The Hollow Moth: Reincarnated as a Caterpillar

Getting into the Labyrinth isn't easy these days.

The Zahraen Sultanate's put tighter controls on movement—more patrols, more checkpoints, more eyes. Too many adventurers poking around where they shouldn't. Too many monsters getting dragged out of the dark and paraded through auction blocks.

Not that we're the parading kind.

Luckily, I've got contacts in the Guild. The kind who look the other way as long as you don't get caught. The kind who know a live find's worth more than a clean report.

"Fourth Zone's quieter than I expected," Darian mutters as he adjusts his bow. "Thought we'd have seen more by now."

"That's why it's valuable," I say. "No patrols. No scavengers. Anything down here's unclaimed."

Lyriana walks a step behind us, charm of the God of Light faintly glowing. She hasn't spoken since we entered the zone. Down here, even the gods feel distant. She keeps one hand on her relic and the other near the scroll-case at her hip.

It's quiet. Too quiet.

We step into a cavern that swells outward.

And then we see it.

At the far end, hunched low, something shifts.

It doesn't snarl. Doesn't run.

It just looks up.

Its body is wiry, too thin to be healthy, too fluid to be dead. One arm curls like bone grown, shaped like a cockatrice's talon. The other twitches in pulses, too human. Its back pulses faintly under translucent skin. Silver-violet strands cling to its head, half-draped over a face that can't decide what shape it wants to be.

One eye is a glassy orb. The other a slit of molten color. Both are locked on me.

Darian raises his bow. "You seeing this?"

"Don't shoot," I say, raising my hand slowly. "We bag it."

Lyriana's breath catches. "That is... a monster?"

"No," I murmur. "It's better."

It shifts slightly. Its mouth opens like it's never done it before.

"…I…" the thing rasps. "…I am…?"

It tilts its head, confused.

Then: "You have edges. I… don't. Is that wrong?"

I ready the net rune in my belt. Spell-threaded. Expensive. Meant for movement. One clean throw—

"I dreamed a skeleton who wore... a crown made of yes. Is that... me?" the thing says, blinking rapidly now. "Or did I... borrow that from the wall?"

Its voice splinters. Multiple tones layered unevenly, like a choir halfway through dying.

"Don't let them open me again," it whimpers suddenly. "I liked being soup."

Darian steps back. "Barrin. It's… a talking monster. Or is that a… Heteromorph?"

"Maybe," I mutter. "But I've never seen a monster like that—let alone a Heteromorph."

I fling the net.

The spell arcs—perfect aim.

The creature flinches. Caught, tangled in light.

Then its back arches, body convulsing.

It screams—not in pain, but in disbelief.

"WHY? I was talking! I was becoming! Is this what hugs feel like in your world?!"

The net shudders. Then snaps—disintegrated from within by a surge of warped mana.

The thing's form twitches. Eyes widen.

"I didn't mean to offend your rectangles! You came with nets! I thought it was a game!"

Then it lunges.

Straight at me.

I barely bring my blade up in time—

The thing strikes my blade, hard.

The impact jars my arm—almost tears the sword from my grip. It doesn't feel like hitting flesh. It feels like I blocked a collapsing structure made of nerves and instinct.

Lyriana chants, voice sharp and desperate, her hands glowing.

"By the warmth that births dawn, by the god who sees—"

A radiant burst of light explodes from her charm, lancing across the chamber—

—but it stops.

Then fades.

How?

My stomach drops. "Lyriana!"

She staggers. "That— That should've purified— It didn't even touch it."

The thing tilts its head, cocked sideways like a dog hearing its name for the first time.

Then it whispers, amused:

"Your Light is polite. It knocked first. I wasn't home."

I step back. My blade is trembling in my grip—not from fear, but from the pressure. Like the thing is wrapped in something I can't see.

"Is... that a counterspell?" I ask aloud, not expecting an answer.

The creature blinks. Slowly. Almost confused.

Then it giggles.

"No-no-no. A counterspell is when you know what someone is saying. I just told your light it was rude."

It raises its claw again.

And moves.

Darian looses an arrow—fast, clean, aimed straight for the thing's chest.

The creature twists—not sidesteps, not ducks. Twists. Its spine coils like a wet rope, contorting mid-air. The arrow skims past where its ribs should've been, clattering harmlessly against the stone.

But that moment—that motion—is enough.

It opens something.

I lunge.

Steel glints as I swing low, aiming for the joint of its leg.

My blade connects—but not like it should. It bites, but not into muscle or bone. It's like cutting into water with skin. There's resistance, but no structure.

The thing shudders—surprised more than hurt.

It snaps its head toward me.

Eyes wild. Expression twisted.

Not in rage.

In betrayal.

