The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

The job's done. The crowned primate is finally down, its body lying half-scorched, half-pierced, and fully very dead. The crater still smolders faintly, but there's no movement anymore. No breath. Just silence.

Which means, naturally, it's time for the part I can't join in.

Eating.

"Yaaay," I mutter, floating above as Tessa predictably rushes forward, claws out. She digs straight into the creature's mossy hide, peeling back layers of vine-flesh and scorched bark like it's wrapping paper.

Then she bites down.

A heartbeat later—

"UGHHHH!" She drops the chunk, gagging hard. "Gross! Oh gods—bleghhh—why did I—ugh!"

I tilt my cocoon slightly, the closest I can get to raising a brow. "That bad?"

She makes a face, tongue lolling out. "I ate one of these monkey things before, remember? But those were the smaller ones! I thought maybe—maybe—big one meant better taste!" She gags again, pawing at her tongue. "Nope. Way worse! Ughhh."

I hover in a slow circle, smirking just a little. "Well, at least you're consistent."

Tessa grumbles, spitting out a leaf. "Shut up."

Morven, of course, is already crouched at the other side of the corpse, calmly carving into it with his cockatrice talons like it's just another meal prep session. No reaction, no gagging—just quiet, efficient butchery.

Yeah. Business as usual.

"Well, it's not like I can eat or anything," I say, hovering a little lower, watching Tessa still paw at her tongue. "Didn't have the appetite. Or—" I pause, correcting myself, "more accurate to say I'm unable to."

The words hang there for a moment, heavier than I meant.

Tessa stops making faces long enough to glance at me, ears twitching. Then she grins, crooked and stubborn, like always. "Don't worry, Nur. I'll eat enough gross stuff for the both of us."

"Comforting," I mutter.

Morven doesn't look up from carving, voice calm and detached as he slices through moss-flesh. "Consider it temporary. Once you finish this evolution cycle, your appetite will return."

"Great," I say. "So I can look forward to eating burned salad monkeys later. Can't wait."

Tessa snickers through another gag, tail thumping the ground. "See? You do miss it."

I don't answer. But maybe she's right.

After a while, the scene turns… messy.

Tessa keeps at it despite gagging every other bite, making these ridiculous sounds like she's being tortured but still shoving chunks into her mouth anyway. "Blehh—ugh—nope—gag—okay maybe this part's better—ugh, nope, worse!"

Morven doesn't even flinch. He just keeps carving, deliberate and mechanical, like he's cataloguing each strip of moss-flesh for later use. Every slice from his cockatrice talons peels another layer away, reducing the once-mighty crowned monkey into a steadily shrinking heap of discarded bark, snapped vines, and green ichor.

By the time they're done, the towering beast that nearly flattened us is… nothing. Just scraps, smoke, and scattered bones.

I hover above the wreckage, looking down at what's left.

"Well," I say flatly. "That's one way to erase history."

Morven rises from the gutted heap, his talons dripping green ichor. His eyes, however, are fixed on something else entirely—the tiara still clinging stubbornly to the monkey's scorched skull.

"Now for the real deal," he says, voice low.

With one sharp pull, he wrenches the metal band free. The gemstone embedded at its center flickers faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. It's larger than the others we've seen, veins of light running jagged through its core.

I feel it even from here—an eerie resonance, like static crawling through the air.

Morven studies it, expression unreadable. "Another fragment. This one… bigger than usual."

He closes his eyes, steadying himself, then looks at both of us. "You know the risk. Just like before—if I absorb this, I might lose consciousness. And while that happens, I'll be vulnerable."

Tessa wipes green sap off her muzzle with the back of her paw and frowns. "So you're telling us you're about to do the scary glowing possession thing again."

"Maybe."

"And you want us to babysit you while you have a magical nap."

"…Yes."

I hover closer, light flickering off my bristles. "Alright, Morven. Do it. We'll keep watch."

He nods once, gripping the stone tight, and the glow intensifies.

Morven closes those weird, unaligned eyes of his.

