The heat is unbearable.

  Every breath I take tastes like ash and spores. The chamber feels like it’s alive—pulsing, breathing, watching. Yyshad doesn’t move from the center of the room, but their presence alone makes it feel like we’ve already stepped into the edge of an inferno.

  My mandibles twitch.

  Goldy shifts beside me, calm but tense, her spines already quivering, eager. Tessa growls low, crouched and alert. Astor and Lypor stand in a defensive formation, while Gyldis remains behind them, eyes locked on the burning figure ahead like they’re bracing for the worst.

  We’ve fought Ironbarks. But this?

  This is different.

  Yyshad’s molten-orange eyes sweep across us, glowing brighter with each heartbeat. The air ripples around them, the heat rising.

  "Let’s see what your loyalty burns like."

  Then the spores ignite.

  A wave of flame explodes from Yyshad’s body, searing the floor in a perfect ring. I leap back as the scorched air lashes across my carapace. Tessa dashes to the side, skimming the edge of the blaze. Goldy’s already flexing, launching her first spine—only for it to detonate mid-air as it touches the heat bloom.

  "Fan out!" Astor barks. "Don’t let them pin us!"

  I feel it almost immediately—burns searing right through my side as the heat lashes across me. The pain isn’t sharp, it’s deep, like it’s trying to cook me from the inside out.

  “Ahh—shit!” I hiss, stumbling back as blistering heat eats into my chitin. My mandibles clench, and I grit through it, refusing to fall this early.

  Around me, the room is chaos. The spores—they aren’t just hot, they’re alive, clinging to us, clinging to everything. Yyshad doesn’t move much, just watches, vents hissing smoke as waves of flame pulse out from their body.

  Alright. They want a fight?

  They’ve got one.

  I grit my mandibles and fire a spine straight at Yyshad, aiming for the center of that smoldering cap. They shift at the last moment, the spine whistling past and embedding into the scorched floor with a sharp crack.

  Before I can load another, Tessa lunges with a feral snarl, claws bared and fangs glinting. She flies toward Yyshad like a streak of white and silver—fast, vicious, and beautiful in that reckless way only she can manage.

  But Yyshad is ready.

  They lift one arm, palm open—and spores, thick and dark and pulsing with heat, bloom there in an instant.

  BOOM.

  The burst hits Tessa mid-air. She yelps as the impact sends her flying backwards, her body tumbling across the stone with a thud that makes my stomach twist.

  “Tessa!” I shout, already scuttling toward her—but she’s moving, coughing, already struggling to get up. Tough pup. She’s not down yet.

  But damn it, that hurt. Yyshad’s not just burning the room—they're weaponizing it.

  Damn it. That Myconid's not just strong—they're smart, too. Every move is calculated, and the whole battlefield is playing into their hands… or vents. Literally.

  Goldy ducks a wave of heat, her expression tight with frustration. "Nur!" she calls out, snapping a spine reflexively in defense. "You got a plan? 'Cause my spines? Useless right now."

  I glance toward Yyshad, watching the way the smoke hisses from the jagged vents lining their cap and chest. The heat’s coming from there. I narrow my eyes.

  Those vents... they look familiar.

  Like a furnace.

  And what does a furnace need? Air. Flow. Pressure.

  I scuttle a little lower, eyes locked on the pattern of their breathing, the rhythm of smoke release. "Yeah… maybe. I might." My mind clicks into gear. "Those vents—they might be their heat control. If we block or overload them…"

  Goldy's eyes light up just a little. "Now that’s more like it."

  Alright. We’ve got an opening. Time to cook up a real plan.

  But before we can even think about executing anything, we need time—time to figure out how the hell to shut that walking furnace down, and right now, we don’t have any. Yyshad’s still pushing forward, pressure building with every breath they take, every spore they ignite.

  Then, through the haze of drifting spores, Astor’s voice pulses into my mind.

  "We’ll keep them busy. Buy you what time we can."