"You were listening," it says quietly, voice warbling. "Why are you biting the story?"

I pull the blade back, ready for another strike—because now it knows we're not here to talk.

And it's still learning how to fight.

That's our only chance.

Then It raises one hand toward me.

No glow. No chant. No circle.

Just a twitch of its fingers—

And then a shockwave hammers into my chest, a blunt force so sudden and dense it feels like the air itself turns to stone.

I'm airborne before my brain catches up.

My body slams into the cavern wall, and for a heartbeat, I forget which way is down. Stone cracks beneath me as I hit the ground, gasping, armor dented, pain flaring sharp through my ribs.

What the hell was that?

That wasn't some telekinesis flare. That wasn't a bluff. That was a direct manipulation spell—a force bolt, clear as day.

But no chant. No focus. No catalyst. And that thing—

That thing's not even a human.

"How… the hell did it do that?" I mutter, dragging breath through grit.

The creature lowers its hand,slowly, like it's proud of a trick it doesn't quite understand.

Stolen story; please report.

Then it grins—too wide, too many facial muscles involved—and says:

"Magic is more than chanting and faith."

"Magic is telling the world you're serious, and it gets scared."

It takes a half-step forward.

"I asked the air to move and it said 'how far?'"

I force myself up, ribs screaming in protest.

Because now I know:

It's not just unstable.

It's dangerous.

And somehow, it's casting spells like it invented them.

Darian lets out a sharp breath behind me—then looses a volley.

Three arrows fly, one after another, fast and clean.

The creature waves its hand lazily, almost dismissively.

And the air buckles.

A sudden gust of wind erupts, not natural, not summoned through chant—just willed into existence. The arrows veer mid-flight, spun off course like leaves in a storm, clattering harmlessly against the cavern walls.

Darian lowers his bow, stunned. "That was—"

"Wind magic," I rasp, dragging myself upright.

Lyriana's voice breaks in, frantic. "No chant, no divine call—he's just bending elements."

The creature spins slowly, arms half-raised like a conductor mid-overture.

It speaks again, lilting and surreal:

"I didn't study wind. I just remembered what it feels like to be ignored by trees."

Then it turns toward us fully, smiling, wide-eyed.

"Do you think spells need permission? I never asked."

The air around it starts to hum. Static? Mana? Emotion?

I can't tell.

But every hair on my body rises.

And I know—

It's not done.

It points toward Lyriana, fingers trembling like it's trying to aim but isn't sure what aiming even means.

"You," it says, voice narrowing, tone almost accusing. "You ask nicely."

Lyriana's charm glows brighter in her hand, lips moving in prayer—steady, even under pressure.

The creature tilts its head, frowning.

"Why do you keep knocking on the door?" it asks, almost hurt. "Why not just walk through?"

Its fingers twitch again.

"You don't need a god. You need a decision."

The air ripples—just once—like the space between them shudders at the idea.

"Spells don't care who you worship," it continues, louder now, voice distorting. "They're not loyal. They're not holy. They're just... waiting."

Lyriana raises her hand, chanting faster, light gathering—

And the thing laughs, not mockingly, but with absolute delight.

"There she goes again! Chant chant chant! Like spelling out your name makes the lightning yours!"

It lowers its arm.

"Watch this instead."

It raises both arms, fingers spread wide.

A glow begins to form in front of it—light, but wrong. Not holy, not arcane. Something raw, like sunlight filtered through broken glass. The air bends around it, flickering with unstable pressure.

Then it speaks, voice cold, clear, and sharper than before:

"Chants are for the undisciplined."

The light sharpens, pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Undiscipline breeds distraction."

The glow tightens, focuses, threads of energy lacing together without symbols or incantation.

"And distraction leads to weak, soggy magic."

It grins—calmly, confidently.

"I don't ask my spells to form. I tell them what they already are."

The light cracks.

And for a moment, I feel something snap in the air between us—like the world is holding its breath, waiting to see what this creature decides next.

And then—the light disappears.
Snuffed out in an instant, like a thought abandoned mid-sentence.

The creature blinks. Looks at its own hands.

Then scowls, lips curling in frustrated confusion.

"Oh. Oh no. This body is terrible."

It waves its arms like they're too heavy, too floppy. "Too much noodle, not enough engine!"

It stomps once, foot twisting the wrong way, arms flailing.

"Mana puddle's barely a teaspoon! I tried to cook a star and got soup vapor!"

It clutches its head, spinning in a half-circle.

"How am I supposed to rewrite weather patterns with this damp sponge of a soul? I'm trying to breathe fire and it gives me lukewarm apology burps!"

It freezes, then whispers conspiratorially toward no one:

"I miss having bone-density dreams. I miss having density."

