The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

He lands with a force that shakes the stone beneath us—
The Spikeward Mothkin.

Wings half-folded, glowing softly with streaks of pale green light, posture tall and sharp like a spear.

And Spiky, clinging to his back like some gremlin,, slides off with a little thud and a very self-satisfied click.

"Missed anything?" he chirps, as if he didn't vanish mid-fight.

I narrow my eyes.

Spiky. Freakin' MIA.
...Then again, I'm the one who told him to stay. So. That's on me.

Orbed turns—slow, deliberate.

Their voice cuts through the spores, cold and low.

"You."

Not a greeting.

No surprise.

Just recognition.

The Mothkin meets that glare without flinching. His antennae twitch once.

"Warden."

Within seconds, the stillness shatters.

The ground erupts—
Sharp spines burst from the floor in sudden, perfect lines, flaring upward like a trap set by instinct.

Orbed counters instantly—their arms sweeping out as mycelium twists and curls, hardening into antler-shaped spears that collide with the spines.

CRACK—CRASH—SKRRRRK—

The whole battlefield fills with flashing barbs and blades, fungal limbs, and bristled fury slamming against each other in a blur of motion.

No words.
No warning.
Just two monsters who know how to kill.

As the dust and spores spiral around them, Orbed stands unfazed amidst the storm of clashing attacks.

Their voice oozes into the air again, low and dry like rot creeping up the bark.

"So… Thalreek has fallen."
A pause—almost theatrical.

"A shame, really. But no matter."

Their eyes glow faint green as they raise the artifact again.

"When I'm done with all of you… I'll have all the time I need to raise the ritual Myconids myself—and ascend."

The way they say it?

Not ambition.

Certainty.

While those two monsters—Spikeward and Orbed—remain locked in a brutal, elegant clash of spines and mycelium, the world around them blurs with every blow.

But beside me—
I hear the fast, familiar scuttle.

Spiky rushes to my side, panting hard, bristles slightly frayed, but eyes sharp.

He glances at me, then the battlefield, then back.

"You look terrible," he mutters like it's just another Tuesday.

I manage a weak smirk. "You're late."

He shrugs. "You told me to stay. I stayed. Then things exploded."

Fair

Spiky shakes himself off, still a little out of breath, bristles twitching as he settles beside me.

"Alright," he says, his tone casual, but his eyes? Still buzzing from adrenaline. "So I heard the Spikeward Mothkin nearby. Thought I'd check it out."

He nods toward the chaos where spine and fungus are still tearing through the air.

"Found him going one-on-four against a bunch of Advanced Myconids. And honestly? I thought he was done for."

He pauses a small flick of pride in his voice now.

"But he pulled through. Barely. Against all odds. With my help, of course."

I raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs.

"I didn't fight, exactly. More like… redirected. Distracted. Gave him space to finish them off. Tactical support, you know?"

I huff a quiet breath.

"Yeah, Spiky. I know."

I nod slowly, watching the Spikeward Mothkin drive back Orbed with a sudden burst of spines—each one sharp, deliberate, controlled.

"Yeah… I saw it too," I murmur.

Spiky glances at me, antennae twitching.

"But instead of asking for help," I continue, voice quiet, "he just looked at me—calm as anything—and said to go find Goldy. That he'd hold the line."

I exhale, bitter and quiet.

"He knew what was coming. And he still took it on alone."

I glance sideways at Spiky, my voice low and serious.

"You think he can handle Orbed alone?"

Spiky doesn't answer right away. He's watching the fight too—wings flashing, spores clashing, the sheer pressure between the two making the air feel tighter.

"The way he is right now," I add, "it's clear the rot's gotten worse in him. You can see it—that green glow. It's not normal. And the fact he bodied four Advanced Myconids in that condition was a miracle honestly—uhh, with your help, of course—"

Spiky gives a modest nod, like naturally.

"Still," I continue, "he's far from being optimal. He's holding himself together, but just barely."

I pause.

"Can he really finish this alone?"

Spiky doesn't even pretend to think about it.

"No. Obviously not."

Blunt as always.

I glance back at the spiraling clash of spines and rot, my limbs still trembling under me, my breath uneven.

"Then let's help him," I say, pushing off the wall. "We don't know how much longer Ypal's ascension is gonna take. And if he goes down before that—"

"Are you kidding?" Spiky cuts in, stepping in front of me. "You're in no shape to do anything right now."

He gestures at me, bristles flaring. "You look like a limp meat with rage issues. One tap and you're out."

I glare.

"Not the point."

I grunt, trying to stand straighter, even as my limbs protest every movement.

"Goldy and Vex—they got hit too. Just like me."