  Lypor follows right after.

  "Gyldis is tending to the wolf pup. Make it count."

  I grit my mandibles. “Damn it. Spiky, where are you?” He’d be very useful right now. I don’t like that he's gone this long. It’s not like him. Unless something went wrong—or something else is going on.

  I shove the worry down and turn to Goldy. "Can you shoot your spines without the exploding part? Looked like you did that before."

  Goldy’s already flexing her back, glancing over her shoulder. “Yeah. I can, but I’ll need to generate new ones—non-glowing.” She pauses, antennae twitching. “That means no boom. Just sharp and fast.”

  "Good," I say, narrowing my eyes at Yyshad. "That’s exactly what we need right now."

  If we can't break the furnace, we might just be able to clog it.

  Goldy nods, already crouching low, her body tensing as she starts to produce new spines—dull, non-glowing ones, stripped of the volatile charge that makes them explode. I can see the effort it takes, the way her carapace shifts slightly with each new spine pushing through. She doesn’t complain. Just focuses.

  Across the chamber, Astor and Lypor go in hard.

  Astor wraps tendrils low around Yyshad’s leg, trying to yank them off balance while Lypor flanks, launching heavy, hammer-like blows. Yyshad reacts instantly, smoke erupting from their vents with each twist of their body, turning like a storm. A wave of heat pulses out with every movement, searing the floor and forcing both Combatants to keep moving or burn.

  Gyldis, further back, is crouched beside Tessa, spores glowing in waves as they pour healing into her twitching form. She’s still breathing. Still blinking. But her fur is scorched and patchy. If she’s hurting, she’s hiding it well. That’s so… Tessa.

  I watch all this unfold with a knot in my gut.

  “We just need one moment,” I mutter, my gaze fixed on Yyshad’s vents, timing their pulses. “Goldy, aim for the vents. Between bursts—just jam them. One good hit might mess with their pressure.”

  “On it,” she says without hesitation.

  I step forward, flanking her side. “I’ll draw their attention. You focus on the shot.”

  This is reckless. But if we don’t take that opening soon, Yyshad will cook us all where we stand.

  Time to gamble.

  Goldy takes her position behind me, still and focused, dull spines lining her back like silent arrows ready to fire.

  I dart forward, low and fast, clicking my mandibles loudly as I weave through the scorched floor, snapping my bristles and throwing everything I’ve got into making Yyshad look at me. A spine whizzes past my head—Goldy’s first shot—

  Thunk!

  It slams into one of Yyshad’s vent caps.

  They hiss, stagger slightly, and just as they try to twist away—

  Thunk!

  A second spine hits, wedging itself clean into another vent. Smoke sputters awkwardly now, breaking its steady rhythm. The heat falters for half a second.

  Yes. It’s working.

  “Goldy! One more!” I shout, glancing back just as she locks in her aim, spine drawn tight for the third shot.

  But then—

  A ripple.

  The ground beneath Yyshad liquefies into a glistening, semi-transparent goo, fungal in texture. In a single, fluid motion, it sweeps upward, a mass of gelatinous mycelium shooting through the air—intercepting the spine mid-flight.

  Snap!

  The spine is caught, frozen in a strand of living, dripping mycelium. From that puddle of morphing biomass, a shape rises. Humanoid, but barely. Fluid, soft-edged, and half-melted, like it was born to slip through cracks. Its body pulses faintly with internal light, like veins of fungus flowing under the skin.

  A new voice joins us—Gyldis, sharp and cold.

  “That’s—That’s a Myconid Creeper.”

  My breath hitches. I’ve never seen one before. But I’ve heard.

  Silent infiltrators. Shifting bodies. They move through stone, dissolve into floors, melt through walls like they're made of mist.

  And now one of them is standing between us and Yyshad.

  Great. Just great.

  The Myconid Creeper fully rises now, strands of liquefied mycelium snapping back into its shifting, semi-solid form. Its body glistens like wet rot—no face, no mouth, just a flat fungal cap drooping slightly over glowing green eyes that never blink.

