The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

The sound of the sea reaches me first.

It's dusk — the sky above Ottomania is streaked with red and gold, the sun sinking fast behind the jagged mountains. The cliffs here are sharp and cold, the kind of place people come to watch the horizon and pretend it's theirs.

I'm standing at the edge, as always. Hands clasped behind my back. Watching.

Below, paper lanterns drift across the black water — dozens of them, maybe hundreds — glowing faint orange as they're carried out to sea. I don't know who put them there. I don't even know what they're for.

"You're doing it again."

The voice comes from behind me, casual and familiar.

I don't turn.

But I know who it is.

Morven.

He's sitting on a jet of stone a few feet away, arms resting over his knees, dark hair falling into his eyes. There's always a crooked grin on his face, even now.

"You always do that," he says, his tone somewhere between amused and exasperated. "Looking like the whole world personally offended you."

I stay quiet.

He leans back lazily, letting the wind catch his coat. "You ever wonder why nobody talks to you?"

At that, I finally glance at him.

His grin doesn't falter.

"You don't have any friends," he continues, matter-of-fact. "You don't even try to have any. It's like you enjoy being miserable."

I turn my eyes back to the horizon.

"I don't need friends," I say simply, evenly, the way I've always said it.

"I am Ottomania's first prodigy. That is enough."

Morven laughs — a short, bitter sound — and shakes his head.

"Sure," he mutters, staring at the sea. "Whatever you say."

We sit there like that for a while — the lanterns growing smaller and smaller.

And then Morven speaks again, his tone light but carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm.

"So you're really gonna do it, huh?"

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.

He smirks, leaning forward just enough for the wind to catch his hair.

"You're gonna become Ottomania's Junior Archmage at the ripe old age of twenty-one?"

I say nothing.

"Look at you," he continues, shaking his head like he can't decide if he's impressed or disappointed. "Moving up in the world. Sitting on cliffs, glaring at lanterns, and scaring off every halfway-decent person who tries to talk to you. Guess it worked, huh?"

His grin widens faintly, but his eyes are harder now, sharper.

"Bet all those councilmen just love you," he adds, voice softening a little, almost like he means it.

I keep my gaze fixed on the horizon.

And finally answer, quiet but certain:

"They don't have to love me.

"They just have to respect me."

Morven lets out a low whistle and chuckles under his breath.

"Ah," he says, settling back on the rocks. "There he is. Ottomania's prodigy."

Morven shifts on the rock, resting his chin on his hand, still watching me like he's waiting for me to crack.

Then he asks, softer this time, though the edge is still there

"…What about her?"

I don't answer right away, though the name's already in my mind.

"You gonna leave her too?" he presses, not looking at me now — eyes fixed somewhere beyond the lanterns.

Finally, I speak. My tone doesn't waver.

"You mean Liz?"

He snorts faintly, almost like he's amused I even said it. "Who else?"

I keep my gaze on the horizon, on the thin line where sea and sky blur.

"Don't underestimate her," I say flatly. "At this rate, she's going to become the Saintess."

That earns a sharp, almost bitter laugh from him.

"Saintess, huh?"

"And probably," I add, quieter now, "achieve higher than I. In time."

He lets that sit there for a moment, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head slowly.

"Well then," he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear, "guess she doesn't need you either."

I open my mouth to say something — to answer him, maybe to argue, maybe just to fill the silence before it swallows us whole.

But before the words can form—

—The scene warps.

The cliff and the sea lurch away like they're being peeled off the world, the lanterns tearing into streaks of light.

For an instant, I see something else — a long marble hall, bright and cold, full of faceless people who whisper without mouths.

Then it shifts again — jagged mountains under a storm, the air thick with ash and fire, something massive writhing in the clouds above.

Then a quiet garden drenched in moonlight, a girl —Liz? — kneeling by a fountain, her hands bloody.

Then back to the cliffs. Then somewhere else.

It's like being shaken inside a dream I can't wake up from.

Morven's voice echoes faintly through it all, though I can't see him anymore

"You really think you can stand above it all? Even when you don't know where you're standing?"

I try to reach for him, to say his name—

The scenes keep spinning—cliff, hall, garden, storm—until they blur into a single, nauseating smear of color and sound.

