Biocores: The Legendary Weapon Designer-Chapter 115: Benevolant Prince

Seated in front of the main control unit of the flying vessel, Nioh’s gaze was unblinking, focused entirely on the grainy transmission unfolding on the central display. The interface glowed dimly, bathing his pallid features in an eerie bluish light. He sat in complete stillness—composed, but with a sharp, coiled tension that permeated the air around him.

"The electric bees are about to make contact with Biohive 81 in five minutes," X reported, scrolling through real-time readings. "Should we deploy?"

He was standing slightly behind Nioh, tablet in hand, his posture tense but professional.

Nioh didn’t answer immediately. His red-tinged hair fell slightly over his brow, shadowing his hollow eyes. He studied the incoming swarm, lines of erratic movement flickering across the screen. After a moment’s pause, he slowly shook his head.

"No," he said. His voice was cool, almost dispassionate. "If we intervene before the damage begins, they’ll never truly understand the value of what we’re doing."

X opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could say anything, the echoing crack of metal against metal rang through the chamber. Akron, who had been standing silently at the doorway, had driven his fist hard into the frame, the dent a clear message.

The room fell into a thick silence.

Nioh turned his head just enough to look over his shoulder at his old companion. Their eyes met — and for a brief moment, something flickered in Nioh’s expression. A quiet sigh escaped his lips. The tension in his shoulders loosened slightly, as if just Akron’s gaze alone had pulled him back from whatever mental cliff he’d been teetering on.

These past two months had changed him.

Drastically.

Nioh’s methods had grown more brutal, his decisions more surgical. Cold. Calculated. He no longer flinched at collateral damage. He no longer lingered on moral questions. His ascension in public perception had come with a cost — the insidious influence of the corrupted energy he had absorbed was intensifying, seeping into his soul like black ink into water. It whispered to him. Stirred envy. Fanned old desires. Fed his growing ambition.

Even his body had begun to reflect it.

His once-pure ashen hair had lost its luster, dulled at the roots. And now, a long, jagged streak of crimson red split through it — a wicked slash of color that seemed almost natural. Almost earned. It made him look more devil than prince.

Still, Akron remained.

The last anchor to a self Nioh wasn’t sure he remembered — or even missed.

"...Make sure nobody dies," Nioh added finally, his voice a little softer, a reluctant concession to Akron’s silent protest.

"You’re not even married yet and you’re already whipped," X quipped, snorting as he turned to leave. "Honeymoon’s over, huh?"

Nioh offered no retort — only the faintest curl at the corner of his lips, which vanished as quickly as it came.

After the door slid shut behind X, Akron stepped forward. His touch was gentle, fingers pressing against Nioh’s temples in slow, rhythmic circles — a rare gesture of comfort between soldiers who had long stopped pretending they weren’t more than that.

"Breathe," she murmured. "You’ve done more than enough these past three months. You’ve saved cities, cleansed lands, fixed crises even the senate refused to acknowledge. People chant your name in streets you’ve never walked. You’ve earned your karma back."

"I don’t care about karma," Nioh replied, eyes still locked on the screen. "This is the final component. The last piece of the puzzle. I can’t afford a single error."

Akron’s hand lingered on his shoulder.

"You won’t make one."

A soft hum rolled through the control panel as she took the pilot controls, and the ship groaned, metal plates shifting as the trap door began to open beneath them.

"Let’s go," she said, her voice steady. Reassuring.

The ship tilted forward, engines roaring to life, as the team descended into the storm below — where the swarm awaited, and fate began to turn once again.

—

The outer city of Biohive 81 was in a state of chaos.

A low, anxious hum clung to the streets like fog, vibrating through every rusted panel and loose bolt of the metallic district. Emergency sirens wailed overhead, drowning under the distant, growing buzz of wings—the unmistakable herald of the Electric Swarm. The sky had turned a sickly green, and flashes of bioelectric energy arced through the clouds like vengeful spirits dancing on the edge of a storm.

This was the first time in over a decade that the Electric Bees had migrated through Biohive 81.

No one had expected it. Fewer still were prepared.

Families were locked indoors, clutching their children close and praying the old seals on their windows would hold. Makeshift shelters had been erected in basements and underground train stations, packed full of coughing elders, frightened workers, and too many wide-eyed children.

In the outer city—far beyond the glistening domes and polished spires of the protected inner sanctum—protection was always scarce. They didn’t have high-grade shielding. They didn’t have elite defenders. What they had were a handful of low-level warriors, tired and under-equipped, standing in the rain with trembling hands and cracked visors, trying to form a line.

But they stood.

They always stood.

Inside one of the largest shelters, silence had settled thick over the huddled crowd. A mother sobbed quietly into her shawl, her two children curled beneath her cloak. Somewhere in the back, an elder whispered prayers to an old deity long forgotten. The stale air was tense, heavy, and beginning to crack under the pressure.

Then a voice broke through.

"Please..." A middle-aged man near the wall spoke out, barely above a whisper. "Please, pray for Prince Nioh to come."

Several heads turned. And then someone else echoed, louder this time.

"Yes. If the prince were here, we would have nothing to fear."

"The prince is the strongest!" a child exclaimed, clinging to her older brother’s coat.

"He doesn’t discriminate between nobles and peasants," someone added firmly, fists clenched as if the reminder gave him strength. "He saved us during the blight season. He came when the Parliament refused to act."

A wave of murmurs followed, like dry grass catching flame. The name was passed around like a talisman.

"Prince Nioh..."

"Please, Nioh..."

"Let him come again..."

In the dim shelter, hope rose like steam from a dying fire—desperate, flickering, but alive. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t planned. But it was human.

One by one, the people began to pray.

Not to the old gods. Not to the great ancestors or ancient heroes.

But to the prince who had become myth while still breathing.

To the devil-king with ashen hair and crimson streaks, who descended like a storm but spared the weak. To the man who had stopped a plague, ended a siege, and condemned nobles who turned their backs on the outer rings.

To Nioh.