  It doesn’t say anything. Of course it doesn’t. Creepers don’t speak.

  But it moves. Smoothly, like it’s not bound by muscle or bone. Just purpose.

  Yyshad exhales through their damaged vents, smoke sputtering around them. The Creeper moves to their side, half-solid, half-sliding like it’s still part of the floor.

  “Of course,” I mutter under my breath. “Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy.”

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  Goldy lowers her spine with a hiss. “Yeah… I don’t think I can snipe that one.”

  “What do we do now?” Tessa’s voice croaks from behind, still weak but awake. Good. She’s alive.

  Gyldis speaks again, steady but tense. “We adapt. Creepers don’t last long in direct combat, but they’re impossible to pin down. And they protect.”

  Protect. Which means it’s not attacking us because its job is to keep Yyshad alive.

  "Then we just have to hit harder," Goldy says, her eyes narrowing, spines flexing again. "Fast enough that even a puddle can't keep up."

  She’s bluffing. Probably. But the Creeper doesn't move. It just stands there, twitching—waiting for the moment we act.

  And now?

  We have two problems.

  Astor and Lypor fall back toward us, the heat forcing even them to retreat from the front. Their bodies are scorched, limbs twitching from the relentless pulses of flame.

  Astor glances warily at the Creeper, then to Yyshad, vents still sputtering with barely-contained pressure. "This is bad," they say through shared spores. "Real bad."

  Lypor follows up, grim and steady. "There’s two ways we might take that Creeper down. One—make Yyshad misfire. A direct flame burst. We Myconids are weak to fire, but Creepers?" they shakes their head. "They melt."

  "Second option," Astor continues, "Goldy's explosive spine. But you’ll need to land it right as it’s solid—harder than it sounds."

  I feel a cold pit form in my gut despite the heat. This… is a horrible matchup.

  Yyshad’s flames are like death to us. Bug monsters, Myconids—anything with a soft, moisture-based body? We cook fast. And as for Astor and Lypor, even they’re looking winded now.

  Worse—"And us Combatants," Lypor mutters, "our biggest strength is physical combat. Creepers resist that. They absorb the force, mold around it. It's like trying to punch a puddle."

  I glance between them, the Creeper, and Yyshad.

  "So…" I say dryly, "Our frontline can’t hit it, our spines barely work, and if we get too close, we burn."

  Goldy’s brow twitches. “Yeah,” she mutters, flexing her spines again. “It’s a trap match, alright.”

  One wrong move… and someone burns alive.

  Alright—damn it—we’ve got to think of something. Fast.

  Because if we play this straight, we’re screwed.

  Yyshad is already too much for any of us on their own. Add a Creeper that nullifies our best frontliners, and Goldy’s explosives being too risky near the Pyrocap? That’s asking for casualties.

  “We need to switch matchups,” I say quickly, pulling the group in through the spores. “Astor, Lypor—you can’t waste your strength swinging at something that melts around you.”

  “Agreed,” Astor replies. “Every blow I land would redirects—Creeper's like fighting fog.”

  “And Goldy,” I turn to her, “you can’t handle Yyshad solo. If you try to line up a shot, they'll roast you before it lands.”

  Goldy snorts. “Thanks for the confidence, boss.” But even she sounds rattled.

  I ignore the jab and continue. “Here’s the swap: Astor and Lypor pull Yyshad’s focus. Draw them away. You’ve got the durability to dance with the heat if you’re smart about it—just don’t commit to full blows. Keep moving. Goldy, you focus everything on the Creeper. If it goes solid for even a second—boom. No mercy.”

  “What about you?” Tessa rasps, voice hoarse.

  “I’ll coordinate with Gyldis and Tessa,” I say. “We keep the timing clean. I’ll look for an opening—if Yyshad lines up a blast toward the Creeper, we bait it. Use their own flames against them.”

