The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

Okay.
The Myconid Workers are really stuck together.

I mean really.

We've tried stabbing.
We've tried biting.
We even tried crashing into them shoulder-first like angry beetles with something to prove.

They. Won't. Budge.

It's like they've fused into one giant, pulsing, root-connected wall of "nope."

"Alright," I mutter, clicking my mandibles in frustration. "So that's... annoying."

Beside me, Spiky is panting through his bristles, slightly winded. "I think I loosened one of them."

I glance at the worker who allegedly "loosened."

It twitches once.

Then, it sinks back into position like it judged us for trying.

"Yeah," I sigh, "you really showed it."

They're still pulsing. That gross mana-thrum, one beat at a time, like they're feeding some giant beast buried just out of sight.

Something is building.
And we're wasting time.

Spiky exhales sharply, brushing a few broken bristles off his side. "I really think we shouldn't waste our time here."

I turn to him, antennae twitching. "Oh? And just leave this?"

He jerks his chin toward the tunnel behind us. "The others might be in danger. Tessa, Vex… we don't know what they're dealing with. And we're here playing tug-of-war with glorified mushroom mannequins."

I narrow my eyes. He's not wrong. But still—

"Well, then, who's gonna look after this post?" I shoot back, voice flat.

Spiky hesitates.

I glance up.
Still no sign of the Spikeward Mothkin in the sky overhead. No wing beats. No psychic flicker. Nothing.

"…I can't see him," I murmur. "Which means he's fighting. Probably the worst of them."

Spiky's quiet.

That doesn't leave many of us, does it?

Spiky shifts beside me, his bristles rising ever so slightly as he squares his stance.

"Alright," he says at last, voice low but steady. "I'll keep watch. Maybe see if I can do something about these… linking Myconids."

His tone is grim, but there's that usual undercurrent of stubbornness threading through it.

I give him a nod. "Don't get eaten."

"I'll try not to," he says dryly, already dragging a foreleg across one of the Myconid's root-like limbs like he's testing for weak points.

I step back, antennae twitching once more toward the quiet tunnel ahead.

So I walk.

Through the tunnel—its air damp and sour, thick with the scent of spores and old stone. My legs tap quietly against the ground as I move, careful not to disturb anything that might decide to twitch.

There's a shortcut up ahead. An upper split in the tunnel wall, half-collapsed but still climbable if you're small and stubborn.

Which I am.

I scuttle up the wall, claws clicking against the stone. It's narrow, almost too narrow, but I wedge myself through, inch by inch, until—

Light.

A faint, flickering glow spills from the crack ahead. Not natural. Not torches.

Glowing Mushrooms.

I edge closer, holding my breath.

Maybe I can see what the Spikeward Mothkin is up to. Maybe I can—

My breath catches.

Because I do see him.

And I wish I didn't.

He's fighting Advanced Myconids.

Four of them.

By himself.

I stare, frozen in the narrow crack of the tunnel wall, barely breathing as the scene unfolds below.

It's chaos. Controlled chaos.

The Spikeward Mothkin blurs between strikes, a storm of bristles, wings, and psychic flares—but it's not overwhelming. It's measured. Every move is sharp and efficient. He's not fighting to win.

And neither are they.

The Myconids press in like a hive-mind machine. A Creeper slithers through a crack behind him, reforming mid-lunge—blocked by a psychic wall. The Mender lobs a pulse of healing spores toward a bruised Ironbark, who charges again, hammering down with those clubbed arms. The Sporecaster stands back, manipulating the battlefield with clouds of illusion and stunning bursts of light.

None of them go for the kill.

None of them retreat.

They're testing each other. Pushing limits. Locking each other in a deadlock.

And he's choosing this.

He wants the stalemate.

He's holding them here.

And suddenly, it's not just a fight.

It's a wall.

A one-moth blockade in a war we haven't even caught up to yet.

My claws dig into the stone.

Just as I thought I was perfectly hidden—silent, unseen, just another crack in the stone—a wave of psychic energy slams into my mind like a cold breath down my spine.

His voice rings clear, not spoken, but felt.

"Young Brood!"

I stiffen.

"Do not care for here. I will hold them."

My heart pounds. It's not panic. It's… command. A will too heavy to ignore.

"You will go. Assist your Royal Brood. I sense something—someone—powerful in the central tunnel!"

The words echo in my skull, not harsh, but urgent. Weighted with something I rarely hear from him:

Fear.