I feel myself slipping.

I reach for something—anything-to anchor myself, but my hands just pass through the images like they're made of smoke.

The whispers grow louder now, layered over each other, impossible to follow:
"prodigy" — "saint" — "morven" — "she doesn't need you" — "above it all"

My vision fractures into jagged pieces.

And then—

I start laughing.

Soft at first, then sharp, then… strange.

My chest heaves as the words that won't form properly spill out anyway—crooked, jumbled, nonsensical:

"Ahhh, the cliff fell upward, and the sea clapped, and the lanterns—they don't even burn, do they? No, no, they just stare, little eyes floating away, oh yes, lovely little stars too stupid to drown—"

I feel my head tilt too far to one side as I drift further into it, the dream slipping into that familiar, absurd chaos.

"Ahhh yes, and the marble cracks if you kiss it, and the saintess bleeds roses if you ask politely, and the sky—oh, the sky is just waiting for its turn to fall!"

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I know I'm somewhere between memory and nothing now.

But it doesn't matter.

Because the laughter won't stop, and the words won't make sense, and in some warped corner of my mind it feels… right.

It feels like home.

The scenes don't stop.

They keep warping — folding in on each other, then tearing apart.

The cliffs dissolve into the marble hall, then shatter into the garden, then collapse into the battlefield, then swirl back into the sea.

Over and over.

Too much to hold. Too little to really grasp.

Voices overlap, their words indistinct, broken by laughter and screams and silence.

Images flash by, Liz's hands slick with blood at the fountain. Morven is sitting on the cliff, smirking but sad. Lanterns burning without fire. A throne room split down the middle by shadow. A nameless figure kneeling in chains, face hidden by light.

I try to hold onto one — just one-but the harder I reach, the faster it slips away.

It's too much.

And yet, somehow, not enough.

Everything blurs together into a storm of feelings I can't name, memories I can't quite claim, words I almost recognize but can't say aloud.

My breath catches on a laugh that's halfway to a sob as the world spins and spins and spins—

And somewhere deep in the chaos, Morven's voice whispers faintly, like it's coming from under water:

"Still pretending you're not lonely, huh?"

Then—

Boom.

Not a sound, not really. More like a feeling, a sudden weight yanking me down, ripping through everything that came before.

The storm of scenes shatters at once, like glass underfoot, and I fall.

Down, down—through memory, through nothing—

Until—

I land.

Or maybe I just… stop falling.

And I'm standing.

In a vast, white space, stretching endlessly in every direction.

There's nothing here. No cliffs, no marble halls, no names, no voices.

Just white.

Empty.

The air hums faintly, like it's holding its breath.

I glance down, my hands curling faintly at my sides. Not claws — just hands. Pale, human, trembling slightly.

For the first time in what feels like forever—

Everything is quiet.

Uncomfortably, impossibly quiet.

I turn around slowly, my bare feet whispering against the endless white.

And then—

I see it.

A mound of earth rising from the nothing, faint trails of gas curling up from its surface. Nearby, a small, fragile-looking tree with roots that disappear into the white. And just beyond it, a shallow puddle of still, glowing water.

I stop.

The air feels heavier now.

This scene…

These things…

It feels like I've seen this before.

No. Not just seen.

I know this.

The words slip into my mind unbidden—

Lucid Reflection.

Wait.

How do I know that?

I stagger a half-step back, hands clenching at my sides, a cold panic worming into my chest.

Who even… am I?

I press my palms to my face, breath catching.

No no no—stop.

I need to stop.

If I keep thinking, keep pulling at the edges of this place, it'll warp again.

I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper through my teeth—

"Not again… don't let it warp again…"

The hum in the air deepens, waiting.

Don't question.

Don't spiral.

That thought roots itself in my chest like a command, and for once—I listen.

I lower my hands from my face, fingers trembling slightly, but I don't clench them.

Just… breathe.

Let it stay.

The mound, the gas, the little tree swaying without wind, the puddle shimmering faintly.

Just let it happen.

I feel my shoulders loosen as I let the questions burn out unasked.

I don't need to know who I am right now.

I don't need to understand why this place feels like home and a nightmare all at once.

