Chapter 10

Chapter 10

This time, Yor's objective was clear. He quickly extended his mental energy to the very bottom deck of the starship.

In just one day, the Broodmother had already transformed.

Following the care guidelines issued by the Purification Department, Leonius had assigned eligible War Bugs to swarm in groups and provide "nourishment" to the Broodmother—which essentially meant pouring their own mental energy and life force into that mass of corrupted flesh.

The traumatized Broodmother was like a greedy sponge. In a short span of time, its body had expanded to twice its size. Its originally mottled and damaged skin had become smooth and renewed, its sea of consciousness was no longer so chaotic, and it could even emit faint pheromone pulses.

Could she actually regain consciousness?

Yor hesitated for a moment, then deliberately brushed his mental energy against one of those pulses.

"I want to have children, so many children..."

No, this couldn't possibly be the consciousness of that strong male of the centaur clan.

It wasn't so much a restored consciousness as an incomplete new one, born from countless bug genes and mental energies layered over the fragments of the Broodmother's mind.

Just an alien presence residing in the centaur's body.

But speaking of the centaur's body—now so transformed beyond recognition, it was hard to call it his original body anymore.

A new body, a new consciousness.

Zane... was truly a madman, but also... a genius. Creating new consciousness—that was the domain of gods.

No longer paying attention to that fragile consciousness obsessed with having children, Yor focused on the fragments of the Broodmother's consciousness deep within.

His consciousness was quickly pulled into the vision.

The damp, sweltering nest was pitch black, save for the faint glow of star-grass that had spontaneously sprouted in the corners, casting tiny specks of light.

In the center of the nest, a massive fleshy worm lay prostrate on the ground, surrounded by hungry larvae and ravenous males.

She laid eggs endlessly, repeatedly filled and drained, her body like a void that could never be filled.

"Stop... stop... it hurts... let me out..."

The murmuring voice was barely a whisper, but Yor heard it clearly.

Amidst the boundless pain, she suddenly seemed to sense something. She jerked her head up, and in that instant, a spark of realization flashed in her eyes.

A way out...

The consciousness fragment, which had only been flickering faintly, suddenly erupted in a blaze of light. Yor instinctively closed his eyes, and the next moment, he felt his mental sea being forced open by something, a strange force surging in and flooding his consciousness.

What was forcibly shoved in was completely different from Yor's own mental energy—cold, sharp, carrying a metallic tang.

Yor's body began to shake.

Being invaded by mental energy that wasn't his own—even if that energy no longer possessed much autonomous will—brought wave after wave of intense tearing pain as his mental sea was rapidly and forcibly expanded.

The pain was so excruciating that Yor clutched his head and crumpled to the ground.

Dexter, who was nearby, immediately rushed over and scooped the fallen Yor into his arms: "Yor!"

Warm breath drew near. Yor instinctively leaned in, pressing his throbbing head into the warmth of Dexter's neck.

Dexter was frantic, completely at a loss.

In his desperation, Dexter heard the cold voice of the Little Broodmother he held: "Serve me."

The commanding voice made Dexter's knees go weak. If he hadn't been supporting the Broodmother's body, he would have dropped to his knees on the spot.

But his Broodmother had already straightened up. Her amber compound eyes didn't even seem to register him, merely surveying the surroundings with cold detachment.

A Broodmother demanded servitude.

The ancestral genetic code was instantly activated. Dexter quickly stripped bare, curled into a ball with his knees drawn up, and lay on his side with his back to the Broodmother—offering himself in this most defenseless posture for her to enjoy.

In ancient times, the Broodmother would extend her slender proboscis, pierce his neck or spine, plunge deep into his body, and drain his blood, his marrow, every shred of his flesh.

The instinct to survive screamed at Dexter to flee, making his teeth chatter, but genetic instinct pinned him in place, unable to move a muscle.

His nerves were strung tight, sensing every trace of movement behind him with both anticipation and dread.

A long, slow breath fell on the back of his neck, then gradually drifted downward, settling at his second vertebra.

Dexter's scalp went numb, yet the newly born Broodmother seemed uncertain about how to feed on her offering, hesitating to bite.

The pheromone-based sensory input was too complex for the Broodmother in her altered state to process, so she reached out with her hand—the way she'd been more accustomed to perceiving the world for over twenty years.

Cool fingertips traced over the male's muscular contours, sending shivers through him.

When serving a Broodmother, you weren't supposed to make a sound, but... this was not just a Broodmother—it was Yor.

Dexter couldn't contain himself any longer, his voice trembling: "Are... are you cold?"

The Broodmother behind him tilted her head, confused. Cold?

Yes... so cold.

Acting on instinct, he crawled into the embrace of the curled-up male, letting out a comfortable sigh at the scorching body heat.

Dexter: ...

Something seemed off, but aside from shifting his rigid erection slightly backward, he dared not move a muscle.

Yor had only a vague awareness of what his body was doing. His consciousness spun wildly like clothes in a high-speed washing machine, until the violent force finally subsided.