The glow seeps into him. Slow at first, threads of pale light crawled from the gem into his cockatrice's talons, then raced up his arm like veins catching fire. His whole frame shudders with it, his hooved legs digging into the dirt as if to anchor himself.

The air around us hums, heavy and wrong, like reality itself doesn't like what's happening.

And then… he starts laughing.

Not loud. Not manic. Just this quiet, broken chuckle that grows under his breath. His voice drops into that other cadence, warped and surreal—the one we've come to recognize.

His insane episode.

"Ahhh… yes. Yes, the puzzle pieces taste like chalk tonight," he mutters, head tilting at a sharp angle, as though listening to something none of us can hear. "Do you hear it? The orchestra of bones gnawing on their own shadows?"

Tessa takes a careful step back, ears flat. "…Yep. He's doing it again."

I hover closer, my glow steady. "Stay sharp. He's vulnerable right now."

Morven's grin spreads too wide, eyes half-lidded. "Vulnerable? Hah. The snail told me once, the strongest armor is a polite refusal to exist."

"Oh gods," I sigh. "Here we go."

The light suddenly surges.

What was a steady seep becomes a torrent—blue-white radiance flooding up his arm, racing across his torso, burning through every seam of his strange, patched-together body.

Morven's head jerks back, his unaligned eyes snapping wide, mouth open in a raw scream that rips through the clearing. It's not just pain—it's like something else is screaming through him, layered voices overlapping until the sound feels too big for one throat.

The ground trembles. My bristles flexed, my senses spike, and even Tessa stops moving, staring like she's not sure if we should grab him or run.

Then—

The glow rushes all the way in, swallowed whole.

Silence.

Morven collapses forward, hitting the mossy earth hard. His cockatrice arm twitches once, then goes still.

And just like that, he's out cold.

I hover lower, keeping my glow steady over him. "…Well. That answers that."

Tessa frowns, standing guard at his side. "Great. Magic nap time. Again."

---

**Morven's view**

The world shifts.

The forest is gone. No cocoon. No Fifth Zone.

Instead—smoke, screams, and fire. The ground is littered with bodies. Soldiers in shattered armor. Devils split open, their black blood soaking into the dirt. Mages lying where their spells died on their lips.

And in the middle—me.

A staff in my hand. A robe over my shoulders, heavy with dirt and ash.

Wait.

This… this is familiar.

I know this field.

A war.

The magic nation of Ottomania, its armies of sorcerers and soldiers, clashing against the legions of Wrath. Devils surging in endless waves, driven by their Archsin.

And me, not a witness—
but in the thick of it.

The staff hums in my grip. The robe flaps in the hot wind. Around me, spells tear the sky apart while steel grinds against claw.

And I remember.

I was there.

A shadow cuts across me—fast.

I look up just in time to see a devil dropping from above, claws wide, mouth split in a snarl.

I barely have time to react. My staff half-raises—

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

And then a flash of steel.

The devil's head snaps back, body cleaved clean in two before it even lands. Black blood sprays the dirt.

A figure stands where it fell.

A woman. Armor polished but battered from battle, a sword in her hands still dripping with blood. Silky white hair catches what little light there is through the smoke. Her presence is sharp and steady.

She glances at me, smirking even in the middle of the carnage.

"Get yourself a grip, Archmage," she says, voice cool but edged with play. "Or else, I'm going to have you punished later."

Her name comes to me.

Liz.

She rushes over, sword still in hand, eyes scanning me up and down.

"Are you hurt?" she asks, sharp and quick, like she's ready to drag me off the field herself.

I shake my head. "No. Thank you."

Her smirk softens into a grin, just for a second, before she turns back toward the battlefield.

Liz. Supposed to be a combat medic of Vermania. The type meant to patch wounds, keep soldiers standing, and tend the dying.

But standing here, blade dripping, posture set for another fight—

Yeah.

She's definitely more "combat" than "medic."

Liz sprints back into the chaos, sword raised, her white hair streaking through the smoke. For a moment, I follow her with my eyes—then the world buckles.

The battlefield wavers, the sound of clashing steel and roaring devils stretching thin, like someone's pulling it apart at the seams. The heat fades, the smoke dissolves, and the stench of blood is gone.