The scene stays still this time.

Quiet.

Waiting.

And so do I.

Alright.

Let's check them out. See what they've got.

I step toward the mound first — drawn to the faint wisps of gas curling lazily out of it.

My hand rises instinctively, like I've done this before, even though my head insists I haven't.

I reach for the gas.

The world reacts immediately — like a drop of ink spilling into water, the white around me bleeds black.

For a moment, it's just a void.

Then faint, luminous images float up through the dark, hanging in the air like scraps of memory. Symbols. Shapes.

And when I focus on one, it responds — flaring brighter as if acknowledging me.

Words — no, understanding — floods in as I touch it.

The first image shimmers into focus:

Part Mimic-
I can morph any part of a creature and use its features.

A strange shiver runs through me — I can feel that one, the way my skin already remembers how to split and reform if I let it.

The next image slides closer. I touch it.

Uncanny Reflex-
My body reacts instinctively to deadly strikes by morphing into something defensive.

Even reading it, I can almost sense it in my muscles — the way my body wants to move, even without thinking.

I let out a slow breath.

So these… these are mine.

At least this part of me, I understand.

So… that's all I have.

My natural abilities.

Just those two — but they settle into me, like they've always been there, waiting for me to stop being afraid of them.

I let go of the gas, my fingers slipping out of the black haze.

And just like that—

The darkness recedes.

The white scene returns around me, quiet and endless once more.

The little tree sways faintly nearby. The puddle glows softly.

And for the first time since I got here…

I feel like maybe I can stand still.

I turn my gaze to the small tree.

It stands there, delicate but steady, its thin branches reaching upward, swaying slightly even though there's no wind.

Something about it pulls at me — quiet, insistent.

So I step closer and place my hand on its trunk.

The air shifts immediately.

The white drains away, replaced by a deep, throbbing red that floods the space around me like blood sinking into snow.

The tree itself glows faintly now, veins of crimson light running through it.

And then—images emerge.

Clear. Sharp.

First: a faint silhouette of myself — unmarked. Beside it, two words etched into the red:

Wound: None
Sickness: None

Good.

Then the image zooms in closer, my own anatomy laid bare in thin, glowing lines.

My shoulders, knees, sides — little points of darker red appear, pinpointing where I'm weaker, where a strike would hurt the most, where my defenses are thin.

It's unsettling, seeing myself this way.

But at the same time… it feels right.

I trace one of the marks idly with a finger, feeling a quiet resolve settle into my chest.

At least now… I know.

I slowly pull my hand away from the tree.

The crimson glow fades, dissolving back into soft white light that swallows the space around me.

The familiar quiet returns.

Now, the mound.

I reach out and touch the cracked surface, fingertips resting just over the jagged fissure.

The world shifts once more.

The white dissolves into a vast starry night sky, endless and shimmering.

Beneath me, glowing branching paths stretch out like veins—each a shimmering thread leading to unknown destinations.

The paths pulse gently, inviting me to follow, to explore what lies beyond.

This feels different.

Like a map.

A life's journey waiting to be walked

Beneath the starry expanse, my gaze follows the glowing branches winding outward—

There, clear as day, is my current path, marked boldly: Fleshling.

Tracing backward along the shimmering veins, I see the earlier stages—

First, Mimicling, a faint outline, smaller, less defined but unmistakable.

Even further back, a dimmer, almost forgotten thread: Morphis Seedling.

Each step was a ghost of what I was, what I became, and what I might still be.

The paths pulse softly beneath my fingers, whispers of growth, change, and lingering uncertainty.

I swallow hard.

This isn't just a journey.

It's my evolution.

I lean closer, eyes narrowing as the glowing paths stretch ahead.

One branch splits off sharply — labeled Lesser Doppelganger — but the line isn't smooth.

It's fractured. Broken in places, flickering like a fractured reflection in disturbed water.

What does that mean?

Is the path uncertain? Dangerous? Forbidden?

The other branch stretches out steadier, clearer — Homunculus — its glow steady, unbroken.

No cracks. No flickers.

But both paths share one thing in common: they're locked.

Dimmed and unreachable for now, like doors waiting for keys I don't yet hold.

