The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 516: Sugar and Shadows (3)

"Demon magic!" someone screamed.

Mikhailis spun to greet a dagger flashing for his spine. He saw the thug's wild eyes, smelled ale on his breath. Cloak swirling, he parried at full extension, then used the blade's momentum to hook the man's wrist. A half-turn, a wrist flick—dagger gone. Before panic registered, Mikhailis reversed grip, pommel-smacked temple. The thug's eyes rolled white; he sagged.

Three. Keep pace, Volkov, keep pace.

A crossbow clattered on planks above. The disarmed roof-archer clawed for a backup quarrel; shadows yanked again. He yelped, slid off the beam, and crashed in a mess of arms and curses. He wouldn't be rejoining the fight.

On the courtyard floor two thugs remained, blades wavering as they backed toward the prisoners. Their faces shifted between bravado and terror under uneven torchlight. Serelith's violet eyes tracked them, smoldering with both pain and contempt. Cerys, jaw clenched, fought the runes with raw muscle; veins stood out on her arms.

"Don't move!" the taller man barked, pressing his dagger to Serelith's cheek. The tip drew a bead of crimson. "One more step and—"

Mikhailis halted, sword low but ready. "All right," he said softly, voice bending around iron. "I won't take one more step."

I'll take three.

He lifted his free hand, fingers open—distraction. In the shadow of his boot a Scurabon darted behind the captive trio. Its mandibles clipped the rope holding the runic chain to a stone ring. The hiss of splitting fibers was lost beneath the wind's moan.

Slack snapped through the chain like a whip. Daggers wavered, momentarily off balance. Mikhailis lunged.

Step. The blade gleamed.

Slice—across first manacle. Blue runes popped like dying fireflies.

Return. Pivot. The second cut sheared through the next cuff before it could flare.

The thugs reacted too late. Weapons lifted, wide and desperate. Mikhailis slid inside the taller man's arc, shoulder checking hard. The thug's ribs met cedar post; air whooshed out in a choked grunt. Mikhailis's sword reversed in his palm, flat side smashing knuckles. Dagger rang away.

The shorter one stabbed for Mikhailis's flank. He twisted, letting cloak catch the blade. Silk hissed as steel sliced fabric but slowed. He trapped the dagger arm with his elbow, then smashed his hilt into the man's nose. Blood spattered stone. The thug staggered; Cerys, half-free, kicked her captor's shin. With a roar she caught the man's collar and heaved, throwing him into the fox statue. Stone ears broke off as the thug slid down, unconscious. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

Mikhailis turned back to the taller menace, who fumbled for a hidden knife. Too slow. The prince drove a kick—powered by Scurabon talons—into the brute's knee. Ligaments popped. A second kick to the jaw laid him flat.

Silence rushed in—a hush full of ragged breathing, guttering torch, Necrolord shadows whispering against roof tiles.

Mikhailis knelt, slicing the turquoise gag from Serelith's mouth. She coughed, breath rasping like torn paper. He felt her shudder, saw the strain etched under her pale skin.

"Stay with me, mage," he murmured.

She managed a thin smile. "You—really—know how to ruin a kidnapping."

Behind, Cerys ripped the remnants of her bindings, flexing sore wrists. She found the fallen dagger, flipped it once, then nearly crumpled; adrenaline had hidden how much mana those runes drank from her.

Mikhailis steadied her. "Easy."

The fortune-teller trembled, tears carving tracks through soot on her cheeks. He cut her bonds too; she clasped his hands, whispering thanks in a trembling dialect he barely caught.

Serelith's fingers dug into Mikhailis's sleeve, her voice thin and trembling. "Mikhailis… they… they have something else…"

Her words struck like a whisper of thunder, low but heavy. Mikhailis's jaw clenched, his gaze hardening. He didn't need Rodion to confirm the sick twist in his gut. This wasn't just a kidnapping. It was something far worse.

Then a low, wheezing laugh rose from the tangled heap of bodies at the shrine's edge. One of the thugs, barely upright, propped himself against a broken beam, his face a mask of bruises and blood. But his smile was sharp, almost triumphant.

"You think it's over, prince?" the thug spat, a dark, ugly grin splitting his swollen lips. "This is just the start."

Mikhailis's fingers tightened around his blade, the point dipping an inch closer. "Talk. Or I make your suffering into a masterpiece."

"Oh, I'm going to talk," the thug wheezed, a wet cough staining his teeth red. "Because you're too smart for your own good. You saved them. Congratulations. But if you so much as breathe wrong now—"

He jerked his chin, and Mikhailis's sharp gaze followed. The dim square, the crumbling shrine, the scattered crates… and then he saw them. Thin, shimmering lines etched along the flagstones, barely visible beneath the grime. A delicate lattice of runic symbols, pulsing with a faint, sickly green glow.