I blink.

Shelves.

Endless shelves, stacked high with tomes and scrolls, their spines glowing faintly with runes. Dust motes float in still air. The sound of battle is gone, replaced by the hush of turning pages.

A library.

But not any library I've seen before. This place feels heavy, ancient. Every book thrums with mana, like each one could be a weapon in its own right.

I look down. The staff is still in my hand.

And I can't shake the feeling that I've been here too.

Footsteps echo between the shelves.

I turn, staff still in hand.

A figure approaches from between the towering bookcases, robe trailing across the marble floor, presence heavy enough to press against the air itself. Their voice comes before their face—calm, resonant, with that faint edge of pride I've heard before.

"Ahhh," they say, drawing the sound out like a savor. "My favorite student. The prodigy of Ottomania."

The words strike something deep in me—recognition, but also weight.

I stand still, gripping the staff tighter.

I turn around.

An old man stands there—long beard streaked with white, a robe heavy with stitched runes hanging from his shoulders. His eyes carry that sharp, cutting weight that once made me feel like he could see through every excuse, every mistake.

I freeze.

I know him.

"Professor… Albrach," I breathe.

My instructor.

The one who taught me to hold a staff, to thread mana without letting it collapse, to wield knowledge like a blade sharper than steel.

The one who called me a prodigy before I ever believed it myself.

Professor Albrach's eyes narrow, sharp even behind the softened tone. His voice echoes low between the shelves, carrying both weight and expectation.

"Have you not proceeded with the research alongside your dear friend Morven?" he asks. "Morven is a spectacular man—hardworking, ambitious. But you…" He leans slightly forward, beard brushing against his chest. "You are a man of profound talent."

He paces a step, hand brushing along the spines of ancient tomes. "We haven't had such brilliance since Otto Phastryl Ashfort himself. A mind so keen, so boundless."

His gaze locks on mine, heavy and unrelenting.

"Perhaps you might follow in his footsteps. To ascend."

Professor Albrach's words linger, bouncing off the shelves like they don't want to let go.

"...to ascend."

The sound echoes, stretching longer than it should, his voice twisting, hollowing, until it feels less like speech and more like the hum of raw mana itself.

The shelves blur. The marble floor tilts. The books dissolve into streams of light that bleed into the air like spilled ink.

The library warps—walls melting, spines collapsing into haze, his figure smearing into shadow.

And then everything shifts again.

"Morven…"

The name rolls off my tongue, foreign and familiar all at once.

"Yes. I remember him… though barely." The thought feels half mine, half someone else's, pulled from a place I don't want to look too closely at.

A pause. A bitter curl at the edge of the voice.

"Sorry, my dear friend. But I'm borrowing your name."

The world shutters. The haze of the library tears apart like paper burning.

Darkness swallows everything.

When it settles, I'm standing alone in a black room. No walls, no ceiling—just endless void pressing from every side.

And in front of me—

A mirror.

Tall. Polished. Silent.

Waiting.

I take a step forward.

The sound echoes too loudly in the black room, like stone striking glass.

Another step.

My knees tremble. The staff feels heavier in my hand, my grip slick as if the weight is no longer wood but lead.

Each pace closer, my chest tightens. A pull in my gut, sharp and cold, warning me.

Hesitation claws at me—every instinct screaming to stop, to turn back.

But the mirror stands there, silent and patient, reflecting nothing but the void behind me.

And still I move.

Step by step, shaking.

Why am I hesitating?

My feet drag, my breath shallow, every step toward the mirror heavier than the last.

Is this not what I've been searching for?

The answer. The truth. The shape of what I am.

Who I am.

The mirror looms closer, its surface rippling faintly like water, waiting to show me what I've refused to see.

And yet—my hands shake. My heart pounds.

Because some part of me already knows.

And fears it.

I shut my eyes.

The void disappears behind my lids, but the pull of the mirror only grows stronger. My steps echo softer now, like the floor itself is receding, leaving only me and the weight of what waits ahead.

Every inch closer makes my chest tighten, my throat dry.

I don't want to see it.

But I can't stop moving.

