The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 378 : Steel in the Smoke, Shadows in the Fire

At a T-shaped intersection, Rhea stumbled over a loose cobblestone, nearly collapsing against him. He caught her quickly, guiding her to a safer patch of ground. She mumbled a thanks under her breath, face flushed with either pain or embarrassment.

"Don't push yourself too hard," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. The fierceness in her eyes flared—she hated being fussed over—yet she let him help her remain upright. For a moment, they locked gazes, and he saw just how exhausted she truly was. She's fighting for every step, he realized, a pang of guilt tugging at him for not forcing her to rest. But the city was ablaze with problems, and none of them could afford to stand still.

A subtle hush fell over them again, the only sound the ragged breathing of the group and the occasional snap of distant timbers collapsing. Someone, somewhere out of sight, let out a brief scream, only for it to be cut short. No one commented on it, but Mikhailis felt a heaviness sink in his stomach. We're too late to save everyone.

Sucking in a breath, he tore his gaze away from the destroyed scenery. "We have to keep going," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "If we waste time, we might lose any chance to figure out where Laethor is."

Rhea shot him a dry look. "Oh, great. And here I was, hoping we could just find a nice little bar and drown our misery in bad ale." The sarcasm came through loud and clear, but behind it, he detected a weary longing—like she truly wished they could all pretend this crisis didn't exist.

Vyrelda smirked, though her eyes remained watchful. "Wouldn't mind that, actually," she tossed in. She might have been serious, or maybe it was just her way of coping with the tension. Mikhailis wouldn't blame her if she wanted to drown out the memory of smoke and screams, even for a brief moment.

Lira let out a soft, exasperated sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a tsk. "Focus, you two."

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They barely made it three blocks before the ambush hit.

Mikhailis didn't have time to react before a dagger whizzed past his cheek, embedding itself in the wooden crate beside him with a thunk. Specks of splintered wood flew out, peppering his hair and shoulders. In the same heartbeat, masked figures dropped from the rooftops, landing almost soundlessly on cracked cobblestones and blocking their path from both directions.

He swore under his breath, stumbling backward from the sudden threat. Rhea nearly lost her balance beside him, cursing her bad leg as she struggled to brace for battle. "Well," Mikhailis muttered, heart thudding painfully, "that's not very welcoming."

The words barely left his lips before the tension in the street ratcheted up. A half dozen armed figures fanned out around them, each wearing dark cloth wrapped over their faces. Their clothing looked practical—good for blending into shadows—and each one carried either short blades or curved swords, some glinting dangerously even in the dim light. The air itself felt heavier, as though the city's ruin had seeped into the bones of these ambushers, fueling their purpose with grim resolve.

Rhea was already drawing her sword. The faint sheen of sweat on her forehead betrayed her pain, and her stance wavered slightly from the injured leg, but she showed no intention of backing down. Cerys, with her typical cool efficiency, stepped up on Rhea's flank, her own weapon gripped tightly. One glance at her narrowed eyes and tense jaw told Mikhailis she was analyzing every angle, every possible opening. Vyrelda, on the other hand, looked almost eager—like a caged beast craving release. She rolled her shoulders and let out a snort, dagger in hand, ready to pounce at the nearest sign of weakness in the enemy line. Meanwhile, Lira hung back a few steps, her posture measured and composed, as if she were deciding precisely when and where she'd strike for the greatest effect.

A single figure parted from the group, stepping out with an easy, almost arrogant swagger. He was tall, wrapped head to toe in dark cloth that obscured most of his features. Twin daggers glowed faintly with a strange energy—mist swirled in the blades' edges, hinting at some arcane infusion. He looked them over with a posture that screamed confidence, as though they were mere trifles in his path.

His voice, low and rich with amusement, echoed off the close walls. "Well, well. The Chained Catalyst himself."

Mikhailis felt a chill scrape down his spine at the mention of that name. He drew in a sharp breath, wondering if the man was referring to him. Chained Catalyst? That was definitely not a moniker he'd chosen for himself. It made his chest tighten, and he could feel the black brand on his arm pulse in warning, as if acknowledging the man's words.

"…Excuse me?" Mikhailis managed to say, forcing a crooked grin he didn't actually feel. Fear and curiosity battled inside him.

The tall man chuckled, a harsh, brittle sound. "Did you really think you were the only one who understood the nature of the Mist? You don't even know what you're carrying, do you?" He cocked his head as though studying Mikhailis's reaction.

Mikhailis's fingers itched against the cloth of his sleeve, not quite touching the brand but wanting to. What the hell does he mean—? The brand's presence swelled, a subtle throbbing that pounded in time with his heartbeat, stirring a faint swirl of half-voices at the edge of his consciousness. It reminded him that the mist he'd partially sealed away was still with him, still lurking. The thought set his nerves on edge.

"Kill them," the man ordered lazily, as if he were instructing a servant to clear a table. "Try not to break him too much. He's still useful."

The words snapped Mikhailis out of his thoughts. In that instant, the street exploded with action as the ambushers lunged. The fight erupted in a blur of motion and steel.

