My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind-Chapter 179: Marqe, The Old Shallow One

Days had slipped by since Noirette and Blanchette traversed the mushroom biome, their path north winding through fractured dells and spore-veiled ridges.

The air had thinned gradually, the humid press of fungal growth yielding to crisp winds that carried the bite of high altitude.

At some point, Blanchette stopped wearing her witch hat.

"I’m bored of it already," was her reason. Though, he was still working on her own project per requirement of staying as a member of the Mage Court.

Her other argument as to why she didn’t need to wear a hat was because she would always be with Noirette, who still wore her comfy hat out of obligation.

"I’m not surprised in the slightest."

Noirette had been hard testing her control over Malleable Essence for the past few days, and she was quite satisfied by the progress she made.

As of now, she was confident that she could replicate the performance of strength similar to when before she absorbed the Untyped Cosmic Soul as the Deity of Harvest, Kivas Chariot.

Though, endurance was more of the issue at the moment, since the mental fatigue of continuously performing a complex manipulation of the Malleable Soul was not light in the slightest.

It was definitely the flaw of thinking of the temporary when making the vessel, that Kivas back then only duplicated a sapient vessel without much extra enhancement and configuration.

Not like she would know that Blanchette would transport her several continents away.

But that would be an issue to tackle for another.

Mountains rose ahead, their slopes etched with terraced fields where hardy crops clung to stone, defying the pull of gravity and the whims of Fathomi’s distortions.

They crested a final pass under a sky streaked with erratic auroras—remnants of some distant upheaval—and descended into a narrow valley cradled by sheer cliffs.

There, on the edge of a sheer drop where the mountain met endless sky, stood a modest homestead.

Stone walls, weathered to the color of old bone, enclosed a courtyard scattered with tools and drying herbs.

A thatched roof sloped low over the main dwelling, smoke curling lazily from a chimney carved into the rock face.

Fields of root vegetables and hardy grains terraced downward, each level irrigated by channels that diverted meltwater from higher peaks.

The occupant moved among the rows with deliberate slowness, a figure bent by years that no Fathomi native should bear.

His back stooped under a tunic of rough-spun wool, hands gnarled like twisted roots as they tugged weeds from the soil. White hair, thinned and wild, framed a face mapped with deep creases—forehead furrowed from squints against the sun, cheeks hollowed by time’s unyielding carve.

Eyes, faded to a milky blue, peered from beneath bushy brows, sharp despite the veil of age. He saw Noirette and Blanchette even before both of them appeared in his view.

Noirette paused at the courtyard’s edge, her boots crunching on gravel. So did Blanchette.

The old man straightened, wiping soil from his palms, and regarded them without surprise—as if visitors crowned this remote perch were as common as the dawn.

This was the Shallow One Dorose had tasked them to find.

Noirette knew it in an instant, the certainty settling like a stone in her gut.

In Fathomi, those bound to the Well of the Soul stood immune to the natural creep of entropy on the flesh. Bodies held eternal youth, lines of age erased by metaphysical anchors that tied vitality to the soul’s core.

Wrinkles formed only from scars of battle or deliberate curses, hair grayed from spiritual tolls, not calendars.

Exceptions existed—of course—but this was not the case.

Marqe aged, even Blanchette could attest it, somehow. His skin sagged, joints creaked audibly as he shifted weight, and the stoop in his shoulders spoke of decades unbound by the Well’s grace.

Marqe dusted his hands once more and gestured toward the dwelling’s open door, where a table laden with fresh-pulled tubers waited under a slanting beam of light. "Come inside, member of the Mage Court," he said after glancing at the certain cone-shaped hats that both of them wore. "The wind bites harder up here than it lets on."

They followed him into the dim interior, the air thick with the scent of drying herbs and hearth smoke.

Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars of preserved roots and leather-bound volumes stacked haphazardly.

A fire crackled in a stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across a worn table where a single tome lay open.

Noirette’s marked copy—its cover etched with the Athena Marker’s sigils, pages filled with her script on Fathomi’s creeping digitalization.

Marqe eased into a chair with a faint groan, joints protesting the motion.

He lifted the tome, fingers tracing the final passages before closing it with care.

Across the table, Noirette and Blanchette settled on stools, the wood cool beneath them.

Marqe’s milky eyes met Noirette’s, holding a quiet appraisal, before returning to the writing.

"In all my life living in Fathomi," he said, sliding the tome toward her, finishing the content in less than a minute, "this is the first time I have encountered such a drastic change. No wonder there have been so many glitch-like looking lands scattered everywhere lately. And of course, no wonder Dorose wants this information delivered."

Noirette took the tome, her fingers brushing the cover where fresh sigils pulsed faintly.

"Why does Dorose want you to know this?" Noirette asked. "Other than the fact that you are a fellow Shallow One."

Marqe chuckled, the sound dry as rustling leaves.

He leaned back, the chair creaking under his frame, and steepled his gnarled fingers.