So I keep my eyes closed, walking toward the mirror, the tremble in my legs louder than the silence around me.

My hands brush against cold glass. Smooth. Solid.

I stop.

For a long breath, I just stand there, forehead nearly pressed to the surface, eyes still shut tight.

Then—slowly—I open them.

And the mirror reflects, but not me.

A figure stands within the glass. Glowing, but faint, as if made from pale smoke and fractured light. Faceless. Hollow. Its outline shifts with every second, flickering between shapes that never settle.

But the feeling it gives off—
Despair. Heavy. Endless.

It tilts its head, no eyes but somehow staring right through me.

Then it hums. Low. Distant. A voice that rattles through the void like a dying echo:

"Find… them all…"

The words reverberate in my chest, heavy as chains.

The faceless glow lingers for only a heartbeat more—

Then the mirror cracks.

A hairline fracture races across its surface with a sharp splinter, then another, and another, until the whole thing shatters with a deafening crash.

Glass and light scatter into the void.

And the floor beneath me vanishes.

I fall.

No ground, no sense of direction—just endless descent into the dark. My staff slips from my hand, or maybe it never existed here. The void rushes past, cold and suffocating, wrapping tighter the longer I plummet.

I keep falling.

And falling.

Until, slowly, the black begins to thin. Faint streaks of pale seep into the edges.

The darkness softens.

And turns—
whiter.

The plunge slows.

The pressure lifts from my chest, the weight of the void peeling away bit by bit.

And then I stop—suspended in stillness.

All around me stretches endless white. No sky. No ground. No walls. Just the clean, empty expanse that swallows everything else.

Recognition hits me.

Lucid Reflection.

Again.

The same blank space that strips everything bare, leaving nothing but myself.

I look down.

Nothing.

No staff in my hand. No robe hanging heavy on my shoulders. No sigils, no runes, no weight of war clinging to me.

Just me. Bare.

I was right.

It was never there to begin with.

The battlefield, the robe, the staff—echoes, fragments, memories borrowed from something that isn't fully mine.

And now, in the Lucid Reflection's white silence, all of it is stripped away.

Well.

Since I'm here… might as well check.

I drift across the white expanse until I find it—the mound, with faint gas seeping out through the cracks like mist. Familiar. Waiting.

I reach out. Fingers brush the surface.

The world shifts.

White dissolves into black. A starry night opens above me, endless and deep. The ground glitters faintly, like it's dusted with fragments of constellations.

And before me—

Branching paths.

Lines of light stretching out, splitting, diverging, curling away into infinity. Each one humming faintly with possibility.

My evolution.

The choices of what I could become.

The starry ground pulses in front of me, paths spreading outward like veins of light.

Most of them are broken. Fractured lines, split and fading into nothing, shards of potential that lead nowhere.

All but one.

One path shines steady. Whole.

I follow it with my eyes— Fleshling.

And ahead of it, glowing brighter than the rest: Homunculus.

Unlocked.

If every other path is shattered… then there's no choice.

I steady myself, staring at the one line of light that still holds together. Fleshling, into Homunculus. The only way forward.

I reach out and press my hand against it.

The moment I do, the starry ground quakes. The mound beneath me flashes white, a surge of energy bursting outward, blinding in its intensity.

When it fades, the mound isn't the same.

It's larger now.

I let my hand slip free from the mound's crack.

The glow fades from my skin. The pulse of stars around me dims, then flickers out one by one until there's nothing left.

The night sky collapses.

And once again, everything dissolves back into that endless white.

---

Back to Nur.

"Damn, he's really taking his sweet time napping, huh?" I mutter, still hovering over Morven's motionless body.

Tessa flicks her ears back, pacing in a small circle. "I know, right? And…" She lowers her voice, eyes darting around the trees. "…it feels uncomfortable here. Like something's watching us."

Her fur bristles slightly, tail stiff.

I stretch my senses out further, letting the pulse of my spatial awareness wash over the undergrowth. And yeah—she's not wrong. The air feels heavy, too quiet, like the forest itself is holding its breath.

"Great," I sigh. "Babysitting duty in a haunted jungle. Just what I needed."