  This is still bad. We’re still tired. But at least it’s possible now.

  Astor nods. “Got it. We'll peel the Pyrocap off.”

  Goldy cracks her neck, already charging a glowing spine. “You just say the word, and I’ll make the puddle fly.”

  Alright. Let’s do this.

  The spores surge around us as the plan takes shape—and we move.

  Astor and Lypor peel off from the group like blunt arrows, charging Yyshad head-on. Their limbs shift, toughen, and extend, forming thick fungal whips that snap with brutal force. They don’t aim to kill—just to bait, to distract, to keep the Pyrocap’s eyes off the rest of us.

  Yyshad flares in response, vents sputtering as bursts of heat pulse from their cap. The spores thicken, the scent of burning rot choking the chamber.

  As expected, the Creeper moves to intercept, liquefying beneath the two Combatants’ path.

  But Tessa and I are already there.

  We sprint from the side, claws and mandibles out—not aiming to fight, just to grab. I clamp onto the Creeper’s shifting leg-like tendril, and Tessa lunges in to slam her full weight against its shoulder. It warps around her partially, but she sinks her fangs into something solid inside its core, slowing it down.

  It tries to flow away, to reform beside Yyshad, but we drag it back, anchoring it in place.

  "NOW!" I scream through the spores.

  Goldy’s already aimed—thwip. A glowing spine sails through the heat-soaked air and strikes the Creeper dead center.

  BOOM.

  The explosion rips the room in half. The Creeper’s upper half splits, scattering molten mycelium across the wall. Not dead—but definitely wrecked. It slinks back, reforming slower, raggedly.

  But then—Yyshad turns.

  And I see it—their vents flare wide, pulsing like bellows. I scream for Lypor to move, but it’s too late.

  FWOOOSH.

  Flames erupt from Yyshad’s core in a violent burst. Lypor takes it head-on. Their body is engulfed. I hear a horrible screech—no time to tell if it’s from pain or defiance. Fungal armor chars black as they crumple mid-stride, fire clinging to them like hungry leeches.

  Astor cries out and lunges forward, trying to grab them—but catches the edge of the blast. The searing heat slams into them, stripping layers of fungal flesh, vents sizzling, limbs faltering.

  “Tch—damn it!” I hiss, yanking Tessa back with me.

  We bought ourselves the opening we needed—but we paid for it.

  And Yyshad? Still standing. Still burning.

  Gyldis rushes past us, spores trailing like a comet’s tail as they sprint straight toward the smoldering heap that used to be Lypor.

  “Lypor!” Gyldis shouts through the spores, sharp and panicked. That’s the first time I’ve ever felt panic in Gyldis.

  They drop to their knees beside what’s left. The flames have mostly died, but the damage is done. Lypor's body is blackened, brittle, parts of them already crumbling to ash with every movement.

  Gyldis doesn’t hesitate. Their hands glow, healing spores flooding from their palms, from their vents, from every fiber of their body. The air around them hums with energy as they pour everything they have into Lypor.

  Nothing.

  The light flickers, dimming. The spores swirl... and fall.

  Gyldis lowers their hands slowly, staring at the unmoving form beneath them.

  “…No response,” they murmur, barely audible through the link.

  I freeze. Even through all this chaos—even with the Creeper reforming and Yyshad charging up another blast—I feel that silence echo harder than the explosions.

  Lypor is gone.

  And we’re still not done.

  Yyshad’s eyes flare, bright orange and seething, vents hissing like an overpressured forge. They turn slowly—deliberately—toward Gyldis, who’s still knelt beside Lypor, frozen in grief, spores clinging uselessly to charred remains.

  I see it before it happens—the flicker of light pulsing in Yyshad’s chest, the glow rising again in their arms.

  They’re aiming for Gyldis next.

  “No—!”

  Two blurs crash in from opposite angles before Yyshad can release.

  Tessa and Astor.