Mikhailis's heart sank.

<Confirmed,> Rodion's voice spoke with a chill Mikhailis rarely heard. <Mana-runes. Multipoint array. Dispersed perimeter. The trigger source is…>

Mikhailis's eyes tracked the pattern, each flicker of the runes leading to a central point—an altar stone cracked and jagged, glowing with an angry violet pulse. At its core, a heartstone—an enchanted crystal the size of his fist—throbbed like a dying ember.

"Rodion. Tell me that's not—"

<Detonation matrix. Pulse-based. A single trigger will ignite every rune. Given the area… estimated blast radius will cover…>

"The entire festival square," Mikhailis whispered, a cold sweat prickling his spine.

The thug's laughter grew, ragged but vicious. "Now you get it, don't you? The heartstone's ready to blow. And all it takes is one signal. One pulse. One touch."

Serelith's breath hitched, panic clawing at the edges of her exhaustion. Cerys's knuckles whitened around the hilt of the stolen dagger. Her glare burned into the thug, but fear glinted beneath the fury.

"You mad bastards," Cerys spat. "There are hundreds of people out there!"

"Thousands," the thug corrected, his voice sick with glee. "Families. Children. All enjoying the festival lights. And just one touch will turn them into ash."

Mikhailis's gaze snapped to the old fortune-teller, still huddled, her hands clasped over her mouth, horror painted on her wrinkled face. Her shop had been the perfect bait—a place where Serelith and Cerys would lower their guard.

He felt cold steel knotting in his chest. "You won't make it out alive either," he said, voice low and even.

"I'm already dead," the thug hissed. "But I die a martyr. And you? You die a fool."

Mikhailis's mind raced. Rodion whispered, voice a rapid stream of calculations.

<Disarming without trigger activation… ninety-seven percent failure rate. Heartstone's pulse synchronization suggests a secondary signal—likely remote. Source unknown.>

"So that's it?" Mikhailis's voice sharpened. "A suicide mission? Or do you have another demand?"

"Oh, I have a demand." The thug's smile twisted, his eyes gleaming with malice. "You. On your knees. Hands on your head."

Cerys's sword twitched. "Like hell—"

"Ah, ah." The thug's finger wavered, a faint shimmer of mana flaring at his wrist—a signal ring. "I press this, and they all burn. And your prince's heroic little rescue becomes the massacre he couldn't stop."

Serelith's fingers tightened, desperate, trembling. "Mikhailis… don't…"

But he met her gaze, and for a moment, the usual light, the warmth, the playfulness that danced in his eyes vanished—replaced by a hard, glacial calm. He was thinking, even now, even with death pressing in on all sides.

His blade wavered, then lowered, the point kissing dust. His knees bent, a slow, steady motion, and he dropped.

"No!" Cerys surged forward, but Serelith grabbed her, her strength barely enough to hold the knight back. "Cerys, no—!"

Mikhailis's palms settled on the dirt, fingers splayed. His breath evened. His pulse slowed. His mind sharpened.

Rodion's voice whispered, quieter now. <Orders, Mikhailis?>

"Ready the Chimera Ant units. I want every one you can spare." His voice was a breath, barely audible. "But hold them. Wait for my signal."

<Understood. Preparing swarm.>

The thug's grin widened, twisted with the sick joy of power. "Good boy. Smart boy. You kneel, and maybe—just maybe—I won't have to turn this festival into a graveyard."

Mikhailis stared at the ground, but his eyes traced the rune lines, mapped the pulse of mana, memorized the signal pattern of the thug's ring. Calculation wove with rage, a cold, furious storm.

<Analysis complete. Remote signal relay confirmed. Transmission range… local.>

"You've made a mistake," Mikhailis murmured, voice so low only Rodion heard.

<Understood. Strategy prepared.>

The thug stepped closer, drunk on his twisted triumph. "I think I might just take my time, you know? Make you beg a little. Watch you squirm."

But even as the thug's voice dripped with malice, Mikhailis's lips curled—a faint, dangerous smile.

"Rodion," he whispered. "Prepare the field."

<Commencing.>

The thug didn't notice the shimmer at his feet. The faint ripple of shadows stirring behind the crates. The soft, almost inaudible skitter of clawed legs slipping beneath loose stones.

Because his eyes were fixed on Mikhailis—on his kneeling, defeated prey.

"Good. Very good," the thug sneered, lifting the mana-signal ring like a prize. "Now… beg."

Mikhailis's voice was a whisper of winter steel. "Make me."