The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

Well.

It's dark as shit.

But nothing my spatial sense can't handle. Especially now.

I mean, yeah—it took some time. We've been moving around a lot lately. Me, Tessa, and Morven—wandering this never-ending cavy maze, eating anything that twitches wrong, stabbing, burning, biting. You know, dungeon life. We're stronger now. Not safe, but stronger.

Sometimes we run into humans. Lucky us, right?

Except not. The only ones we've found so far have been the stab first, ask questions never type. So… no useful info about the surface. Not yet, anyway. Still feels weird, knowing there's a whole world up there—cities, sunlight, snacks—and all I get are angry adventurers screaming "MONSTER!" like it's a bad thing.

Whatever.

I've been practicing magic though. And honestly? I'm getting better. Like, noticeably better. Yay me.

Then there's Lunar Ascension. It's cool. I've got a near-limitless supply of moonlight thanks to the Lunerian Checkpoint. That place is practically a cheat code. It helps me to level up much much faster.

So naturally, I'm stuck.

No, literally.

I've evolved again. Now I'm in my Soft Magical Lunar Cocoon—exactly what it sounds like: a glowing, squishy husk of spell-silk that hums with mana and, like all soft cocoons, refuses to budge an inch on its own. Majestic? Probably. Hopefully. Functional? Not unless someone gives me a push.

The path offered two other choices: Soft Shell Lunar Cocoon (all defense, tank vibes—not my forte) and Soft Shadow Lunar Cocoon (stealthy, sinister—not my forte either). In the end, they'd all leave me stranded in a silky pod, so I went with the magical option. Which means right now I look like a luminous, smug fruit and need Tessa or Morven to haul me around like some sentient luggage bag.

Not embarrassing at all.

Speaking of Morven—he's... weird like always. Though not all the time, but sometimes. Especially when we're in real danger, or when the enemy's just a little too strong. His voice goes strange, his movements get all smooth and creepy, and his face—ugh. Like he remembers something no one else does.

But he's more stable now. Way more than when he slurped that glowing rock. He doesn't talk to walls anymore, at least not as much.

Also, he teaches us Common Tongue. I think I'm getting the hang of it. Still mix up past and present tense sometimes, but hey—that's progress. Not sure about Tessa though. She mostly barks and grins.

Which brings us to Tessa.

It's still Tessa. Jumping, clawing, biting, laughing. Burning things. She can spit fireballs now—courtesy of Morven's idea, which was a huge mistake. She now yells "BEWARE OF FIRE-WOLF-DRAGON TESSA!" every time she uses it, like it's her new battle cry. I think I lost three brain cells the first time she shouted that.

And me?

Like I said. Cocooned. Glowing. Stronger. Smarter. Still very much a moth-in-progress.

But the most important thing?

My spatial sense.

It's crystal clear now. Not just lines and shapes—I feel pressure shifts, temperature gradients, even the slight breeze when someone thinks about moving. It's like having your nose cleared after being stuffed for a week. Like plucking a nose full of dried boogers and suddenly being able to smell the future.

Okay that, mayyy be a little gross and unladylike of me. But you get the point.

Oh, and one more thing.

I can do fire now.

Well—not the way Tessa does it, obviously. She's got that freakish instinctual talent, like she sneezes and the world combusts. Me? I have to actually think. Like, step-by-step, deliberate spellwork. No raw elemental vomiting for this girl.

It started when I asked Morven how to makes things out of thin air. You know, conjuring swords, shadow glass, the occasional floating chicken bone. He said something about Replication—mana becoming matter, based on knowledge. And not just knowing what it is, but how it behaves. Its essence. Its image.

"Magic is imagery," he said, in that monotone, vaguely poetic way he does. "Shape reality with metaphor."

Okay, sure.

So I thought: fire.

What do I need for fire?

Heat, oxygen, and fuel.

Oxygen? Already floating around in the air, so check.

Heat? I can make that. I've been practicing manipulation magic. I can shift heat in a localized spot—took some effort, but now I can make stuff hot. Not sun-core hot, but enough.

