The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 452: Monitor Like a Game (1)

<Visual anomaly detected. Levitation rocks exhibit unstable magical vectors. Adjusting route ten degrees east to minimize kinetic risk.>

"Route approved," Mikhailis answered, swirling his tea. "But dramatic shots are worth minor risk, just saying."

<Your entertainment value ranks lower than mission success.>

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"Tsk. And here I thought you'd appreciate my artistic direction."

He dragged a new widget onto the feed—[Camera Tilt: Cinematic]. The visual snapped to a subtle Dutch angle, making the scene look instantly more adventurous. Rodion's cloak billowed handsomely in slow motion.

<Restore standard axis. I require accurate horizon data.> The AI's tone carried the weariness of a teacher correcting a mischievous student.

"Fine," Mikhailis sighed. He tapped again, leveling the horizon. "Spoilsport."

A soft chiming jingle drew his attention—an incoming quest notification he'd programmed for comedic flair. A glowing parchment unfurled mid‑air: Side Quest Unlocked — "Capture an Aerial Specimen without destroying Fluffiness Integrity." A tiny chibi version of Rodion flexed there, haloed in sparkles.

Mikhailis chuckled. "Extra XP if you keep the cloak spotless."

Rodion didn't respond—he was busy scanning. Echolocation lines rippled from his sensors, painting invisible lattices across the vale. On the HUD, they rendered as pale blue wavefronts. Where they intersected, mana nodes flashed like cold stars.

The Chamber of Roses door cracked again, and another head peeked in—Serelith, silver‑lavender hair draping one eye. She leaned against the frame, lips curved in a wicked smile.

"Mmm, morning show already? I adore matinee performances." Her gaze slid to the HUD, then to Mikhailis's partially bared shoulder. "Nice collarbone, my prince. Five out of five dramatic flourish."

He tossed a rose‑light petal at her. "Behave, Serelith. Or Elowen will sic Cerys on you."

A delighted shiver ran through her. "Promises, promises." She winked and vanished down the corridor, robes swirling.

Mikhailis exhaled. Universe, give me strength. He refocused on the feed.

Rodion descended the far side of the ridge. Mist pooled there, swirling in slow eddies. The tactical display tagged flecks of unstable runes half‑buried in the soil—ancient, cracked, still twitching with residual power. Signs flashed red: [Spatial Drift 3%], [Time‑Lag Echo 0.6 sec].

Mikhailis tapped open an audio channel. "Careful. Local reality wants to turn you into abstract art."

Rodion answered with calm efficiency:

<Calculating anchor points. Deploying Scarab beacons to stabilize reference frame.>

Tiny icons marked the Scarabs' positions. Each beetle sunk into the moss and broadcast a steady mana ping, knitting the area into a relative map grid. The HUD's horizon shimmered, then settled. Good.

Mikhailis sipped more tea, savoring the subtle floral sweetness. Behind him, the illusion roses dimmed toward dawn‑gold, signaling sunrise outside. He considered, briefly, calling Elowen to join the spectacle—but no, she had council in an hour. Best not tempt fate or her punctuality.

He flicked open his mock "Skill Tree" panel. A new branch blinked—[Sentinel Vanguard Lv. 1]. Two nodes shone: Precision Dash and Reactive Plating. He toggled them, granting Rodion micro‑permission codes.

"Congrats, you leveled," he announced brightly. "Try not to face‑plant with your new dash."

Rodion's acknowledgement was a dry ping of static—sass in binary.

High overhead, a murder of mana‑charged crows burst from twisted branches. Their feathers crackled with stray currents, leaving neon trails. Mikhailis's cinematic view followed them automatically, framing Rodion heroically below. He grinned, pleased with the shot.

This is better than theatre, he thought.

Suddenly, the Fluffiness bar dipped to 92 %. An orange warning blinked. On screen, a stray thorn‑vine had snagged the cloak's hem.

"Oh, scandalous! Wardrobe malfunction," he gasped theatrically.

Rodion halted, sliced the vine with a finger‑blade, and smoothed the cloak.

<Integrity restored. Cloak damage negligible.>

Mikhailis made a note to award style points later.

Footsteps padded across plush carpet. Lira returned, silently this time, and set a single scroll right atop his shin where it draped off the sofa. He squinted—her handwriting: Queen expects you in strategy hall by ninth bell. A small doodle showed a frowning crown.

He groaned. "Ninth bell already?" He glanced at a floating clock glyph: eighth and change. "Plenty of time," he decided, shifting only enough to balance the teapot on the armrest.

Back on the HUD, Rodion approached a shallow ravine laced with thin sheets of glassy mana. The cinematic view zoomed automatically, lens flare dancing along fractured rune pillars. Pretty, Mikhailis thought, then flicked a toggle. A retro, 8‑bit "Danger Zone" jingle played softly.

Rodion did not comment, but his pathfinding took on a distinctly annoyed zig‑zag to avoid the most unstable tiles. Mikhailis giggled, nearly spilling tea.

His gaze drifted briefly to the duty scroll stack. Filigree seals glimmered accusingly. Later. He returned attention to his walking movie.

The interface flashed a tooltip: Wild Herb "Whispermoss" detected – Rarity SR. Mikhailis leaned closer.

"Rodion, two meters left, teal glow. Grab a sprig. It's excellent in insomnia syrups."

Rodion bent, gauntleted fingers delicately clipping the herb. He stored it in a sterile vial compartment. The inventory tally pinged: +1 Whispermoss.

"Excellent farming," Mikhailis hummed. "Maybe I should start a cooking channel."

<Please refrain. The realm suffers enough disasters.>

"Harsh," he said, smiling wider.

The ambient music he'd coded—soft lute and low drums—shifted to a tense chord. On tactical view, mana turbulence spiked in erratic peaks. Mikhailis perched upright, robe sliding dangerously.

"Proximity alert," he murmured. The side quest tracker flashed: ENCOUNTER INCOMING.

Rodion raised his head in the feed; distant lightning crackled purple across cloudless sky. Shards of broken rune stone levitated, orbiting an unseen center like slow shrapnel.

Mikhailis set his teacup down, eyes sharp now. "Alright, Dungeonwalker. Show me flair."

Here we go.

He slid the slider on the rune‑dial until it clicked into the deep‑crimson notch labeled Dramatic Twilight. Instantly, the cinematic pane bled richer colors: violets bled into midnight blue, leaves took on an oil‑slick sheen, and every shadow stretched into toothy silhouettes that practically promised jump‑scares. A gusty whoosh—borrowed shamelessly from an opera storm track—rolled out of the sofa's hidden speakers. The Royal Chamber suddenly felt like the front row of a traveling spectacle.

Mikhailis raised his free hand, fingers splayed, throat clearing with Shakespearean vigor.

"The winds whisper of curses," he intoned, resonant as any tavern bard after three ales. "You feel a plus twelve percent uptick in ambient shadow mana. Terrain difficulty: medium. Encounter chance: high. Mood lighting"—he snapped, causing the chandelier's rose‑lights to dim in solidarity—"perfect."