Reincarnated as a Mushroom?-Chapter 70 - 69: The Invisible Claw and the Meat on My Chest

Chapter 70: Chapter 69: The Invisible Claw and the Meat on My Chest

Chapter 69: The Invisible Claw and the Meat on My Chest

I awoke to a cold, vacuum-sealed steak pressed neatly against my bare chest.

Not the strangest way I’ve been roused from slumber—Crystal once woke me with a memory injection of her burning down a sun for fun—but still weird enough to rank in the top ten. The cool weight of the meat packet slowly registered against my skin as I blinked groggily into the dim lighting of the stealth vessel.

Turning my head to the right, I met the glowing crimson eyes of Kimchi, who was absolutely beaming.

"Good morning, my love," she purred. "Kimchi found you some food."

Her voice held that oddly enthusiastic cadence she reserved for acts of savage tenderness. Like the time she tore the arm off a war criminal and handed me his wristwatch as a romantic gift. This? This was her domestic arc.

I stared down at the shrink-wrapped protein on my chest. "Wow. Thank you, my little provider. You’ve placed a bag of raw flesh on my sternum. Very normal behavior."

She nodded proudly, completely missing the sarcasm that trailed my tone like grease off a too-hot pan. She practically preened under my attention, vibrating with barely restrained joy. I decided to let her have the win.

I peeled the steak off me and started hunting for something resembling a kitchen.

---

My exploration eventually led me to a room that could have been the food-prep area... or maybe a glorified data core closet. Spaceships were not known for ergonomic kitchen design. I gave up trying to parse the layout and just called out.

"Hey Ronnie, can you come here a sec?"

The footsteps came immediately, like a good little cultling had been waiting outside the door with one ear to the wall.

He stumbled in with half-combed hair and a posture that screamed please validate me, space dad.

"Do you require something from me, Fa—Irvine?" he asked, chest puffed out like he was reporting for planetary conquest.

"Nothing major," I said. "I just want to cook this steak, but since your ship likely has a no-fire rule, I figured I’d ask."

For a moment, he looked disappointed that I wasn’t asking him to arm the nukes. But then his cult-programming kicked in, and he smiled like an overworked waiter finally getting to pour water.

"Ah yes! Is this your first time aboard a Spartari vassal vessel? Of course. Please follow me."

He walked approximately two meters before stopping, turning to face a section of blank wall, and flipping open a metal panel with ceremonial gravitas.

"Food, please," he said politely.

I handed over the packet.

Ronnie flipped it, read the data slab embedded in the plastic (some kind of nutrient-laced thermal barcode), and placed it into a drawer that swallowed it with a click.

"This vessel uses high-frequency directed microwave arrays. To prepare, press the blue button on your left, then the green button twice. No more. No less."

I did as instructed.

Thirty seconds later, the drawer spat the steak back out, perfectly cooked and still in the bag, like a techno-culinary miracle. I didn’t bother with cutlery. I peeled it open and took a bite.

"Mmfh. It’s good. Gulp. Thanks, Ronnie."

He bowed. Actually bowed. And walked away like he’d just completed a side quest.

---

Back in the cockpit, Ronnie slumped into his chair with a sigh of relief—the kind you only let out after narrowly avoiding a nervous breakdown in front of someone who could vaporize you with a hug.

"Why so tense, Ronnie?" asked a voice that didn’t belong to anyone in the room.

His body locked.

The voice had come from his left.

He whipped his head toward the sound.

Nothing.

Just air. freēwēbnovel.com

Then: "What are you looking at?"

The voice again—this time from his right.

Panic surged. He reached under the chair and pulled out his emergency laser pistol, eyes darting toward the hallway. He was about to sprint and scream ’INTRUDER’ when the voice returned.

"Oh relax, little Ronnie," it cooed. "I was only teasing."

And then she appeared.

Green eyes.

Cruel lips.

A smile that had seen extinction events and orgasms and couldn’t tell the difference.

Onyx emerged, not like someone stepping into view—but like a dimension had twitched, and suddenly she had always been there.

Ronnie froze.

Not metaphorically.

Biologically.

His nervous system slammed on every emergency brake at once. His instincts screamed predator—the kind that had no business existing outside of myth.