That leaves fuel.

I remember enough secondary school chemistry to know that hydrogen is flammable as hell. Easy molecule. Linear structure. One proton, one electron. Boom.

So I picture it—just like Morven said. Visualize the element, its nature. A hydrogen line, floating in the air. Then I add heat. Push it together with the ambient oxygen and—

fwoosh.

Fire.

Only a burst. Small. Flickering.

But it worked.

It took a lot out of me, though. Not mana-wise—just the concentration. I had to keep the heat constant, maintain the hydrogen replication while adjusting the oxygen blend. And if I want to actually launch it, I have to add kinetic manipulation too.

So yeah. Heat + Hydrogen + Oxygen (optional but helpful) + Kinetic Force = baby fireball.

Just a simple spell… requiring like, four separate steps, all at once.

Totally beginner friendly. Yay.

Still—it's progress. The fire only lasts a second or two, but each time it's more stable. Hotter. Sharper. I'm getting there. One tiny combustion at a time.

And who knows?

Maybe someday I'll shoot a proper fireball and scream "FIRE-WORM-DRAGON NUR" just to mess with Tessa.

…No. Never mind. I'd rather die.

But hey. At least now I can set stuff on fire on purpose. That's gotta count for something.

I watch the flame flicker out, a soft hiss in the air, like it's exhaling disappointment.

Still. It was fire.

And I made it.

There's a small warmth left in the air. Not heat—just the kind of warmth that lingers in your chest when you actually manage to do something hard. I let it sit there for a second.

It reminds me of her.

We used to sit like this, you know? Me and my little sister. Back in my old life. I'd light candles around her bed when the hospital machines got too loud. It wasn't allowed, obviously, but rules never really applied when she was smiling. Not to me.

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She liked that glow. Said it made the world feel softer.

So I gave her that.

Every day after school, straight to the hospital. I brought little stories, jokes I stole from classmates, terrible drawings I claimed were masterpieces. Once, I even tried to juggle—dropped everything, of course, but she laughed so hard I thought her soul would fall back into her body and stay there forever.

I'd shave my head again, in a heartbeat, if it meant I could hear that laugh.

Back then, I didn't care what the others said. The whispers. The looks. The snide little giggles behind my back like I couldn't hear them. Bald freak, they said. Desperate attention whore.

They had no idea.

And my parents? Ugh. Don't even get me started.

Too busy crying in separate rooms to notice what I was doing. Too wrapped up in their own version of grief to parent. At some point I realized I wasn't the kid anymore—I was the shield. The distraction. The one who had to be okay so no one else had to try.

So I built my walls. Smiled when I had to. Snapped when I didn't.

And I never let anyone see the cracks.

Except her.

She got all of me. The real me. Even when I was exhausted, even when I wanted to disappear, I made sure she saw someone who still had hope. Because if I gave up, what did she have left?

She was the only thing I loved enough to become light for.

Then she's gone.

Just like that.

I was there—right there—beside her. That night, I really thought she'd be fine. She'd been smiling earlier. Her hands were warm. Her voice was weak, yeah, but steady. She even asked for that stupid song I made up about hospital jelly.

I thought she'd be fine.

She would be fine.

Then—

That beeping. That horrible, aggressive, shrieking beep. Loud and wrong and fast. I still hear it sometimes when I close my eyes too long. And the way everything moved after that—the nurses shouting, the way the lights turned harsh, the doctors pushing past me, one of them telling me to wait outside—

I didn't move.

I couldn't move.

She was right there. She was still there.

And then she wasn't.

I never got to say goodbye. Not properly.

Just one second of silence too long, and the world ended. My world, anyway.

And no one held me.

Not my mother, who locked herself in her room for days. Not my father, who just… disappeared into work. I was just a thing in the hallway. Quiet. Pale. Forgettable.

I remember thinking—If I cry, no one's going to stop me. So why bother?

So I didn't.

I just… stopped being warm.

Stopped being soft.

And then, eventually, I stopped being Nur.

At least, the old one.