I glance toward them. They're standing, sure, but they're dragging. Burned. Breathing hard. Still recovering from that rot blast. One more hit and they're out.

I turn back to Spiky. "What about Victor? Think he can still fight?"

Spiky's eyes follow the Spikeward Mothkin for a moment. Then he nods. "Victor? Nah. He's not fighting. He's been guiding the Mothkin—watching angles, calling shifts. Playing commander, not combatant."

I exhale. "Right… that leaves three who can still throw down."

I glance around the battlefield.

"You, of course."

Spiky puffs his bristles obviously.

"Astor's still standing," I continue.

"And that…" I squint toward a shadowy figure.

"That Myconid Howler who's apparently just been watching us this whole time."

The Howler tilts their cap slightly as if to say well, I was waiting for a cue.

I take a deep breath—
still hurts—
but I force my legs to lock.

"Well, alright, you guys," I say, loud enough for Astor and the Howler to catch it too.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"No grand plan. No brilliant strategy. I'm not gonna pretend I've got some genius move lined up."

Spiky raises a brow. Goldy and Vex glance over from their spots, still breathing, still listening.

"All we need to do…" I continue, eyes locking on Orbed as they clash with the Spikeward Mothkin,
"…is disrupt."

"Cover the Mothkin."

"Stall Orbed."

"As long as we can."

That's it.

Hold the line.

Until Ypal wakes. Or we all fall trying.

Astor steps forward first, voice calm, firm.

"That much," they say, vines coiling tightly around their arms, "we are prepared for."

The Myconid Howler hums in agreement, their cap vibrating with focused energy.
"For Sporehaven."

Then they charge—a blur of vines and sound, rushing straight toward the ongoing clash like they were waiting for this moment all along.

"Wait—!" Spiky calls out, bristles jolting in alarm—then he groans and runs after them, muttering something about "no one sticking to pacing anymore."

I turn to Gyldis, who's still crouched beside me, spores gently drifting.

"Cover them," I say. "Heal, support, whatever it takes. Don't mind us. Just keep them going."

Gyldis locks eyes with me for a breath—then nods once, already moving.

And just like that—

The second wave hits the field.

Damn…

This rot thing?

It's terrible.

It was way worse than any cold I had ever had. It's not just pain—it's this creeping numbness, like my body's forgetting how to work one breath at a time.

I feel weak, like even thinking too hard might snap something inside me. Every movement is a negotiation with gravity. Every breath feels like breathing through mold.

And yet…

That Spikeward Mothkin—

He's still moving.

Not just moving—fighting. Dodging, countering, throwing his spines with surgical precision like he's not dying on the inside.

He definitely took more damage than me. He's been rotting longer. He's the one that's been holding the line since before I got here.

And he's still going.

What an absolute monster.

The battlefield hums with pressure as Orbed raises the artifact, its green glow flaring violently.

FWOOOM—
A beam of rot energy rips through the air—

—but the Spikeward Mothkin raises his arms just in time, conjuring a barrier spell, thin and flickering at the edges.

The rot beam slams into it, cracks splintering across the surface—
but it holds, just barely, before the Mothkin dispels it with a sharp flick, absorbing the backlash into a controlled step backward.

He moves again—
but slower this time.

His wings flutter unevenly. His stance is off by just a hair.
The rot in him is catching up.

Orbed notices.

They press forward, swinging with their malformed, bladed limb—sharp and wild—but the Mothkin counters, barely blocking with a brace of defensive spines, sliding back as dust kicks up under his feet.

Then—support.

A sharp cluster of bristles slams into Orbed's back—Spiky's shot, clean and timed.

Astor's vines lash in from the side, trying to snare Orbed's leg, forcing a stumble.

The Howler, up on high, lets out a sonic shriek, disrupting Orbed's balance mid-swing, throwing their momentum just enough for the Mothkin to counter.

But even so—

The Mothkin's movements are slowing. He breathes heavier. Rot glows faintly under his armor plates. His stance is solid, but his rhythm? Strained.

The only thing keeping him ahead—

Are the precise cues from Victor, who watches like a hawk. Every time Orbed shifts, feints, or tries something twisted, Victor's calm psychic signals hit the Mothkin just in time.

It's no longer a clean clash of dominance—

It's a grind.

The fight drags forward, heavier with every exchange.

The Spikeward Mothkin lunges again—but Orbed is faster this time, and the artifact fires point-blank.

CRACK—BOOM—

The rot beam slams into his shoulder, sending the Mothkin skidding back, one wing dragging, his breath sharp and shallow.

He plants his feet and braces again.

Another beam—
He blocks—but just barely.

And then—another hit.

Right in the side.