Then it suddenly snaps upright again, wild-eyed and panting, like it forgot we were even here.

And its gaze locks back on us.

Lyriana drops to her knees, her charm clattering against the stone. Her lips are still moving, but no sound comes out now. Her eyes are wide—glassy, unfocused. She's terrified, not just of what it is, but of what it's not.

And honestly?

I don't blame her.

But I can't afford to freeze. I push myself upright, gritting through the pain in my ribs, hand curling back around my blade.

The creature is distracted. Rambling. Glitching in and out of its own thoughts.

That gives me time.

Time to ready the strike.

And in the back of my mind—just beneath the thrum of tension and the rush of blood—I feel it.

Excitement.

This thing is insane. Unstable. Dangerous.

But it's also magnificent.

A living anomaly. A natural spellcaster. Something that doesn't fit into any classification—and that means it's unclaimed.

I've seen what one-of-a-kind morphics go for in Zahraen's underground markets. And this one?

This one would fetch a fortune.

If I can bring it in alive.

If I can survive it.

I glance sideways at Darian, catching his eye.

He's already halfway through drawing another arrow, jaw tight, knuckles white on the grip. He's seen the same thing I have—what this creature could be worth.

I give him a sharp nod.

His eyes narrow. No words exchanged.

We've done this before.

He shifts position, steps lightly across the stone to line up the shot. Quiet. Clean. An opening strike to stagger it—give me the chance to close the gap and finish the restraint.

The creature's still muttering to itself, arms twitching erratically.

"Oh, I miss the stars. They used to hum when I blinked. Now they just whimper politely."

It doesn't even notice Darian take aim.

Not yet.

Darian fires.

The arrow whistles through the air, aimed dead-center at the thing's chest.

But the creature twists again, unnaturally—its torso folding sideways like a ribbon caught in wind. The arrow misses by inches, clattering harmlessly into the stone wall behind it.

But that's all I need.

While it's still mid-turn, still in that contorted, off-balance shape—

I move.

Boots scrape stone. My blade sings through the air.

The creature starts to turn back, but I'm already closing the distance, driving my weight into the strike. It's open—exposed—and this time, I'm not hesitating.

This time, I'm going to take it down.

But just as my blade comes down, fast and clean—

—it moves.

Not a dodge. A parry.

Its twisted talon snaps up with impossible timing, catching the edge of my sword mid-swing.

The clang of steel-on-bone rings out through the cavern. The impact sends a jolt up my arm—then a sharp twist—

—and the sword is ripped from my hands.

Before I can react, its other hand—the human-like one—snatches my weapon out of the air.

It holds it wrong at first, like it doesn't understand the weight or the shape.

Then it adjusts.

Perfectly.

My own blade, now in its grasp.

It looks at me.

Smiles.

And says, almost cheerfully:

"Oh! Now I understand what this game is."

Darian reacts fast—too fast to shout a warning.

He looses another arrow, aiming straight for the creature's heart.

But the thing doesn't even flinch.

It casually swings my own sword, like swatting a fly.

The blade smacks the arrow mid-flight, sending it spinning off-course with a sharp metallic ping as if it had always known how to do that.

No hesitation. No strain.

Like it's been holding a sword all its life.

It glances at the blade, then back at me with something dangerously close to glee.

"Oh, this tool talks," it hums, voice trembling with amusement.
"Your stick tried to bite me. I bit it back."

And now it's armed. With my sword.

My blood runs cold.

The creature starts walking toward me, slow, deliberate—dragging my own sword behind it, the tip screeching faintly against the stone.

Its head tilts, lips twitching in some twisted mockery of a grin.

"It's so heavy," it murmurs, admiring the blade. "But I like how it hums. Like a metal lullaby with blood in its teeth."

My muscles tense. I'm unarmed. Every instinct screams to move, but I hold my ground.

Behind it, Darian shifts—silent, quick. He draws his dagger, slipping forward with practiced grace. The creature's back is still to him, its focus entirely on me.

Darian steps in—fast and clean, knife raised for a heart-stab.

He's two strides away.

One.

Then the creature pauses mid-step, its body suddenly going still.

And without turning, it says:

"You brought a knife to a thought fight."

Then it spins.

The creature spins in one fluid, unnatural motion—

—and steel meets steel.

My sword, now in the creature's hand, clashes against Darian's dagger with a sharp, jarring clang. Sparks erupt as the two blades scrape, the impact sending a shock through the narrow tunnel.

Darian's eyes widen—he expected surprise, not skill.

But the creature isn't just fast.

It's precise.

It matches Darian's angle like it's been doing this for years—like it's been watching us train and fight and kill.

The two weapons grind for a split second, caught in a deadlock.