The one who lit candles and believed in dumb miracles.

The one who didn't know how it felt to stand in a hallway full of doctors and realize the world doesn't stop for you, not even when your heart breaks.

I think that's why I burn differently now.

It's not warmth anymore.

It's survival.

After that, we moved.

New city. New apartment. New school.
Trying to leave everything behind, they said. Like grief was something you could outrun if you changed your postcode fast enough.

Naturally, I changed schools too.

New uniform, new teachers, new hallways that all smelled the same.

And that's how it started.

The whispers.

I didn't talk much—not because I couldn't, but because I didn't see the point. I kept to myself, looked through people more than at them. I wasn't trying to be cold, I just didn't have anything left to give.

But people love to name what they don't understand.

And so they called me the Ice Queen.

Because I didn't smile when they wanted me to. Because I didn't cry when they expected it. Because I could stare someone down until they looked away first.

They thought I was scary.

Fine.

Better that than fragile.

Better cold than cracked.

I wore that title like armor. Let it wrap around me, clean and sharp. If they saw a queen of ice, they wouldn't see the girl who used to light candles. They wouldn't see the sister who never got to say goodbye.

And I could live with that.

I had to.

But then there she was.

Wearing that stupid, oblivious smile.

Tessa.

I don't know how it started—probably some dumb accident where she tripped over a desk or knocked over her own lunch tray. She always had this magnetic pull toward chaos. And somehow, she decided I was the center of her orbit.

She followed me everywhere.

Sat next to me even when there were open seats. Talked to me even when I gave her nothing but glares and dead silence. Brought me extra pudding cups from the cafeteria like we were friends or something.

At first, I thought she was messing with me. Some kind of long con to see how far she could push before I snapped. But she didn't flinch when I got mean. Didn't leave when I got quiet. Didn't stop smiling even when I rolled my eyes so hard it should've sprained something.

She was relentlessly kind. Like a golden retriever with zero self-preservation.

And I hated it.

I hated how it chipped at the walls I built. How her dumb, warm presence filled the silence I used to hide in. How she made me feel like maybe… maybe I wasn't as alone as I wanted people to think.

She didn't call me Ice Queen.

She just called me Nur.

Over and over, until the name started to sound less like a weapon and more like… a person.

Then before I knew it… we were having frappes together.

Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

She'd drag me to that overpriced café near school—Tessa's "favorite place in the entire universe, no take-backs"—and order the sweetest, most ridiculous drink on the menu. Marshmallow-whipped-something, double syrup, extra sprinkles. It gave me a toothache just looking at it.

I always got the plainest thing they had. She called me boring. I called her a sugar addict. Somehow, that counted as bonding.

We'd sit near the window, her swinging her legs under the table like a kid on caffeine, chattering about school gossip, anime theories, her latest failed cooking experiment… and I'd just listen.

Not talk. Just listen.

It was kind of nice.

When she wasn't doing her club activities, that is.

Because, for some reason only known to the gods and maybe demons, Tessa was in the martial arts club.

I know. It doesn't make sense.

She looked like she should be in the baking club or cosplay committee or anything that didn't involve getting drop-kicked across a mat. But no—she liked punching things. And getting punched. Apparently it was fun.

She showed up once with a black eye and proudly declared it was from a spinning backfist.

I told her she was an idiot.

She grinned and said, "Thanks! Means a lot coming from you."

…She really was impossible.

But she kept showing up.

And I kept letting her.

And now here we are.

Different world. Different rules. Different bodies.

And she's still dragging me around—this time quite literally. Like a sack of glowing moth-cocoon potatoes.

I'm helplessly bundled in layers of lunar silk, pulsing with magic, immobile as a statue while Tessa tugs me through the dungeon tunnels with her teeth like it's some kind of game. She hums while she does it. Sometimes makes sound effects.

"Whooshhh~ Incoming Nur missile~!"

I want to bite her. I can't bite her. I don't even have a mouth right now.

So I suffer in silence. With dignity.