Not for himself.

For us.

I nod—tight and wordless—and dart back into the tunnel, claws scraping stone as I drop through the shortcut and hit the lower path running.

The air feels heavier now. Like the walls themselves are bracing for something.

Someone powerful, he said.

Could it be… Orbed?

If it is, then that's bad.

Worse than bad.

I don't know how Goldy could hold them off—how she could even survive them. Orbed isn't like the others. They're something else entirely. They're holding the artifact.

But this isn't the time to spiral.

I have to go.

Fast.

I run.

Through the tunnel, heart pounding, legs moving on instinct. The walls blur past as I leap from one to the next, climbing, sliding, and pushing faster than I should. Faster than I can afford to think.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Then—there.

The tunnel opens into a broader chamber, and I skid to a halt near the edge.

Fungal trails.

Winding across the ground like veins, pulsing faintly with mana. Thick, branching, too many to count. They lead outward—away—from here like something exploded out in every direction.

But there's no Goldy.

No sign of her massive golden body, no gleam of armored plating or red-tipped spines.

No Spiky Caterpillar siblings either.

Just the trails.

And silence.

A silence that feels wrong.

Like the air is waiting for something.

Then—bam.

Something slams into the ground behind me, hard enough to send dust rippling through the air.

I whirl around, mandibles bared, heart in my throat—

—and freeze.

It's one of us.

A Spiky Caterpillar sibling.

One of our spine shooters.

But gods—they look awful.

Their body is pale, sagging. Chitin flakes like dried bark. Spines bent at strange angles, some blackened and soft. Fungal growths bloom across their side, oozing faintly, pulsing in rhythm with something not their own.

Their ocellies twitch weakly. They're still alive.

Barely.

Rotting.

Infected.

Clinging to life with every trembling breath.

And whatever did this—

It's still here.

"Damnit—what happened to you!?" The words burst from me, too loud, too raw. I rush to his side, trying not to flinch at the smell. "Where's Goldy?!"

He shifts, just barely. One mandible clicks weakly, and his voice scrapes out in a dry rattle.

"G-Goldy's… safe," he breathes, limbs trembling. "I—I protect-ted h-her. She's… h-heading back t-to… ritual site…"

His body spasms once, like something deep inside is still fighting—against pain, against infection, against something worse.

I lean closer, trying to keep my voice steady. "Who did this to you?"

But even before he answers…

I think I already know.

"O-Orb…ed…" he breathes.

My chest tightens.

So they did make a move.

This wasn't some random fight in the tunnels. This was Orbed striking directly—trying to reach the ritual.

And we're supposed to be the ones stopping that.

I glance down at him again—barely alive, rotting from the inside out—and feel that cold knot in my gut twist even tighter.

I close my eyes and press deeper—past the surface-level psychic flickers, past the weak pulse of awareness he's barely holding onto.

I magnify the connection.

And suddenly, it's more than a conversation.

It's memory. Emotion. Imprint.

They felt it first—a wrongness in the air. Then they saw Orbed. A shape blooming out of the dark, jagged and quiet and absolute.

Panic. Urgency. They turned back, racing for the ritual site, knowing exactly what that presence meant.

But Orbed was faster.

The artifact gleamed—twisted, crooked, humming with death—and Goldy was in its path.

He didn't think.

He just moved.

A wall of spines, flesh, and will.

He took the blow meant for her.

The memory ripples once more—pain and pride mixed in equal measure—then fades.

I open my eyes.

He saved her.

And now it's my turn.

"Alright," I whisper, lowering my head beside his, voice barely audible. "Sorry… but I have to leave you here. I need to help Goldy."

His body trembles, and just as I turn to go, his thoughts brush against mine—urgent, wavering.

"W-Wait… don't go back yet…"

I pause, antennae twitching.

"G-Goldy said… if anyone p-passes by… help the others f-first… b-before going b-back…"

I clench my mandibles, my heart twisting.

Even like this, she's still thinking about all of us.

Of course, she is.

Besides, there's still Victor, Astor, Gyldis, and the others at the ritual site. If Goldy left it in their hands, then they could hold it. They have to.

Which means I shouldn't go back yet.

I'm the one who sent Tessa and Vex into the northern tunnel. I told them to scout ahead and intercept anything suspicious before it reached the site.

And now I'm the one who needs to check on them.

If something's happened—if Orbed wasn't the only one moving—

Then I need to find them.