Then the creature leans in close, face inches from Darian's, eyes too wide, too aware.

"You're not part of the story anymore."

Then it pushes.

The dagger skitters from Darian's grip, knocked loose by the raw force of the creature's push.

Before he can reach for it—

—the creature's leg slams forward.

A grotesque, minotaur-like limb, thick with unnatural muscle and twisted angles, kicks Darian square in the chest. The impact lifts him off the ground, armor plates crunching as he's hurled backward into the cave floor with a bone-jarring thud.

He barely has time to wheeze before the creature steps forward—

—and drives my sword straight into his gut.

A sharp gasp escapes Darian, eyes wide, blood already pooling beneath him.

The creature stands over him for a moment. Silent. Still.

Then it slowly turns its head back toward me, expression not gleeful, not triumphant—upset.

Its voice is soft now. Childlike.

"You… you made me do that."

It lowers its eyes, almost confused.

"I didn't want to. You pushed the story that way."

It steps once more in my direction.

"This chapter was supposed to be quiet."

I stand before it, breath ragged, ribs aching—unarmed.

The weight of the moment presses down heavier than any sword.

Darian's blood stains the stone behind it. Lyriana is still on her knees, too shaken to speak. And now—it's just me.

The creature watches me.

My sword—my sword—still slick with my comrade's blood, hangs loosely in its grip.

Its expression isn't mocking.

It looks... disappointed.

Like a child whose toy broke too soon.

"You came here with traps and prayers," it murmurs.
"But none of you brought honesty."

It tilts its head.

"Is that how your kind always says hello? With cages and knives?"

I don't answer.

Because I don't know if I can.

Because right now, I'm not sure which one of us is more afraid.

Behind me, Lyriana finds her voice. Weak, trembling, but burning with courage.

She raises her hands, her charm flaring.

"By the radiance of dawn—"

The light builds—

—and vanishes.

Gone. Dissolved mid-air like it was never real to begin with.

The creature doesn't even blink.

It slowly turns its head toward her and says:

"I told you. Chants are for people who need the universe to notice them before they beg it to listen."

It taps its own temple with one claw.

"Real magic is when you think the sun should kneel, and it gets embarrassed and apologizes in ultraviolet."

It twirls my bloodied sword lazily in one hand, then shrugs.

"Screaming your spell is like announcing your punch to the air. The wind doesn't care, it just moves."

It leans closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper:

"You prayed. I remembered."

"Guess which one the atoms listened to."

While it's still facing Lyriana, basking in its own madness, I see the opening.

My breath hitches. Every muscle screams in protest—but I move.

I charge, barehanded, reckless, silent. I don't need a blade. Just momentum. Just one clean hit to stagger it long enough to—

It sidesteps.

Effortless. Fluid.

Almost like it knew the move before I made it.

Then, in a blink, I feel cold steel kiss my back.

My sword—still in its hand—slices clean across my shoulder blade, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to drop me.

My knees buckle. The pain burns white.

I fall forward, catching myself on blood-slick stone, vision spinning.

Behind me, the creature exhales slowly. Not pleased. Not angry.

Just… disappointed.

"You came back into the scene like a forgotten punctuation mark," it says softly.
"But this sentence doesn't want you anymore."

Damnit... is this the end?

The thought slams into me harder than the blade did.

The world tilts—no, spins—a slow, drowning spiral. My breath comes ragged. The stone is cold beneath me, wet with blood. My blood.

It's leaving me, pooling under my ribs, seeping into my clothes. Everything aches. Everything's distant.

Shapes blur. Sounds fade. Even the pain is starting to float.

But one thing stays clear:

The creature.

My sword still in hand, it walks—no, glides—across the cavern floor.

Toward Lyriana.

She's still frozen in place, hands trembling, lips murmuring a broken prayer. Her charm glows like a fading ember, its light too soft to matter.

And the creature?

It doesn't hurry.

It strolls, almost gentle, like it's walking into a confession booth.

Is it going for her next?

I want to move.

I try to move.

But my limbs are anchors, and my vision is folding in on itself like paper set on fire.

All I can do is watch—

—and hope the gods she prays to are listening.

Punishment...

This is my punishment…

For being greedy. For thinking I could own something that shouldn't exist. For turning monsters into merchandise. For seeing wonder and weighing it in coin.

The pain fades.

The sound of my heartbeat slows, echoing like dripping water down a well.

The world darkens.

My limbs go numb. My thoughts scatter like birds chased from a tree.

All I can see is the creature—walking, calm, curious, sword in hand—approaching Lyriana as she clutches her god's symbol like a fading candle in the wind.

I want to warn her. I want to scream.
But no sound comes.

Just silence.

Just shadow.

End of Prelude