The rot bites deep. The impact sends fungal plates cracking, green glow flaring where his armor once held firm.

He's slowing down.

Every movement now is dragged, not danced. His strikes lack the snap from earlier. His barrier spells come a second too late. His wings flicker like flame in the wind.

But then—
I see it.

Between the pulses of the fight, in the flicker of each shot—

The artifact in Orbed's hand?

It's dimming.

That greedy green light that burned so relentlessly?
Now it pulses in fits, uneven. Its hum falters.

It's losing mana.

We're bleeding.
The Mothkin is barely standing.

But so is Orbed's weapon.
And that means—we're almost there.

But even so

Orbed notices it too.

Their head tilts ever so slightly. The artifact in their grip flickers again, a sputtering glow where once there was a storm.

Their eyes—cold, empty—narrow.

They know.

They're running out.

And that means—

They're going to be desperate.

No more slow, crushing dominance. No more calculated control.

They're going to lash out; try to end it fast before the last drop of mana drains from their hand.

And when powerful things get desperate?

They get sloppy.

Orbed lifts the artifact high.

No wind-up.
No warning.

Just a raw, snarling pulse of energy—

And then—

BOOOOOOOM.

A single, massive blast of rot erupts outward in a wide arc—
not a beam this time, but a detonating wave, washing across the battlefield like a collapsing wall of corruption.

Astor is hit first—sent flying back, vines shredded mid-strike.

The Myconid Howler shrieks, trying to pulse sound into the blast, but is swallowed by it and crumples to the ground, twitching.

Spiky and Victor get caught mid-dash, flung like a pebble against stone, his bristles flaring as he rolls.

Even the Spikeward Mothkin—
He raises a barrier, too slow, too drained—
and the blast slams through, sending him crashing backward in a cloud of broken stone and glowing rot.

For a moment—

Silence.

Then—
crick... pop...

The artifact sparks, a final flicker of light escaping the jagged stone.

And then—

It goes dark.

Orbed stares at it.

No glow.

No hum.

Spent.

Orbed stares at the spent artifact for a moment—
Then lowers it.

And begins to laugh.

Not just a chuckle—
But a slow, spiraling, hysterical noise, spores pouring from their cap in wild, uncontrollable plumes.

Their laugh spills into the air like gas, vibrating through every mind it touches. Sickly. Joyful. Unhinged.

"I've won," their voice booms, tangled in spores and madness.
"I've already won!"

They step forward, arms wide, the artifact now a dead stone dangling from their grip like a trophy.

"The rot is eternal. The artifact is spent—but it did what it needed. You are broken. Your allies are scattered. And your 'hope'—that pathetic ritual? Still unfinished."

Their form twitches, rot pulsing visibly beneath their fungal flesh.

"You don't get it. The Rot isn't just decay. It's release. A return to what we were always meant to be—free from balance, free from waiting, free from the cowardice of order."

Spores pour thicker, raining around them in green sheets.

"I don't need the artifact to win anymore. The rot is already seeded in every crack of this world. In your bodies. In mine."

They grin with nothing but eyes.

"Even if you rise again—you'll rot from the inside out."

I drag my limbs beneath me—
every joint screaming, every breath like fire in my lungs.

But I stand.

Even if it's just barely.

And I raise my voice—not loud, not strong,
but clear.

"The ritual's unfinished?"
I cough, then grin through the pain.
"You might wanna look behind you, buddy."

Orbed freezes.
Their head turns—slowly.

And there—

There it is.

Ypal.

Risen.

Their form is towering, rooted in the stone like they were grown from the very foundation of Sporehaven itself.

Their cap bears intricate, spiraling patterns like ancient rings of wisdom etched by time and spore and thought itself.

Their body is thick, gnarled, and twisted with dignity—
like an ancient tree trunk, scarred and strong, pulsing softly with bioluminescent veins.

They don't speak.

They don't need to.

Their presence alone is a response.
A declaration.

And Orbed?

Suddenly—

They're very quiet.

Ypal steps forward, slow and deliberate.

Their presence radiates calm—ancient, grounded, unchanging.

They tilt their cap ever so slightly, voice deep and resonant, carried through the spores like a warm wind through old trees.

"Greetings, old friend."

The words are simple.
But behind them—decades. Regret. Patience.

Orbed recoils, their entire body tensing, limbs twitching in disbelief.
Their voice rises—not with power, but with rage.

"You—"

Spores burst out around them, wild and unfocused.
"You cheat! You always were!"

They take a step back, snarling.

"Tricked me with your parlay, with your balance. You couldn't stand against me alone, so you ran—ran to outsiders! To lesser things!"

They spit the last words like venom.