Then—without warning—the bark of a nearby tree splits.

Not from axe or claw. From within.

Vines push through first, curling out like searching fingers. Bark peels, petals unfold, moss shreds loose. The trunk ripples unnaturally as something pushes its way into the open air.

It takes shape slowly.

A torso.
Arms.
Legs.

Feminine. Floral. A body woven of stems and blossoms, draped in trailing moss and ivy. Her movement is fluid, almost too fluid, each step a slow unfurling of vines anchoring and retracting with grace.

A face follows—delicate, petal-like, with faint glowing lines running across her skin like veins of light.

A flower made a woman.

She stands fully now, bipedal, her form draped in greenery that sways even when the air is still.

And her eyes—if you could call them that—fix on us.

Tessa and I don't need to exchange words—we both shift into fighting stances immediately.

There's no mistaking it. Pressure rolls off her in waves, thick and suffocating. My bristles hum with alarm, my mana screaming danger.

Tessa growls low, ears flat, fire sparking faintly between her teeth.

Then the flowers around us—roots, vines, blossoms hidden in the moss—bloom all at once. A ring of color unfurls, petals opening like the forest itself is leaning in to watch.

The floral figure tilts her head, lips curling in something like a smile. Her voice drips smooth and rich, layered with intent.

"Shall we see," she purrs, "if you can last longer than the others I've had?"

I freeze. "…Huh? Okay, I know I'm still new with this Common Tongue, but what the hell was that?"

Tessa blinks, ears twitching, her snarl breaking into momentary confusion. "…Wait—what?!"

But even as the words hang awkwardly in the air, the figure keeps stepping closer. Each stride slow, deliberate, her vines flexing, her aura pressing down harder.

It's suffocating. Threatening.

And yet—undeniably beautiful.

I hover tighter, unsure. Every sense screams danger, but the way she moves—it's graceful, deliberate. If I've learned anything from plants, it's this: beauty is just the bait.

Tessa's growl rumbles low beside me. "Nur… I don't trust this plant lady."

"So do I, Tess," I reply, my voice steady. "Alright—on my signal, we attack."

We lock eyes. She nods.

"One… two… three—go!"

We strike at once. Tessa lunges forward, claws igniting, while I fire a volley of glowing Arcane Spines that whistle through the air.

The vine lady doesn't flinch. She tilts her head, lips curling again. "Oh my, both at once? How daring."

We ignore her, pushing the attack.

Her left arm suddenly elongates, bark cracking, and with a sharp snap, dozens of vines whip out, faster than anything I've seen—even faster than Yelinod's tricks. They coil around Tessa mid-air, yanking her off course and constricting tightly before she can bite down.

"Tessa!" I snap, releasing another salvo of spines. They strike true—shoulder, chest, hip. But instead of piercing, they barely sink in. Her bark skin absorbs the impact, leaving nothing but shallow scratches.

She glances at me, unbothered. "Cute," she says, voice dripping with mock praise. "But let me show you what a real sharp projectile looks like, honey."

Her right hand unfurls, thorns sliding out of her forearm one by one, coated in sticky, glistening sap.

She flicks her wrist—

And the thorns launch straight at me.

I jolt hard, hovering in sharp, erratic cuts—up, down, left, right. Most of the thorns zip past, whistling through the air like darts.

But not all.

A few embed into my cocoon—thin, barbed, sticky with that strange sap.

"Damnit—!" My mana flares as I try to shake it off.

Then my spatial sense catches a pulse. Tessa.

I whip my awareness sideways and feel her slumped on the ground, vines uncoiling as the plant lady releases her limp body.

"Tessa—no!"

I strain to push toward her, but my body feels suddenly heavy, sluggish. My hovering falters, stuttering mid-air.

The thorns. Oh shit.

They're laced.

My bristles hum weakly, my vision—well, not vision, but my sense—warps at the edges, like the whole forest is tilting away.

I grit against it, fighting to stay conscious, but every second pulls me deeper down.

"Damnit… is this it?"

The glow from my cocoon flickers. Darkness creeps in.

End of Chapter 62