  Tessa slams into Yyshad’s side like a streak of fur and fang, her body still limping, smoke still rising from her pelt. She bites into the soft tissue below one of Yyshad’s vents, drawing out a strangled hiss of pain.

  At the same moment, Astor lunges from the opposite direction, their scorched limbs lashing out like clubs. One of them wraps around Yyshad’s arm and yanks it sideways just as the pyro burst discharges—

  FWOOOSH!

  The flame blast misses, roaring into the far wall in a wave of molten heat. The stone explodes outward from the impact, and shards rain across the floor, glowing red.

  But Gyldis is untouched.

  Tessa collapses from the recoil, tumbling backward in a heap. Astor stumbles, their back blackened and steaming.

  I exhale, shaking, heart pounding.

  That was too close.

  But it worked.

  I rush in, lungs burning from the heat, limbs aching—but the opening is there and we take it. Goldy fires from the backline, her dull spines slicing through the haze, forcing Yyshad to keep their vents closed. No time to breathe, no time to counter.

  Tessa recovers first, bounding in with renewed energy. I follow close behind, Astor dragging their half-burned frame into the fray with us.

  We hit.

  Once.Twice. Flesh tears, vents sputter, Yyshad stumbles under the pressure. Their internal glow dims for a second—and I think, this might actually work.

  Tessa snarls, winding up for a third strike, claws gleaming—

  —but the floor pulses.

  A stream of liquid mycelium surges from beneath her and instantly hardens mid-air into a solid blow—a punch formed from the Creeper’s shapeshifted body. It slams Tessa mid-charge, and she yelps as she crashes hard into the wall of a prison cell, the bars warping from the impact.

  “Tessa!” I yell, but there's no time.

  Yyshad regains their footing, vents snapping open in a single sharp hiss. They wave their hand, and a thick clump of scorched spores coalesces instantly—then launches.

  Astor barely has time to raise their arms before the blast hits them point blank. The impact lifts them off their feet and throws them backward across the chamber, slamming into the far wall with a sickening crunch.

  Goldy yells something behind me, but the words barely reach my mind over the roar of flame.

  We had an opening.

  And now it’s gone.

  I try to jump back—instinct screaming at me to move—but no, I’m too slow. Too exposed.

  I feel it. The heat swelling in the air as Yyshad’s core flares wide, vents opening in perfect sync. Smoke curls around them like claws. The chamber pulses with that deep, throbbing heat that only means one thing:

  They’re charging a direct blast—and it’s aimed at me.

  I freeze.

  I don’t have enough time to dodge.

  Not this time.

  My limbs tense, but my body knows—it won’t be fast enough. My bristles rise like they can shield me from what's coming. They can't.

  My mind goes blank for a second, a whisper of a thought bleeding through—

  Damn. Is this it?

  Am I really gonna die again…?

  The burst comes.

  I shut my eyes.

  I hear Tessa’s scream cut through the roaring heat—raw, desperate.

  "NUR!"

  And then—

  Nothing.

  No fire. No pain. No heat clawing into my shell.

  Just… a sudden whoosh, like something slicing through air—then silence.

  I blink.

  I’m still here.

  The flame didn’t hit me.

  Instead, there’s someone—something—standing in front of me. Not from our group. Not Astor, not Goldy, not even Spiky.

  I open my eyes, they landed between me and the blast in an instant, their form solid, tall, insectoid—but not quite like us.

  Their back is turned, smoke curling off their shoulders, but I can see it—wings, armor, spines that glow faintly violet, like smoldering crystal. Their posture is heavy, but stable. Protecting.

  They took the blast.

  And they’re still standing.

  I stagger back a step, stunned. “Who…?”

  They tilt their head slightly. Their voice doesn’t come through the air—it threads directly into my mind like silk through muscle.

  "You're safe now"

  And for a heartbeat, I feel it—

  That same psychic resonance as mine, but rougher. Older.

  Another caterpillar.

  No—

  Not a caterpillar anymore.