"You're no sage. You're a coward wearing wisdom like a cloak. You called for help like a bud who's scared of the dark!"

Their whole body pulses with furious rot, desperate, unraveling—

But Ypal remains unmoved.

Rooted.
Quiet.

And watching.

Ypal stands still amidst the storm of spores and fury.

They wait.

Let the rage pass. Let Orbed spill it all.

And then, softly—so softly it feels like it settles inside the mind, not just around it—Ypal speaks.

"Such is balance."

Their voice is low, resonant, and firm—not cold, not emotional. Just… true.

"Balance is not cowardice, Orbed. It is acceptance. Of strength and weakness. Of growth and decay. Of solitude… and unity."

They take a slow step forward, each motion deliberate, like a tide reclaiming the shore.

"To rely on others is not a betrayal of our kind—it is the recognition that the world no longer belongs to any one species. We are not alone in this world. We never were."

Ypal's eyes glow faintly under the spiraling crown of their cap.

"Balance does not mean peace. It does not mean surrender. It means holding the line between extremes. Between rot and bloom. Between stagnation… and destruction."

A quiet pulse flows from them—like a breeze through old roots.

"You chose to rot. I chose to rise."

And Orbed?

For the first time—

They look small.

Orbed's body shudders, their form twitching like a dying flame trying to surge back into a wildfire.

"Spare me your riddles."
Their voice is brittle now, spores flaring out in panicked bursts.

"You think I don't see it?" they snarl. "You're not wise. You're weak. Hiding behind poetry and parasites. You let the world change you."

Their limbs stiffen. The rot in their body flares unnaturally bright.

"I became the truth of our kind! I embraced the decay! And you—you infected yourself with hope."

Without warning—

Orbed lunges.

A jagged fungal blade erupts from their arm, twisted and glowing sickly green, and they hurl themselves toward Ypal with everything they have left.

Rot streaming, spores screaming.

Desperate.

Final.

Orbed charges, shrieking with rage, rot trailing behind like a cloak of unraveling death.

Their jagged fungal blade comes down—

But Ypal catches it.

Effortlessly.

One massive, gnarled hand closes around the corrupted limb, stopping it mid-swing like it was nothing more than a drifting leaf.

Ypal's voice is quiet, heavy with sorrow.

"I did not wish for it to end this way..."
A pause. A breath of grief.

"But alas, it is the path you chose, old friend."

A soft glow begins to rise—spiraling from the intricate patterns on Ypal's towering cap. The light travels downward, slow and deliberate, tracing over their massive body like the unfurling of an ancient spell.

It reaches their hand—the one still holding Orbed.

And in that moment, everything still.

Orbed struggles, snarling, eyes wide.
"You always looked down on me. Even now, preaching like some overgrown weed with a halo—"

But before he can finish—

P O O F.

In an instant, Orbed vanishes, his form unraveling into clumps of glowing spores, scattered like dust on the wind.

No scream.
No explosion.
Just… gone.

Holy shit.

Just like that.

One second, Orbed was the nightmare looming over all of us—
Unstoppable. Untouchable.
All rot and rage and ruin.

And now?

Gone.

Not slain. Not shattered.

Just—erased.

Scattered like dust in a draft.

I stare at the spot where he stood, still flickering with faint spores.

Orbed… gone?

It doesn't feel real.

That was power.
Not force. Not domination.
Power.
Quiet. Absolute.

And terrifying.

My body—
suddenly feels lighter.

Like a pressure I didn't even realize was crushing me just… lifted.

I breathe—shaky, shallow—
but it doesn't hurt as much.

The rot inside me?
It's still there. But it's not clawing anymore. Not spreading.

Heh.

Is it because Orbed's gone?

Because that twisted artifact finally went dark?

...Or is it because I'm dying?

That'd be funny, right?

Saved the world—
then whoops, lights out anyway.

I sway a little and feel the world tilt.

Could be relief.
Could be the end.

Hard to tell, honestly.

My eyes—
They're getting heavy.
Not tired-heavy.
Weighted.

Like the whole world's trying to pull me down into the dark, wrap me in silence.

And from the distance—
I hear it.

A voice.

Tessa.

Sharp, frantic, and extremely confused, like she just arrived at the end of a movie she didn't watch.

"NUR!? What the—what HAPPENED?!"

She's calling for me.

I want to respond.
I want to tell her—It's fine. We did it. You're late, but it's fine.

But my mouth won't move.
Everything's too heavy.
My body. My thoughts.

The world's going dim at the edges, and it's not scary.

It's…

Warm.

I think—
I think I'm just gonna sleep for a bit.
Just a little.

That's all.

End of Chapter 43