I turn back to him—my fallen sibling, barely breathing, shell flaking like dead bark under dim light.

"I'm sorry this happened," I whisper.

He doesn't respond, but a faint twitch in his antennae tells me he hears.

I lower my head, just for a moment.

"I promise I'll stab the shit out of Orbed."

A flicker of psychic static ripples between us—almost like approval. Or maybe that's just me projecting.

"And once we're done…" I pause, mandibles clicking softly. "We'll eat you."

It's not cruel.

It's what we do.

His body will feed the brood.

And I'll make sure it wasn't for nothing.

I grimace.

Because now that I really look at him…

Yeah. He's definitely not edible.

Like, at all.

The rot's deep—too deep. Whatever Orbed struck him with, it's still festering. Twisting his insides into something soft and leaking and very much not lunch.

I shudder.

"Okay—never mind," I mutter. "You're definitely off the menu."

And then guilt punches me square in the gut.

Because what kind of sister says something like that to her dying sibling? Who even thinks like that? What the hell is wrong with me?

"…Sorry," I add, quieter. "That was messed up."

He doesn't answer.

But a weak flicker of static brushes my mind.

A psychic shrug.

I sigh and turn toward the northern tunnel.

Time to go.

Alright, alright—running again.

Back into the tunnels. My legs move on autopilot now, leaping over roots and slick stone, dodging low-hanging fungus like a pro.

And while I run, the numbers start doing laps in my head.

Okay, okay—according to Vex, they've got around twice the number of Advanced Myconids as us. That's about fourteen.

Me and Spiky killed one. Myconid Dusk. Sloppy, but dead.

The Spikeward Mothkin's locked in with four more. That's five accounted for.

Which leaves…

Nine.

Nine we haven't seen yet.

I grit my mandibles.

If Tessa and Vex are facing some of them in the northern tunnel—great. Wonderful. Please let that be the case.

Because if not…

That means Orbed might be heading for the ritual site with nine Advanced Myconids in tow.

And that?

That's not a fight.

That's a massacre.

Again, I crawl through the walls—slipping between cracks, scuttling across the ceiling, climbing where others would stumble. The stone is warm here, humming with aftershocks.

And then—

I see it.

The northern tunnel.

Chaos.

Only chaos.

Green goo splattered across the floor in twitching puddles. Fire-charred vines curling in on themselves. Mycelial threads stretched like torn webbing, half-rotten, half-burnt. The whole place smells like smoke and wet death.

In front of me, standing in the middle of it all is a Myconid.

An Advanced one.

Cloaked in frayed, glowing filaments. Fungal beard scorched at the ends. Back hunched with exhaustion, glowing spores flickering erratically around them.

A Myconid Sage.

That has to be Yelinod—Ypal's former subordinate. The one who turned.

He looks wrecked.

I shift slightly, and behind me, flickers of color catch my eye.

Orange-bright. Fiery. Panting hard.

Tessa.

And beside her, dark violet and twitching with fatigue, still bristling even through the exhaustion—

Vex.

They're both alive.

They're both tired.

And from the look of it?

They've been fighting like hell.

"A-Ahhh! Look who arrived!" Tessa calls out, breathless but trying to sound upbeat—like she didn't just go twelve rounds with death and then some.

She's swaying slightly, one leg singed, fur streaked with soot and dried blood. But her tail still twitches with that familiar spark.

Vex doesn't say anything. Just glances at me, antennae flicking, mandibles tight. He's clearly done

"So…" I say, eyeing the wreckage, the twitching vines, the scorch marks, the very not-dead Myconid Sage still glaring in our direction, "I take it you guys are winning?"

Tessa lets out a short, wheezy laugh. "Define winning."

I raise a brow.

She groans. "We're not dead. That count?"

I glance at Vex.

He doesn't respond. Just gives me a look like, what do you think?

"…Need help?"

Tessa straightens, wincing as her back leg buckles slightly. "Only if you're offering."

I click my mandibles.

"Let's ruin someone's day."

A pulse.

A tingle at the back of my mind.

I twist instinctively—and a vine slams down from the ceiling, missing my head by a hair's breadth. It splinters against the stone where I stood half a breath ago.

I blink once.

Smooth.

Tessa stares at me, eyes wide. "Ohhh?! Since when do you do that? That's supposed to be my thing!"

I shrug, antennae flicking. "Guess I'm just evolving."

She puffs her cheeks. "Tch. Copycat."

Another vine twitches above us.

