."

I bare my mandibles, just enough to show an edge.

"Well," I mutter, loud enough for the spores to carry,
"Aren't you a little too confident for a talking mushroom?"

The fog shivers.

For a moment, there's silence—like even the spores are holding their breath.

Then the voice returns, smoother this time. Amused.

"Confidence?"
"No, little worm. Just inevitability."

I spit to the side. "Yeah? Inevitable's got a bad habit of bleeding when I'm involved."

Spiky snorts beside me. "You tell 'em."

I shift my stance again, eyes narrowing as the spores begin to stir with new intent.

"Let's drag inevitability into a fight, then."

I shut my eyes again.

This time, tighter.

Not just blocking the haze—
But everything.

I slow my breath and anchor my limbs into the stone beneath me. Let the warmth of the tunnel fade. Let Spiky's presence blur.

Focus.

Don't just feel movement.
That's not enough anymore.

Feel the difference.

The pressure. The weight. The texture of what's real and what's not. The spores float light, lazy like dust drifting through sleep.

But there—between them—
A bend. A tension in the air that doesn't sway.

Not random.

Not floating.

Deliberate.

I press deeper into that sense, stretching the reach of my awareness like bristles extending from a silent shell.

The spores can't lie if I stop relying on my sight.
They can't trick instinct.

And I start to feel it.

That shape.
That wrongness.

Closer than before.

And this time?

I won't miss.

I feel it—offbeat, off-rhythm, wrong—and I don't hesitate.

With one sharp twitch of my thorax—

Thk—shhk!

I launch a spine straight toward the source. Not where I see—where I feel.

The moment it leaves me, the air splits. The haze shudders in that direction—
and I hear it.

A grunt. A crack. A stumble.

A shape flinches through the fog, breaking the stillness, bleeding color where it shouldn't.

Got you.

The spores waver as the impact ripples through them, and I see it now—faint, shivering through the mist. A real form. Not an echo.

That one hurt.

I smirk.

"Not so inevitable now, huh?"

"Spiky!" I shout, eyes still closed, breath sharp. "Can you feel that?!"

"Yep! Got it!" he calls back, voice full of that low, excited edge he gets when things finally start going our way.

Without hesitation, I hear it—
the crack-crack-crack of his bristle launch.

Thht! Thht! Thht-thht-thhk!

A volley of spines tears through the haze, precise and controlled—no panic, no waste. Just calculated fury aimed dead at the writhing distortion we both now know is real.

The fog pulses again—spores flung wide in all directions from the impacts.

Something howls.

It's not human.

It's not just Myconid.

It's exposed.

Spiky clicks his mandibles, bristling with smug satisfaction. "Yeah, keep playing ghost now, freak."

Then—

The haze shifts.

Not slowly. Not gradually.
It pulls back—like a breath being sucked in reverse.

The spores whirl once, frantically, then scatter as if the illusion holding them up suddenly snapped. The tunnel air clears in one sweeping rush, revealing stone, light, bodies—

And them.

The Myconid Dusk, crouched low, bleeding from a dozen points. One shoulder pierced clean through by Spiky's spine. Another lodged in their leg. Their cap twitches erratically, trailing broken filaments.

They're visible now.
Fully. Tangibly.
No more hiding.

I step forward, mandibles bared.

"Well," I mutter, "guess the fog's lifted."

I take another step forward, my voice curling with a smirk sharp enough to cut.

"Who's inevitable now, huh?"

The Myconid Dusk doesn't answer.

They're too busy bleeding.

Too busy losing.

The chuckle drips from their shoulder like spoiled sap—crackling, wet, wrong.

The Myconid Dusk lifts their head slowly, their cap twitching, a pulsing wound leaking down their side. They're bleeding, trembling, spine-impaled—

But not afraid.

If anything… they're enjoying this.

"For mere caterpillars…" the voice rasps, slithering through the air like rot through cloth,
"you're definitely a problem."

They stagger, straighten just slightly—barely upright, but something burns behind their words now.

"But nothing we can't handle."
Their head tilts, just enough to feel condescending.
"No… nothing they can't handle."

The spores seem to tremble around them like they're echoing the name before it's said.

"Orbed," they whisper, reverent and venomous,
"will be our new Emperor."

Their voice climbs, stronger, clearer. Fervent.

"With the artifact in their grasp, the line between death and dominion no longer exists."
"It corrodes. It devours. It clears the path."

Their eyes burn faintly, locking onto me—onto Spiky—onto the fight we think we've won.

"Nothing will stand in their way."

Then their gaze flicks skyward.

Up.
Toward the place, we sent the Spikeward Mothkin.
Toward the only one who might rival a power like Orbed.

And then they say it—quietly like it's already a fact.

"Not even the Spikeward."

And then—just like that—

They drop.

No dramatic flare. No final scream.
Just a slow collapse, limbs folding under them like wilted stalks, spore-fluid pooling at their feet.

Dead.

I stare, antennae twitching.

"…Well that was kind of anticlimactic," I mutter, stepping closer, giving the body a quick once-over to make sure it isn't about to spring back up.

"Seriously. All that talk, and they go down after a couple bristles and some light philosophical monologue?"

Spiky snorts, flicking a bit of spore-goop off his side. "You'd think being an Advanced Myconid would mean something these days."

"Right?" I nudge the corpse with one leg. It doesn't move. "I was expecting at least one desperate suicide bloom or some kind of freaky second form."

Spiky clicks his mandibles. "No drama. Just thud."

I sigh. "Kind of insulting, honestly."

Still… I don't relax.

Because if that was supposed to scare us…

Then what the hell is waiting down the line?

End of Chapter 35