Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Dexter came rushing to find Yor, dripping with anxiety, but he couldn't get a straight story out about what was wrong with Taste. After listening for a long while, Yor only managed to grasp one thing—Taste's mental sea was in trouble. He was in severe pain, and was currently stashed in the Purification Department's temporary laboratory.

"The Purification Department's temporary laboratory?" Yor was surprised to hear his own voice come out steady. He grabbed Dexter's arm. "Take me."

Taste wasn't the only one affected. In this holding facility, seven or eight war bugs were dumped on the floor, wrists and ankles cuffed in custom shackles.

The war bugs thrashed on the floor, sweating buckets, veins popping, fighting the cuffs with everything they had, but the shackles weren't budging.

The holding area had excellent soundproofing. From behind the observation glass, Yor felt like he was watching some twisted, absurd silent film.

Taste was shoved in the far corner against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. The face that had been all sunshine at breakfast was now twisted into a knot. Even with his hands cuffed, he kept trying to claw at the air.

His head was killing him—pain so bad he was barely hanging onto consciousness. He wanted to smash his fists into something, to cut off the source of the agony.

Yor didn't even need to get close to "see" it with his mental sense. Taste's mental sea was full of gaping holes, hollowed out, empty. Most of his mental energy was gone, just a thin scrap left cowering in a corner, barely twitching.

With his mental sea this wrecked, mental energy wasn't just leaking out in a flood—with the outer barrier gone, even the tiniest outside stir sent agonizing jolts through him.

The war bugs around him were in the same boat. Their mental energy was spiraling out of control, ricocheting around the room, setting each other off like bombs lobbed into each other's mental seas. Every last one of them was in pure agony.

"We need to separate them first." Yor pressed his face to the glass, hunting for a "crack" in the chaos that his mental power could slip through.

"We're out of space to put them..." Dexter's voice was hoarse. "Too many bugs got sent to serve the Broodmother. Almost all of them come back like this. Taste's batch is actually on the lighter end—the other holding areas are worse..."

"Didn't they say it was only low-ranking..." Another war bug was brought into the holding area behind them. Yor lowered his voice. "Didn't they say it was only low-ranking bugs that got sent to serve the Broodmother?"

Dexter shook his head. "Low-ranking bugs are for feeding the Broodmother's body. As for the mental sea... their mental energy's too thin to matter."

Yor's gut twisted. This was just how bug society worked.

Yor stared at Taste's pained face.

That face was all screwed up, nothing like his usual goofy, carefree self.

This morning he'd been all bright-eyed and chatty in the mess hall. Now his lips were white, veins throbbing in his forehead, like his life could just stop right then with that look stuck on his face.

Yor's hand pressed against the glass without him even thinking about it.

Through his mental sense, he could feel Taste's mental sea still falling apart. The holes were even starting to tear wider. No matter how hard the leftover mental energy tried to huddle together, it couldn't stop the bleed-out.

If this kept up, even if the bug woke up, he'd end up... Yor didn't dare finish the thought.

"Can't we get him out of there?" He turned to look at Dexter.

Dexter's eyes were bloodshot. "The Purification Clan calls it 'standard wear and tear from feeding the Broodmother.' They're sending meds to keep them breathing as long as they can."

Sure—just keeping them alive, nothing else.

"Standard wear and tear." Yor turned those four words over in his head, a cold dread settling in his chest.

Dexter opened his mouth like he was about to say something, then swallowed it back down.

He was the deputy commander of the War Insect Lord's personal guard, but even the Lord turned a blind eye to this "attrition" when it came to the Broodmother.

For the sake of breeding. For the survival of the War Department.

Yor dropped his gaze, his mind spinning.

If he couldn't get Taste out, there was only one play left. His mental power would have to get strong enough—strong enough to cut through those raging storms of mental energy and patch up Taste's mental barrier.

The second that thought crossed his mind, he knew exactly what he was thinking about.

That fragment.

That flickering speck of light buried deep in the fake Broodmother's mental sea.

The last time he'd touched it, he'd heard the furious roar inside the fragment loud and clear. It wasn't the centaur clan's consciousness—it was something older, something way angrier.

I'LL KILL YOU ALL!! EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!!!

That hoarse, venomous hatred had frozen Yor's mental power solid, but he'd still been forced to soak up its murky leftover consciousness.

It was the dying curse of the insect race's last Broodmother.

In bug society, reproduction was the iron law. After the Broodmother died, a new one should've popped up fast—it was instinct, a genetic drive to keep the species going.

But that Broodmother had found some way to slam that door shut for good.

She didn't want another.

The Broodmother didn't vanish from bug history by accident—it was the stubborn resistance of a creature forced to lay eggs forever.

Yor remembered that pale, bloated, brain-dead centaur that could only open its mouth and swallow. He remembered that despair. Drowning in the fragment's consciousness, he could barely tell reality from the vicious satisfaction.

Die, all of you. This sick bug race deserves to burn!

And when his head was clear, Yor felt grateful—grateful he still had a shot at dodging the Broodmother fate, at living something close to normal.

But now there was that bastard Zane, scouring the galaxy for creatures that might carry Broodmother consciousness, using every sick, twisted method to trigger Broodmother genes—and he'd actually pulled it off!

Sure, it was just a tiny fragment, but even a tiny fragment was enough to make a Sub-Lord-class Broodmother.

The fragment was the Broodmother's leftover consciousness. Inside it was her inheritance, her hatred, her lingering power.

Yor knew that if he "ate" that fragment, Zane's "masterpiece" would fall apart fast, and his pride would come crashing down with it.

And Yor's own mental sea would expand. His mental power would surge—strong enough to punch through this wall, strong enough to "fix" Taste in the middle of those raging mental storms.

But he'd also be one step closer to becoming a "Broodmother."

One step closer to turning into that pale, bloated lump of meat.

One step further from the ordinary life he wanted—being a regular male bug, living a normal life, never stepping foot in a lab again...

Yor's nails dug into his palm.

For the past two days, he'd been trying to talk himself into forgetting his hatred for Zane, into living like a normal bug.

But... was this really what he wanted?

Swallowing his pride, playing it small just to have a "peaceful" life.

He remembered Taste holding up two heads, dead serious, asking, "You want this one?"

He remembered Taste squatting by the road, awkwardly shoving a nutrient pack at him.

He remembered Taste hoisting him onto his shoulders, running into the wind, yelling that he was gonna take him home.

Sixteen. Only sixteen.

Yor closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, there was no hesitation left.

"Dexter," his voice was soft but steady, "Can you stand guard for a while? Don't let anyone... or anything in."

Dexter looked at him, his pupils narrowing slightly. "...How long?"

"It won't be long."

Yor turned and walked toward the deepest corner of the shelter.