I grin. "Race you to the kill?"

"Not if I got them first," Vex mutters, his voice low and sharp as his spines rattle into place. "Me and that Sage got some score to settle."

I glance at him.

His eyes are locked on Yelinod—burning focused. Not rage. Not pride.

Something colder.

Deeper.

Tessa huffs. "Geez, and here I thought I held grudges."

I flex my claws, bristles bristling. "Fine. Whoever lands the last hit buys the next corpse."

Tessa grins.

Vex doesn't even blink.

Yelinod straightens.

Round two begins.

Spores shimmer in the air—subtle at first, then thick with intent.

"Vexing outsiders," Yelinod's voice seeps through them, rough and tired but still sharp. "You shouldn't have involved yourselves in Myconid business."

I tilt my head slightly, not even trying to hide my smirk. "He's talking about you, Vex."

Vex scoffs, mandibles clicking. "That's not what he meant."

Tessa raises a paw like she's about to ask a question, then pauses. "Wait, actually… yeah, which one of you is he vexed about?"

"Yes," I reply.

Vex exhales slowly. "Can we just kill him now?"

"Oh please," Tessa grins, "I've been ready."

We move.

No signal. No plan. Just go.

All three of us charge forward toward Yelinod—and the tunnel erupts.

Vines lash from the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor beneath us. It's like the entire tunnel comes alive, all of it reaching, grasping, striking.

I dart left, then duck low—barely slipping past a snapping vine that cracks the air beside my head. My psychic sense flares wide, dragging the world into sharper lines. Every twitch, every pulse, I feel it now.

But even with that, it's tight.

Tessa?

She flows through the chaos like smoke.

No hesitation, no overthinking. Just pure instinct. Her paws skip between gaps, her tail whipping around trailing embers, eyes glowing with that terrifying clarity of hers.

Then there's Vex.

Tch.

He doesn't even try to dodge.

A vine slams straight into his side—spines flare up in response, venom bursting across the impact point like a trap sprung too late.

The vine withers immediately, shriveling mid-air.

Vex doesn't flinch.

Cocky bastard.

But fine.

If he's going blunt force?

I'll go with precision.

I weave through another volley of vines, one grazing the tip of my antenna.

Close. Too close.

But I'm calm.

I've got something up my sleeve.

Something nasty.

Something I've been saving.

But as I glance ahead—at Yelinod's slumped posture, the sluggish way his spores pulse, the cracks spreading through his cap—I click my mandibles.

No. This isn't the time.

He's already half-dead.

Using it now would be a waste.

He doesn't deserve it.

I'll save it for something that does.

I keep moving—dodging, weaving, twisting through the barrage of vines as I inch closer to Yelinod. My psychic senses guide me like a thread through chaos, each step sharper than the last.

I'm doing good.

Too good.

Which is exactly when the dungeon decides to slap me.

A wall of fungus slams up beside me—spongy, thick, blocking my side escape. Another vine lashes out, dead center, and I realize I've got nowhere to go.

"Shit—"

Maybe I shouldn't have talked big about my secret powers.

Maybe I should've shut the hell up.

But I don't panic.

I focus.

Draw it in.

The world sharpens. My body lifts—like something heavy just peeled off me. My limbs hum, my senses stretch wide, and something inside clicks. My body exudes a silver aura, radiant and alive, and my eyes glow with a piercing silver light.

I feel the glow before I even see it.

A crescent of pale silver light spins into existence around me—cutting, graceful, lethal.

It arcs once, smooth as moonlight—

Shhk!

—and the vine is gone. Severed clean. The wall of fungus splits.

Lunar Ascension—active.

"Close but not quite, fungus boy," I mutter.

"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Tessa shouts behind me, stumbling to a stop, eyes practically popping out of her soot-smeared face. "Since when do you get secret anime powers?!"

I don't answer. My focus is locked forward.

The silvery crescent blade floats in the air beside me, spinning slowly and elegantly like a moonlit pendulum. My body hums—lighter, stronger, sharp.

Vex clicks his mandibles, eyeing me sidelong. "Huh. Seems like you had something tucked away after all. I'm almost impressed."

I take a step forward, glowing crescent arcing lazily in sync with me.

Then Yelinod speaks—voice thin, frayed, spores curling with weary contempt.

"Another irregularity…"
"This is truly… vexing."

The silver light pulses once.

And I smile, just a little.

"Get used to it."

End of Chapter 37