  A Mothkin. Spikeward Mothkin.

  And they just saved my life.

  Wait—

  No, they didn’t take the blast.

  I look closer. The smoke clears just enough, and I see it—thin, shimmering lines, like threads of light webbing out in front of them. The flame crashes against it, not through.

  A barrier.

  Some kind of—magic.

  It holds for just long enough to disperse the heat, the air rippling like glass under pressure.

  Magic.

  Real magic.

  I blink, struggling to process it. We don’t do that. Caterpillars don’t do that. Not at our stage. Not even the ones close to evolving.

  “What the hell—” I whisper, heart racing.

  Then I hear a voice behind me. Breathless. Familiar.

  “Nur!”

  I whirl around.

  Spiky.

  He’s panting, wide-eyed, and looks like he’s been running through half the prison. His antennae are twitching wildly, and there’s something new in his eyes—fear, awe... and something else.

  “You saw it too, right?” he says. “That... that’s the one I found. In the other wing.”

  I glance back at the barrier, still holding against the last flickers of Yyshad’s flame.

  Whoever this is, they’re not just powerful.

  They’re like us.

  But not from Mother.

  And now they’re standing between me and death.

  The psychic wave intensifies—no longer just forceful, but sharp. It cuts through the spores in the air like a blade through silk, and the moment it hits, I know.

  There’s no compassion in it. No warning. Just cold, burning intent.

  Yyshad’s vents twitch. Even they feel it.

  The Spikeward Mothkin steps forward slowly, smoke still trailing from their outstretched arm where the barrier held firm. Their eyes lock on Yyshad, unwavering, and when the voice finally comes—threaded through the psychic current—it’s like steel.

  “You broke the contract. You dishonored our Moth Queen.”

  “For that, I will kill you… and your leader.. .”

  No theatrics. No threat.

  Just a promise.

  And I believe every word.

  The room holds still for a heartbeat. Even Yyshad doesn’t move—perhaps out of shock, perhaps hesitation.

  But the Creeper doesn't wait.

  It begins to liquefy again, seeping silently across the floor, slipping behind fungal rubble, weaving through cracks with silent, practiced malice. No words. No sound. Just movement. Intent to kill.

  It creeps behind the Spikeward Mothkin—almost there. Just a little closer. As it tries to materialize behind the Spikeward Mothkin.

  Then—

  Fwop.

  The Mothkin doesn’t even turn. They simply lift one hand.

  And with that small gesture, the air around them compresses—a violent pulse of psychic force erupts in every direction, invisible but felt. It hits like a wall, slamming into the Creeper from behind.

  The liquified mycelium doesn’t just stop—it detonates.

  With a sickening splatter, chunks of half-solid fungus smear across the floor and walls, sliding down in wet globs. The Creeper reforms nowhere. It's gone.

  Tessa, still groaning behind me, stares wide-eyed.

  Goldy’s next spine hangs frozen on her back.

  Even Yyshad, vents flaring, reels slightly.

  This Mothkin didn’t just hold their ground.

  They erased the threat—without ever looking back.

  As the last of Yyshad’s fire sputters out, the cavern falls into a tense, heavy silence.

  The Spikeward Mothkin lowers their barrier.

  Then, with mechanical calm, they raise one hand—fingers curled like a conductor about to strike a final note.

  The ground answers.

  Spikes erupt—conjured. Manifested in an instant from the earth beneath Yyshad’s feet, forged of solid chitin or stone or something else entirely, but unmistakably shaped in the Mothkin’s image.

  Long. Serrated. Brutal.

  They burst upward with terrifying precision.

  Yyshad is impaled before they can move. One spike through the chest, another through the lower back, more tearing through the limbs. The Pyrocap’s body arches, vents spasming, smoke hissing out from ruptured canals.

  No scream. Just the wet crunch of collapse.

  The spikes linger a breath longer, then crumble—shards scattering like broken glass.

  Yyshad falls in pieces.

  End of Chapter 27