Lines deepened around his eyes, not from strain but from the simple act of recollection—habits etched deep by solitude.

"Because Dorose definitely wants to know if only Fathomi is affected by this phenomenon," he replied.

Noirette’s brow furrowed, but before long, the pieces were aligning with a click in her head.

"You can travel to another world," Noirette said, the statement half-question, laced with the thrill of confirmation.

Marqe nodded, his chuckle fading into a thoughtful hum. "That is spot on."

Dorose was initially an outside to Fathomi from both vessel and soul, unlike the majority of the inhabitants that transmigrated to this world with a brand new body constructed by Fathomi.

In one way or another, Dorose might possess a strong link with her world of origin, but no way of communication throughout two different worlds.

Blanchette tilted her head, her snow-white hair shifting like fresh powder.

Her smile remained, eyes still closed, as if the mountain’s winds whispered secrets directly to her ears. "Do you utilize Malleable Essence to achieve that?"

Marqe paused. He rubbed his chin, the rasp of calluses against stubble filling the brief quiet.

"If what you refer to as Malleable Essence is the spirits around me," he said slowly, "then yes."

Noirette leaned forward, elbows on the table, the wood’s grain pressing into her clothing.. "What do you mean by spirits?"

Marqe extended a hand, palm up, as if inviting the air itself to speak.

"I can see lively energy floating all around whenever I try to focus on something," he explained. "Through those spirits—or whatever you call them—I can manipulate certain things like magic. To a great extent, I can even open a portal to another world."

Blanchette’s smile curved wider, a serene arc that softened the room’s edges.

She opened her eyes briefly, "The spiritual things you see are definitely your own interpretation of the Malleable Essence."

"I see," Marqe absorbed her words with a slow nod, the lines on his face easing into acceptance.

He rose then, joints protesting with faint cracks, and shuffled toward a sideboard laden with pots and dried provisions.

The fire’s glow followed him, painting his stooped form in warm hues.

"All that aside," he said over his shoulder, "both of you must be very tired after your journey. You can use the empty room in this house as temporary lodging if you are not in a hurry. I will be cooking for dinner soon."

Noirette exchanged a glance with Blanchette.

The mountain air had sharpened her senses, but fatigue tugged at the edges—days of uneven terrain and spore-tainted breaths demanding rest for both mind and the body.

"We will take you up on that," Noirette said. "Thank you for the hospitality, Marqe."

Blanchette nodded, her smile unwavering as she traced a finger along the table’s edge,. "Will you be jumping worlds anytime soon?"

Marqe paused in his preparations, a knife hovering over a tuber.

He set it down, turning with a gaze that spanned the hearth’s flicker. "Since Dorose is already sending hints, I will probably try to jump to a world or two that I am already familiar with and often visited when I am not in Fathomi."

Noirette’s curiosity reignited, the tome forgotten in her lap.

She shifted forward, the stool scraping softly. "Since Malleable Essence is a thing of Fathomi, can it be used on a completely different world outside of Fathomi’s influence?"

Marqe returned to his task, the knife’s steady rhythm punctuating his words.

He sliced tubers into even rounds, their flesh pale and fibrous, releasing a faint, earthy scent that mingled with the herbs.

"I somehow am able to see the same spirits on another world, and that is why I go world-hopping. Though it is not as strong as the ones in Fathomi. As such, I need five times more focus and preparation to jump from World A to World B, unless it is from Fathomi to World A and vice versa."

It was definitely an interesting topic, and Noirette wanted to explore it further.

But just as she was about to voice her second question, it struck—a sudden tug in her chest, sharp as a hook snagging flesh.

The world lurched, colors bleeding at the edges, the room spinning in erratic loops. Table, hearth, Marqe’s bent form—all smeared into a vortex of motion.

Nausea surged, bile rising hot in her throat, and her vision tunneled to pinpricks of light.

She pitched forward, the stool toppling as she fell to her knees.

The impact jarred her bones, chair clattering against stone floor.

Pain bloomed in her palms where they scraped the rough grain, but it paled against the wrenching pull in her core—a void gnawing inward, soul-flesh tearing at invisible seams. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

Blanchette rose smoothly, her smile faltering into a wry curve.

Crimson eyes snapped open, scanning Noirette’s crumpled form with clinical detachment.

She knelt beside her, one hand pressing lightly to Noirette’s shoulder, as essence threading outward in probing filaments—like soothing tendrils seeking the source.

Marqe abandoned his knife, the tuber forgotten mid-slice. He rounded the table in hurried steps, his stoop forgotten in the moment’s urgency.

"What happened to her?" he asked, voice tight with worry, eyes wide as he hovered near.

Blanchette’s touch lingered, essence coiling deeper, mapping the tear—a metaphysical rent where Noirette’s fragmented soul frayed against Fathomi’s inexorable grasp.

The wry smile held, but tension lined her pale features, snow-white hair framing a face etched with rare strain.

"Somehow, for no reason, Fathomi is attempting to slowly destroy Noirette’s soul."