Rhea moved first, ignoring her injured leg as she twisted sideways to avoid a slash aimed at her midsection. Despite the ache that no doubt screamed in her muscles, she countered by driving her knee into her attacker's ribs. He staggered, gasping for air, and Rhea took the chance to sweep his legs out from under him. The pain in her face was obvious, but she still wore that determined, almost angry grimace that said: I won't let anyone see me falter.

Cerys wasted no time. She dismantled an opponent in three precise movements—a parry to the left, a swift twist of her blade, and then a lethal thrust between the armor joints at the man's shoulder. He collapsed, a choked cry escaping his lips as he toppled into the rubble. She didn't pause to watch him fall. Instead, she spun toward a second foe, her calm, calculating focus making her appear more like a predator than a mere soldier.

Vyrelda fought like a feral beast unleashed. Her dagger flashed with vicious speed, each slash aimed at throats, tendons, and weak points in the enemies' guards. Two men tried to corner her, only for her to duck under their combined assault with fluid ferocity. Her blade found one man's calf, slicing deep enough to send him collapsing. A savage grin tugged at her lips, and she pivoted to the next, deadly determination blazing in her eyes.

Lira, in stark contrast, moved with a refined, almost dance-like precision. She was always composed—her posture never seemed to break, even under pressure. While the others drew attention through raw power or speed, Lira struck quietly, aiming for where the enemy was weakest. Whenever an ambusher lunged at Cerys or Vyrelda from behind, Lira slipped in with a sudden slash, finishing them off before they even registered her presence. It was a subdued but chilling efficiency: no wasted motion, no flourish. She kept her breathing steady, her expression poised, as if directing a carefully choreographed performance.

Mikhailis, watching the swirling melee, barely had time to blink before his brand flared with an unexpected surge of energy. The sensation clawed at his arm, sending a jolt through his body. He sucked in a breath. The mist he'd captured inside that runic seal was still tethered to him, and right now it seemed to be calling out, almost in excitement.

One of the masked attackers came at him with a curved blade. Mikhailis raised his sword too slowly—he felt sure the blow would land. But in that split second, the mist curled around him. His vision wavered as if the entire world was tinted by swirling shadows. It was disorienting, yet he felt an odd clarity at the same time.

He saw the world differently. Shadows stretched unnaturally, flickering at the edges of his sight like elongated phantoms. The man rushing at him suddenly slowed, as though time had hiccupped. Mikhailis's heart thundered, but his limbs moved with unexpected speed.

A whisper in his mind. Use it. The words were faint, like a voice speaking from the far end of a tunnel. He didn't recognize it—was it the entity, or just some leftover imprint? He couldn't tell. He didn't think. He moved. And in that fleeting moment, he moved faster than before. His body felt weightless, charged with something beyond normal human strength or reflex. Mikhailis slashed horizontally, colliding with the attacker's blade. Instead of a usual clang of steel, the enemy's dagger shattered on impact, shards of metal spraying across the street. The masked man reeled back, clearly stunned by the raw force behind Mikhailis's strike.

A trembling sensation shot up Mikhailis's arms as if he'd tried to lift something far too heavy and actually succeeded. What the hell was that—? he wondered, reeling from the abrupt surge of power.

But there was no time to dwell. A wave of heat and light smashed into his peripheral vision. He barely had time to turn before an explosion ripped through the district, rattling the cracked stones underfoot. Firelight bloomed to the southeast, painting the rooftops orange. The shockwave hit with enough force to knock some of the ambushers sideways, while a plume of black smoke rose from the new blast site, adding a fresh wave of choking ash to the air. The Crownless House wasn't just staging a normal insurrection; they were detonating key parts of the city. Structures that might have provided safe passage or vantage points were going up in flames, presumably to sow confusion and hamper any attempts at a united defense. Mikhailis's heart hammered. If they kept blowing up entire blocks, the death toll would skyrocket.

Amid the chaos, the mercenaries broke formation, signaling each other with quick gestures. They began a hurried retreat, one jumping onto a broken crate to vault up a collapsed roof, another slipping into the swirling smoke. The tall leader flicked a final, mocking glance at Mikhailis.

He smirked beneath the partial veil of cloth covering his face. "See you soon, Chained Catalyst." The man's tone held a twisted sort of amusement, as though he relished the idea of a future rematch. He tapped the side of one of his glowing daggers against his leg, producing a soft clang that reverberated ominously. Then he vanished into the thick smoke, leaving only the echo of his taunting laughter behind.

Mikhailis stood there, breathing hard, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He watched the swirling fumes where the man had disappeared, wanting to hurl curses at him. The brand on his arm pulsed again, almost in response to the 'Chained Catalyst' title. He had half a mind to dash after the masked leader, but common sense screamed that he was in no condition for a chase. Not after nearly dying in the catacombs. Not with Rhea bleeding, or with Cerys, Vyrelda, and Lira all battered from battle. And definitely not with half the district about to catch fire.

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The mercenaries, in a matter of seconds, melted away, taking advantage of the fresh explosion's distraction. One of them vaulted a smoldering wall, another scrambled up a half-toppled statue, and soon they were all but invisible, fading into the gloom of the city's collapsed structures.

And then they were gone.