I trace the lines again, feeling the weight of choice and the unknown pressing in.

The future is waiting.

But not yet mine to claim.

I pull my hand slowly away from the cracked mound.

The starry sky fades, folding back into the endless white space surrounding me.

Only one thing remains — the puddle.

The mana pool.

I step toward it, eyes fixed on the shimmering blue surface.

It's still, calm, glowing softly like a fragment of the sky fallen to the ground.

Without hesitation, I reach out and let my fingers graze the surface.

The white world shifts again, melting into a serene, blue-tinged realm filled with rippling currents of energy.

This is the source — the wellspring of power that feeds everything.

I feel the pulse of raw mana coursing beneath the surface, a deep, endless reservoir waiting to be tapped.

And as I stand there, immersed in its quiet hum, I understand — this is where my strength begins.

The glowing blue realm ripples softly as the image rises from the puddle—sharp, vivid, impossible to ignore.

[Magic Talent]
Arcane

[Magic Affinities]

Wind - 2

Fire - 1

Kinetic - 2

Four.

Sounds about right.

If only my actual magic abilities were so tidy.

Below the affinities, another panel unfolds, almost endlessly scrolling:

[Magic Abilities]

Arcane Blast

Arcane Shield

Arcane Spike Barrage

Wind Gust

Gale Force Slash

Cyclone Spin

Fireball

Flame Whip

Inferno Burst

Ember Trail

Kinetic Push

Kinetic Pull

Gravity Well

Momentum Surge

Shockwave Slam

Energy Manipulation

Energy Absorption

Spatial Shift

Temporal Flicker

Psychic Pulse

Mind Flare

Illusion Craft

Elemental Binding

Mana Shield

Spell Weaving

Summon Arcane Construct

Chain Lightning

Firestorm

Tornado Call

Energy Blade

Force Field

Telekinesis

Energy Drain

Flame Armor

Wind Barrier

Kinetic Armor

Mana Burst

Arcane Explosion

Elemental Overload

Energy Conversion

Magic Sight

Elemental Manipulation

Magic Amplification

Water Manipulation

Earthquake Tremor

Ice Spear

Shadow Veil

Necrotic Touch

Life Drain

Healing Light

Barrier of Thorns

Poison Mist

Summon Undead

Time Slow

Dreamwalk

Spirit Bind

Gravity Crush

Thunder Clap

Blood Pact

Astral Projection

Curse of Silence

Stone Skin

Blizzard Wave

Soul Burn

Mirror Image

Mana Leak

The list goes on, spilling beyond what I can grasp.

Some of these aren't even part of my natural affinities or talent—water, earth, shadow, necrotic magics—but somehow they're there, recorded possibilities, waiting.

Why?

What am I?

No.

Stop.

I pull my hand away sharply from the mana pool, the blue glow vanishing as the endless stream of possibilities fades.

I breathe slowly, forcing calm back into my chest.

No spiraling. Not again.

I watch as the scene dissolves back into familiar white silence—empty, safe, and still.

No questions. Not now.

Just let it settle.

Just let it be.

I breathe softly, letting the quiet stretch until the tension in my chest eases.

What do I do now?

Something tugs at the edge of my memory, faint but clear enough to grasp: when I wake, I'm always drawn to something. Each time I find a new piece, hold it in my hand—each fragment collected—the scenes stop warping so violently.

They stabilize.

They become clear.

They become... me.

Yes. With each piece, I feel closer to who I truly am.

But that's not all.

There's someone else—no, two others. They've been following me. Monsters, both intelligent, both curious

A caterpillar and a wolf.

They aren't interested in artifacts or magic. They're interested in something else entirely.

Something deeper.

They want to know more about...

Humans.

I need to wake up.

I can't linger here forever, drifting through memories and fragments. There are answers I won't find by standing still, locked within the silence of this white void.

Those two intelligent monsters—the caterpillar and the wolf—I need to speak to them. Ask them what their intentions are. Understand why they're curious about humans. And maybe, if they're willing, perhaps they could even assist me.

Help me find more pieces of…

Of me.

It's time.

I steady my breathing, close my eyes, and let go of the silence.

When I open them again, I'll be ready.

End of Chapter 52