She doesn't even question it. Doesn't complain once. Just laughs and pulls and fights off monsters between breaths. Like it's obvious she'd still stick with me, no matter what I looked like.

Morven offered to help once. She growled at him.

He backed off.

And I watched it all, cocooned and glowing and silent, thinking—Of course. Of course she's still here.

New world. New forms.

Same dumb girl, wearing that same oblivious smile.

Still following me everywhere.

Huh. I've been monologuing a lot, haven't I?

Crazy how much you reflect when you can do literally nothing. Stuck in a cocoon, wrapped in glowing silk, floating somewhere between nap time and existential crisis.

Maybe it's part of the evolution process. You don't just grow new wings—you shed old skin, old thoughts, old versions of yourself.

Strip them down. Lay them bare. Look at what's underneath.

It's not always pretty.

But maybe that's the point.

Maybe before you fly, you have to sit with everything that ever weighed you down and ask if you're still carrying it on purpose.

…I think I am.

Just a little.

"Nur, you there?" Tessa's voice cuts through the dark like a pebble skipping across a still pond. "You've been awfully quiet."

"Yep. I'm here," I answer, not bothering to raise my voice. "Still can't move. Or float. Or anything remotely helpful, in case you're wondering."

"Oh good," she chirps. I hear her claws tapping against stone. "For a second I thought you were dead or something, and then I was like 'Nooo, Nur wouldn't die like that. Way too dramatic.'"

I let out a long, soul-weary sigh. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

She laughs—bright, unbothered, like dragging a glowing cocoon through a monster-infested dungeon is just part of her morning cardio.

Then I feel the silk jostle.

"Hey—gentle," I mutter.

"No promises," she says, grinning. I can hear it.

Gods. She's in a good mood. That either means we found food, or she just burned something way bigger than her and got away with it.

Probably both.

Well either way, "I can't eat.

Because yeah—evolving into a magical moon-chrysalis means no more chewing, no more biting, no more snacking. Not until I hatch. I'm just here. Glowing. Thinking. Watching Tessa scarf down roasted horned beetle like it's popcorn while I sit in my little silk prison, vibing with the void.

"You're missing out," Tessa says, probably mid-bite. "These ones are crunchy! And kinda spicy!"

"Great," I mutter. "Just what I needed. Live mukbang commentary."

"Don't worry," she adds through a mouthful. "I'll save you the legs!"

I close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale.

Patience, Nur. You've survived worse. Like high school. And humans.

Just a little more time.

Then I'm hatching.

And I swear, the first thing I'm doing is eating everything.

"Anyway," I say, "so yeah—are we just gonna keep killing stuff and hoping the next human we run into doesn't immediately try to murder us?"

Morven doesn't look back. "At this rate? Probably. Not holding my breath for friendly faces."

Tessa hops ahead a bit. "So we're going to the Fifth Zone?"

"Yeah," he says. "Once we survive there long enough, we'll be strong enough to punch our way to the surface. Fewer surprises that way."

"So more murder it is," I say.

Morven glances over his shoulder. "Call it... proactive self-defense."

I roll my eyes. "You mean murder."

He shrugs. "Same thing down here."

Tessa snorts. "You always make it sound so noble."

"I try," he says.

And that's that.

Three half-evolved monsters, a glowing cocoon, and not a single good idea between us—but we're going anyway.

"Well not now, right?" I say, narrowing my eyes even though no one can see it through the silk. "At least wait until I can move by myself."

Tessa immediately gasps. "What? Nooo, but dragging you around is the best part! You're like a squishy lantern with opinions."

"I will set you on fire once I hatch."

"Ooooh, scary~ Fireball Moth incoming!"

Morven just mutters, "You'll probably need a little whike. Your mana flow's still stabilizing."

"Which means," I sigh, "I'm still luggage."

"Deluxe luggage," Tessa says cheerfully. "With magical embroidery and internal monologue features."

I let out the deepest, most soul-crushed exhale I can manage inside this cocoon. "I hate all of you."

Morven grins faintly. "And yet here we are."

Yeah.

Here we are.

End of Chapter 59