The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

The roots up here are thicker. Fewer mushrooms, more vines. I brush one aside with a flick of my leg as we step deeper into the 4th Zone. Tessa's ears are swiveling with every sound, but I can tell she's mostly relaxed. Still munching on that jerky. Whatever human left that stash must've been planning for a siege.

Morven, on the other hand, walks like a thought that hasn't settled yet.

"Say, Morven," I mutter. "What language do you speak when, you know, you're not melting into gibberish and actually using your mouth?"

He doesn't even look up. "Common Tongue. The native language of this region—spoken across several continents by humans, demi-humans, and most of the civilized states."

"Of course it is," I mutter.

He finally glances sideways. "I take it you're not from this part of the world?"

I raise an eyebrow. "That's one way to put it. Try not even from this world."

He stops mid-step. "You're not of this world?"

Tessa chimes in, casual as ever, "Yup. Came from another life. Different planet. Whole different mess."

Morven just says, "Interesting," like it's a weather report.

I click my mandibles in irritation. "Yeah, and we're just gonna skip over the fact you have knowledge of all this local crap despite not knowing who you are?"

His expression tightens. "That… is a good point."

Tessa snorts. "You think?"

The silence that follows stretches as we walk, just the sound of our steps and the soft rustle of vines underfoot. Morven doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. The truth is obvious:

He might not know who he is.
But he knows something.
And whatever it is, it didn't come from just living down here in the dark.

Morven's fingers twitch like they're pulling threads from the air. He speaks slowly at first—measured, like he's teaching a class no one asked for.

"The Common Tongue... yes. It began with the settlers from the northern Isles, long before the rise of Valcia. Back when language was still soft, flexible. They brought it here—merged it with the tonal scripts of the southern tribes. Each merger is a simplification. A loss. But also a gain. Efficiency over poetry. Command over feeling. A trader's tongue. A conqueror's echo."

His hands move faster now. His voice rises with it.

"Valcia codified it. Wrote laws in it. Taught children to dream in it. Taught monsters to obey in it. I remember—no, I don't—I wasn't there—but I feel it in my bones, my bones that are not bones, my name that is not mine, my mind that—"

Tessa backs up a step. "Oh no."

"Language is identity," he hisses. "And if I speak it, if I remember it—does it mean I was once—? Or am I still—? Am I Valcian? Am I the tongue? Am I being spoken through?!"

He whirls toward the wall as if it had insulted him in dialect.

Alright. Enough of that.

I swing a leg out and jab him in the side—not hard, just enough to jolt the gears loose.

"Alright there, that's enough thinking, buddy."

He freezes, like I slapped the madness right out of him. A long pause. Then a ragged exhale.

"…Right. Sorry. I went too far again."

"Yup," I mutter. "Next time, try just saying 'it's an old language' and leave it at that."

Tessa whispers, "We need a leash for his brain."

I glance over at Morven, then gesture vaguely toward Tessa behind us, who's trailing along while casually tossing a pebble up and down with one paw. "Okay, so last time you talked about magic, it was like trying to read a thesis mid-seizure. But now that your head's on straight—for now—mind explaining again how it works? Y'know, like normal people would?"

He exhales through his nose. "Alright. Magic, in this world, falls into three core categories: Replication, Manipulation, and Original—or Raw—Magic."

I nod slowly. "Replication is, what, like... copying stuff?"

"Exactly. Recreating something you understand—flames, stone, even simple constructs—using mana. But to do it, your understanding needs to be complete. Otherwise, it fails or falls apart."

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"And Manipulation is reshaping what's already there?"

"Yes. Moving air, increasing temperature, pulling moisture from the atmosphere—that sort of thing. It's about control over existing elements."

I squint toward the ridge ahead. "That kinda sounds like what I've been doing. Heating up rocks. Redirecting wind."

Morven nods. "You're using Manipulation. Clumsily, but with instinct. Which is common for monsters."

Tessa pipes up from behind, still half-distracted, "So what about me? I don't move fire—I just make it."

Morven freezes.

He turns his head slowly, eyebrows furrowing like someone just whispered calculus into his ear. "What language was that?"

I sigh. "The one we've both been speaking to each other since the start?"

His expression shifts from confusion to something dangerously close to a system crash. "She's been talking like that the entire time?"

"She hasn't said anything to you directly, so I didn't think it mattered," I reply, deadpan. "But yeah. We're from another world. Different language, different everything. You've probably just been filtering her out like background noise."

"I thought it was nonsense. Background chirping. Like enchanted birdsong with bad grammar." He stares at Tessa again, and I can feel his sanity doing jumping jacks.

"Anyway," I cut in, "she said she doesn't move fire—she just makes it."

Morven stares blankly.

"Right. Translation duty it is. Again."

I give him the psychic gist and watch him recalibrate his thoughts like a corrupted archive syncing back to clarity.

