The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Chapter 325 Mikhailis Escape

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Mikhailis exhaled sharply as the mist thickened around him, curling like ghostly tendrils seeking to ensnare his limbs. He and Vyrelda moved swiftly through the alleyways, their boots barely making a sound against the damp cobblestone. The city's fog had never felt this heavy before—unnaturally dense, as if it carried an intent of its own. Even in Luthadel's usual haze, visibility never shrank this drastically, and every breath tasted like static on his tongue, a sign that something was tampering with the city's air.

The sound of distant footsteps reverberated, ghostlike echoes that seemed too close one moment, too far the next. A tightness settled in Mikhailis's chest. Feels like we're walking through a beast's belly, and it's waiting to devour us.

Rodion's voice was calm, but there was a hint of sarcasm laced between the crisp words. Mikhailis suppressed a smirk. Figures you'd find this entertaining.

He narrowed his eyes, noting how the mist thickened in some alleys while thinning out in narrow corridors ahead of them. Like a maze. Corridors shaped by invisible hands, almost like someone wanted to funnel them somewhere. Perhaps the Technomancers, or maybe a third party. Didn't matter. They needed to get out of here before they ran right into a trap.

"This isn't natural," he muttered, voice low as he fell into step behind Vyrelda. She was sharper than he was when it came to reading the flow of a battlefield, especially in close quarters. Her posture was tense, her eyes scanning every corner. Right now, Mikhailis was more than willing to let her instincts guide them.

Vyrelda threw a glance over her shoulder, red hair tied in a neat ponytail that swung with every sharp movement. "You think it's the Technomancers?"

Mikhailis flicked his fingers through the mist, watching it coil and wrap around his knuckles before dissipating in the damp air. "Not just them. Someone else is messing with the board."

Vyrelda scoffed. "You have a knack for attracting trouble."

He flashed her a grin despite the tension. "It's a gift. Should see how well it works on a dinner date."

She rolled her eyes, a barely suppressed snort escaping. "You're impossible."

A sudden, distant clatter of armored boots and mechanical whirs snapped their attention toward the main street ahead. Shadowed figures emerged through the swirling gray, silhouettes sharp against the dim glow of street lamps—Technomancer enforcers, accompanied by two mechanical sentinels scanning the area with eerie, pulsating red lights. The sentinels' joints hissed, their metal limbs shifting with mechanical precision, each movement too smooth and too purposeful.

Rodion's voice cut in.

Vyrelda's grip drifted toward the hilt of her sword. Her eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat, Mikhailis wondered if she might charge in anyway. She'd done it before, a fearless rush that left foes reeling, but she wasn't reckless. Not entirely. She measured the odds like a seasoned warrior, and those were not good odds.

"We can take them," she muttered, but the hesitation in her voice betrayed caution.

Mikhailis shook his head, keeping his own voice low. "As much as I'd love to see you cleave through metal, we're not here for a street brawl." He glanced around, scanning the labyrinth of alleys. The main roads were blocked, heavy barricades and enforcers forming an iron cordon. Meanwhile, the alleyways were half-choked by swirling fog that seemed to shift on a whim.

His mind raced through possibilities. They could slip through the rooftops, but the mechanical sentinels might have scanning capabilities that reached upward. They could try to find a back alley, but the swirling fog was thickest there, a sign that might be a funneling trap.

"Merchant tunnels," he said suddenly, the memory sparking in his mind like a flash of inspiration. "They're rumored to exist beneath this district. Old smuggler routes that lead to the lower wards."

Vyrelda's brow furrowed. "What tunnels?"

Mikhailis moved toward a nondescript wooden panel on the side of a building, pressing his fingertips lightly against its edge. The wood felt damp, almost rotten, but upon closer inspection, he noticed hidden hinges. "Rumor says the old merchant guilds used them to move contraband when the Technomancers first took power. Never admitted it publicly, but the stories stuck."

She gave him a skeptical look, crossing her arms. "And how do you know about it?"

He winked, leaning in to pry the wooden panel. "Oh, you know, I've got my ways—charming barmaids, listening to rumors while acting like an idiot. Everyone always underestimates the talkative foreigner."

Vyrelda rolled her eyes. "You're incorrigible."

Before she could say anything else, the echo of heavy boots clanged from the adjacent alley. The enforcers were closing in, shadows stretching across the mist-laden ground as if reaching for them.

No time to argue.

Mikhailis pushed against the panel, half-expecting it to be stuck, but it gave way with a low groan. The narrow entrance behind it was dark—no torches, no glow-lamps. Just a yawning hole into an uncertain path.

Mikhailis tilted his head, flashing a lazy smile. "Funny, I was about to say the same thing."

A shift in the shadows revealed a glint beneath the figure's cloak—an insignia woven subtly into the fabric. Mikhailis recognized it instantly.

The Crownless House.

Vyrelda tensed, her knuckles whitening around the hilt of her sword. "What do you want?"

The figure exhaled softly, as if amused. "I should be asking you that."

Mikhailis let his smile widen. "We're tourists. The underground ruins seemed like a charming attraction."

The figure didn't react to the sarcasm. Instead, their gaze lingered on the walls, on the inscriptions, before finally settling back on them. "You're meddling with something even we don't fully understand."

Vyrelda's stance remained firm. "And yet, you think you understand it better than us."

A pause.

Then: "No. But we're closer than anyone else."

Mikhailis hummed, rubbing his chin. "That's not ominous at all."

The stranger ignored his amusement. "You've uncovered more than you should have. But you're missing the most important piece."

Mikhailis arched a brow. "And that is?"

The figure hesitated.

Then, at last, they spoke.

"The mist was never meant to be controlled by human hands."

The words settled into the chamber like a weight, heavy and unsettling. The stone walls, the dust-coated mechanisms, the very air itself seemed to press inward, as if the ruins whispered the same truth.

Before he could respond, a deep tremor ran through the ground.

A low rumbling noise, distant but growing.

Dust cascaded from the ceiling, disturbed by the sudden vibration. A faint pulse rippled through the air, almost imperceptible—something ancient, something awakening.

Rodion's voice sharpened.

Mikhailis and Vyrelda exchanged glances.

"Well," Mikhailis muttered, flexing his fingers, "I suppose we should decide whether we want to run or poke the thing that's causing this."

Vyrelda exhaled through her nose, gripping her sword tighter. "You already know my vote."

Mikhailis smirked. "Good thing I like trouble."

The ground quivered beneath their feet, the mist curling unnaturally in the tunnels beyond. It was no longer the stagnant stillness of an abandoned ruin—it was moving. Shifting. Alive.

And somewhere deep beneath them, something stirred.