That mental energy settled deep within his consciousness, slowly calming down.

And the fragment, as if drained of all its energy, faded to darkness.

Yor slowly opened his eyes.

His hands ached slightly, his palms covered in crescent-shaped indentations from his own fingernails. The clothes on his back were drenched in cold sweat, clinging to his skin, damp and sticky.

But what was impossible to ignore was the scorching chest pressing against his back, its presence undeniable.

Yor's vision slowly focused.

He looked down—a muscular, well-defined arm was wrapped around his waist, the skin dark-toned, and... bare.

Fragments of memory came flooding back.

The searing pain of devouring the fragment, the sensation of his mental sea being torn apart, and... "Serve me."

Yor's breath nearly caught in his throat.

Yor's prolonged silence made the chest behind him rise and fall once.

Yor didn't move, but the bug behind him had already keenly sensed the change in his breathing. A low, hoarse voice, taut with tension, came from above: "...You're awake?"

Yor didn't know what to say, and still didn't move.

He could feel Dexter's heartbeat—fast and heavy, pounding through two layers of skin, as if it were about to slam into his back.

The arm around his waist was rigid, the muscles trembling faintly.

"You... still cold?" Dexter's voice had gone even rougher.

Cold?

Because he was cold, he'd crawled into a man's... a male bug's arms.

Yor's face burned instantly.

"...Not anymore." His voice was muffled, practically ground out between clenched teeth.

The air hung silent for two seconds.

Picking up on the Broodmother's displeasure, the arm around his waist shifted—half pulling back, half tightening, as if it didn't know what to do.

With his mental sea so vastly expanded, his awareness of everything around him was sharper, and it also made Yor remember all too easily that Taste was still in danger.

Yor took a deep breath and forced himself to turn around.

He saw the state Dexter was in.

The other bug was curled up on the ground, lying on his side in total submission, but his eyes were closed, his face tight—looking almost angry, like he was too pissed off to even look at Yor.

If this were a Blue Star human, Yor would've already been apologizing, but... the pheromones coming off the male bug told a completely different story than his face did.

"Eat me, devour me whole, leave nothing behind..."

Pheromones tangled with fear, desire, and shame smacked Yor right in the face.

"...Dexter." He said.

Dexter's eyes flew open.

Their eyes met.

"Brood... Yor." Dexter's voice was barely a whisper, still muffled even up close. "You're back."

Yeah, back—unlike the other test subjects, still hanging on to full self-awareness for now.

Yor shoved down the chaotic pheromone fluctuations. "...Get dressed. We need to go save Taste."

The brave senior war bug fumbled in a panic, missing the buttons several times before finally getting them done up, taking twice as long as usual to get his uniform on.

Yor pushed himself up against the cabin wall, legs shaky, mental sea still throbbing—but he couldn't afford to care.

His mental sea had expanded—not by a little, either. It was like a small room suddenly having its walls knocked out, the whole view opening up at once. And his mental strength was more than twice what it had been, like a river just breaking free of ice—full, forceful, ready to surge at any moment.

His lower belly was swelling too.

His gestation sac ached and felt swollen, like something alive was slowly moving inside—so unsettling Yor didn't even dare touch it.

There was no mirror in the corner, but his pheromone sense was clearer than any mirror.

He could "see" something fading from the skin at the corners of his eyes.

The bug markings.

He was one step further from ever becoming a male bug.

Yor shoved the thought aside and turned back to the observation glass.

He pressed his hand to the glass, and his mental strength unspooled from his palm like an obedient thread, passing through the wall, through the raging mental storms, and zeroing in on Taste.

Taste's mental sea was still falling apart, the holes bigger than what Yor had "seen" before.

But Yor was confident now.

He condensed his mental strength into hair-thin threads and, like sewing fabric, stitched the holes shut one by one.

With every stitch, Taste's body twitched, but his brow eased a little.

After what felt like forever, when the last stitch was set, Taste's mental strength finally stopped leaking.

The patched areas looked different—like new skin, fragile but whole.

Yor pulled his hand back from the glass, swaying on his feet.

Dexter caught him. "You..."

"He's fine now," Yor cut him off, his voice steadier than he'd expected. "Give him some rest, and he'll wake up."

Saving Taste was a stroke of luck. As for how to explain all this later, he'd need to figure that out.

Dexter opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He looked at Yor's face, at the bug markings still lingering at the corners of his eyes, at eyes brighter than before.

He wanted to say something, but in the end, he just held the hand bracing Yor a little tighter.

Yor didn't pull back.

He leaned into Dexter's shoulder, closed his eyes, and "listened" to Taste's breathing slowly even out.

"Dexter."

"Here."

"Next time," Yor said quietly, "don't just take your clothes off like that."

The body behind him went stiff, and after a long pause, a muffled "...Yes" came.

==========Author's Note:==========

At the editor's request, the protagonist's name has been changed. From now on, Ling Yue will be called Yor.