He nods eventually, slowly, as if the last few minutes aged him a year. "Exactly. What she does isn't just Replication or Manipulation. She creates fire by will alone. That's a form of Talent-Based Magic—a rare instinctual casting. The rules still apply underneath—Replication and Manipulation are part of the structure—but for her, they're bypassed. It's natural. Like breathing."

Tessa grins and stretches lazily. "Told you I was cool."

"You're a walking furnace with puppy ears," I mutter. "Don't push it."

Morven mutters something under his breath that sounds like, "Past-life aliens with instinctual combustion. This dungeon gets weirder every day."

"So I'm just... built differently?" she grins, flexing one claw. It flares red-hot for a second.

"You are fire," Morven replies simply. "The magic answers to you. Not because you command it, but because you are it."

"Wow," I mutter. "She's a walking arson event. Good to know."

Morven chuckles, then finishes, "Instinctual casting is powerful, but unrefined. If you learn the theory, you can push it even further. Shape it. Weaponize it precisely."

"Got it," I say. "So in short: I'm winging it. She's winging it better. And you're a walking textbook who might explode."

"Fair summary," he says. "But yes. The talent is real. It's just not the whole picture."

Morven's voice drones on, but in that weird calm-professor tone he uses whenever he's not gibberish.

"Raw Magic—starts with Arcane. It's the root, the primordial stuff. Everyone with mana can cast it… poorly. Because it's stupidly inefficient unless you're meant for it. Doesn't burn skin, doesn't freeze flesh. It reacts with mana. Disrupts it. Undoes it. It's not about elements. It's about unraveling what keeps a spell—or a creature—intact."

Tessa mumbles, "Sounds like a mess."

Morven nods. "It is. That's why most avoid it. But if you've got a knack for Arcane—if it responds to you like breath to lungs—then congrats. You're what people used to call a Channeler. Those types don't just use Raw Magic, they live it. And more often than not, they're swimming in mana."

And that's when it hits me.

"Wait a second…" I mutter, eyes narrowing. "Back in my Lucid Reflection… I did see Arcane listed as one of my talents.

Morven turns to me, half impressed. "Then you've got the spark. Maybe not a full Channeler yet, but the roots are there."

"Great," I sigh. "I've got the affinity for the most unstable, overkill type of magic in existence. That totally tracks."

Tessa offers a supportive tail wag. "Hey, it could be worse. You could've been naturally gifted at Slime Magic or something."

I make a face. "Don't jinx it."

Morven nods again, more somber this time. "Exactly. Channelers—those naturally attuned to Arcane—burn bright at the start. In the early stages, they're terrifying. Pure mana force. No casting signs, no incantations. Just will and boom."

"But?" I raise an eyebrow. Always a but.

"But," he says, "they stagnate. Raw Magic lacks the complexity and control of Replication or Manipulation. Without structure, without study, it becomes brute force—and brute force alone can only take you so far. Skilled Manipulators or clever Replicators will outpace Channelers in the long run."

"So they're like fireworks," Tessa chimes in. "Flashy, loud, and then kinda sad once the spark's gone."

"Somewhat," Morven agrees. "Unless they adapt. Combine disciplines. Build frameworks over their instinct. But most don't. They grow reliant on the ease of raw output, and when that stops being enough…"

"They fall behind," I finish for him.

Morven's tone turns soft. "Yes. Some burn out. Others just... never catch up."

I click my mandibles. "Well. That's depressing."

Tessa shrugs. "Still cooler than my fireburst. Mine just makes stuff crispy."

"Yours makes stuff very crispy," I mutter. "And you didn't need a magic lecture to figure it out."

"Yeah," she grins, licking a paw, "I'm just talented like that."

"Well, that's been insightful," I say, shaking my head with a half-smirk. "I knew keeping you with us was a good idea."

Morven looks at me with that tilted, glassy stare of his—like he's trying to decipher whether I'm being genuine or just sarcastic again. Probably both.

"If you don't mind," I add, "can you teach us the language of this world? Y'know, the one you speak with your actual mouth. Well—later, I mean."

He pauses mid-step, blinking slowly. "You mean… Common Tongue?"

"Yeah. That," I say, waving vaguely. "You're the only one who seems to speak it fluently around here."

Tessa lets out a snort behind me. "I dunno, Nur, I think I'm doing just fine with charades and fire."

"Exactly my point," I mutter. "If I ever get separated from you two, I'd like to yell something smarter than 'AAAHHH' at the locals."

Morven smiles faintly—almost like it surprises even him. "Yes… I can teach you. Language is a structure. A web of meaning. You learn to shape the sound, and the sound shapes the world back."

He looks like he's about to spiral into some metaphor again, so I lift a leg and gently tap his side. "Later, Morven. Not now. I'm still recovering from your last theory bomb."

"Of course," he says, bowing slightly. "Later."

Tessa grins. "So do we get textbooks, or just psychic downloads?"

"Textbooks burn," I say. "Psychic's fine."

And we keep walking—deeper into Fourth Zone

End of Interlude