Onyx took a slow, stalking step toward him.

"Yes..." she whispered, inhaling his terror like incense. "That face. That look. Fear."

She licked her lips. Not because she was hungry—but because the memory of what she used to be still lingered in her throat like spice.

"I love Irvine. I adore him with every twisted atom in my being. But once, long ago, I was a planet-slayer. And the way your body trembles reminds me of that era. So nostalgic. So—"

"By all that is psionic, Onyx!"

My voice cut across the scene like a slap made of sarcasm.

"No wonder you said the kid’s terrified of you. That face you made nearly made me shit myself."

Caught mid-rant, Onyx spun on a heel with a perfect 180 and did her signature transformation: war-goddess to lovestruck waifu.

"Oh, darling~ There you are. How was your meal?" she sang, skipping into my arms like a malfunctioning ballerina bot. "Mmmh... last night was incredible. I’m still quivering~"

I looked past her and locked eyes with Ronnie, who was still shaking like a traumatized chihuahua.

Sigh.

"Have you had your fun, sweetie?" I muttered. "If so, go bother Kimchi while I try to fix the emotional fracture you just carved into our pilot’s soul."

She kissed my cheek and sauntered off, humming something that sounded like the prelude to a war crime.

I immediately regretted letting her anywhere near Kimchi.

---

Ronnie remained frozen, still trying to parse which body part to panic with first. I placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

He flinched, twisted, tried to aim his pistol at me.

I disarmed him with the casual indifference of a man swatting a fly and shoved him gently back into his chair.

"Easy. You’re safe," I said.

He blinked rapidly. "I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I just—"

"No worries," I said. "You were frightened. She’s... a lot."

Once he steadied his breath, he finally found his voice.

"Who—what—was that?"

"That," I said, "was Onyx. Stalker-class variant. Cloak and dagger of the Hive. She’s my personal blade and shield. Though right now she’s going through a bit of a psychic puberty. Her mutations and abilities can make her unstable."

Ronnie listened, nodding. But his brows furrowed.

"She’s from the outer family, right? But... she felt foreign. Like... alien."

I nodded slowly. "That’s because she kind of is. Onyx didn’t originate from the standard psionic lattice. Her purpose was so specific that Crystal kept her separate. Her mind doesn’t link. Not like the rest. She floats in the periphery."

That seemed to track for Ronnie. His eyes still shimmered with academic hunger.

"And the... aura of death? Was that her psionics?"

That made me pause.

"Aura of death?"

I tilted my head. "Wait, Ronnie... are you psionically sensitive?"

He nodded sheepishly.

"Well shit, that explains it."

I rubbed my temples and chuckled dryly. "Onyx is a psionic killer. It’s her thing. If you’ve got even a spark of mental attunement, and she doesn’t want to be seen, your subconscious flares like a dying star. Your brain screamed ’death is here’ because it was right."

Ronnie sat back.

Processing.

His fear dulled slightly now that he understood it.

Curiosity bloomed in the vacuum that fear had left behind.

"She was invisible, then?"

"Technically," I said. "She projects herself onto a non-visual layer. If you lack psionic awareness, you don’t see her—but you feel her. Like a nightmare waiting to be summoned."

He was still shaken.

But calmer.

Which was good.

Because Onyx had found herself a new toy, and Ronnie was definitely it.

---

Ronnie leaned back, closed his eyes, and murmured, "Thank you for explaining this to me, Irvine. I know you didn’t have to. Most wouldn’t bother speaking to someone like me."

I sighed and gave him a look.

"Don’t start that cult bullshit," I said. "Yes, I’m the mate of the Hive. Yes, I’m being groomed into a galactic patriarch. But I’m still human, Ronnie. I understand feelings. Kind of. So treat me like family. Not a god."

His eyes widened.

And I saw the gears begin to turn.

He pictured me leading fleets. Colonizing stars. Turning entire planets into kin. Not as a tyrant.

As a Father.

Of everyone.

And in that moment, Ronnie believed—truly, deeply, almost erotically—that I would one day become the progenitor of a species not defined by biology, but by belonging.

---

To Be Continued

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