The Demon Queen's Royal Consort-Chapter 109 - Dungeon - XVII

The battle began before we even understood how we were supposed to react.

Down below, in the heart of the profane chamber, three shadows moved with inhuman speed around the monstrosity that had just emerged from the swamp. The grasshoppers, elemental chaos warriors, glided across the battlefield like slicing specters, their six blade-arms in constant motion, leaving shimmering trails in the air. Each strike was followed by an invisible slash—blades of pure wind, shaped by the inner energy of their bodies.

Despite the cave's depth, natural lighting was strangely present. Long cracks in the ceiling allowed vertical beams of orange light to enter, filtered through red crystals embedded in the stalactites. These beams danced in the swamp's steam, creating a diffused atmosphere, as if the very air was slowly combusting. The glow was enough to see, but nothing seemed clear. The light flickered as if afraid to reveal too much, casting unstable shadows that rippled with the heat and the energy of battle.

Those cutting waves hissed through the air like death's own whistle, slicing even through rock as they passed.

But what they faced was no ordinary beast.

The crocodile was an abyss of flesh and darkness.

Its regeneration was grotesque, absolute—each wound sealed shut in seconds, as if pain itself meant nothing to it. And around its body, a black aura flickered with oppressive density, like a fog that didn't just obscure light... but devoured it.

It was Darkness—yet not the kind that kills, not the kind that ends.

It was the kind that consumes.

That thing carried not the stillness of death, but the eternal hunger of darkness: emotionless, peace-less, purposeless beyond its constant devouring. Wherever it moved, light was sucked away, and shadows stopped being mere absence of light and became a living substance. Twisted shapes slithered around the crocodile, as if space itself bent to flee its presence.

And even so, the grasshoppers didn't retreat.

They spun, leapt, vanished and reappeared in new positions, using the air as both blade and armor. Their voices were coordinated silences, their movements choreographed like the dance of a sharpened hive. The creature regenerated faster than they could wound it, yet still, they fought—perhaps not to win, but to understand.

The tension was absurd. One mistake, and everything would be sucked into that infinite mouth, where not even the soul could escape. And we, above, watched. Paralyzed.

"BOOOOOOOOOM!"

The crocodile's massive tail sliced the air like a whip of living steel, and before anyone could react, one of the grasshoppers was struck head-on. The impact echoed like the thunder of a vengeful god. Its body was hurled with absurd violence, vanishing in an explosion of rock and dust, slammed into the cavern wall. A crater formed around it, the stone giving way like soaked paper.

Without hesitation, the remaining two charged like war arrows. Their blades became blinding trails of light, slicing the air like falling comets. The sound was deafening—the clash of blades against the crocodile's shell exploded in metallic cracks and sparks, like anvils struck in fury. Black scales were torn off like the skin of a rotten fruit, revealing pulsating, grotesque flesh, oozing blood thick as tar.

But with every strike, frustration: the flesh healed in the blink of an eye. It was impossible to hit the same spot twice—the tissue sealed with unnatural voracity, as if time itself bent within the monster.

The third grasshopper, freed from the wall with a cracked but buzzing body, rejoined the fight in a burst of energy. Its six arms swelled like living balloons, muscles writhing beneath the exoskeleton. Its body gleamed emerald green, and then, in a furious spin, became a whirling blade of destruction. It spun toward the crocodile's neck with a slicing sound, a whine that seemed to divide the air into ribbons.

The blades sank deep into the creature's neck joints. Blood sprayed like jets of black ink, hitting the cavern ceiling and raining down like an acidic storm. The grasshopper kept spinning, trying to force a decapitation, its limbs working like living saws.

But then, the horror.

The blades stopped. Not by choice, but by entrapment. The surrounding flesh closed in with brutal force. In an instant, the muscles began swallowing its arms. Then the torso. Then the legs. The grasshopper's expression was one of pure mechanical terror. It tried to break free, but it was too late. The monster devoured it with its own body.

"He... He's stuck inside the crocodile's flesh!" Aeloria whispered, his voice nearly breaking.

It was like watching someone being consumed by a living wall. The flesh pulsed, stitching the grasshopper into the neck. Spasms were still visible beneath the regenerated skin, like an insect trapped in amber, trying to escape the impossible.

The crocodile didn't even notice. It continued its blind charge at the remaining two.

The largest of them, in a final gesture of desperation and strength, gathered all its inner energy. Its six arms rose. The aura around it exploded like a miniature green sun. The blades extended beyond physical limits, growing from two to five meters—pure condensed energy. With a sonic crack, it vanished.

In an instant, it reappeared at the monster's eye line.

"Slish!"

One strike. Clean. Precise. The entire top of the crocodile's skull flew off, spinning like a flung boulder, plunging into the acidic swamp and melting instantly. The cut revealed the creature's impossible anatomy—there was no brain, only a pulsating black tongue and a corridor of endless teeth, like the interior of a cathedral made of bones.

With no time to rest, the grasshopper attacked again. Multiple strikes, fast as blinks, carved shining lines across the monster's flesh. The sound was like scrolls being torn apart, wet and sharp cracks. Intestines slithered to the ground. Extra limbs were severed—blades, deformed legs, scales projected like shields.

But nothing worked.

The monster simply healed, sprouting new forms, new mutations, as if mocking all logic. A tumor that fought back. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

The other grasshopper, seizing the distraction, attacked the creature's underside, targeting the vulnerable points beneath its belly, already corroded by the swamp. Internal organs were exposed. Blood flooded the ground.

And then...

The attacking grasshopper above prepared for a final blow. But the creature, with sinister precision, raised its restored head and opened its mouth.

Inside, there was no tongue. No throat. Only absolute void.

Darkness. Pure. Eternal.

The grasshopper vanished. It didn't explode. It didn't scream. It simply... disappeared. As if it had never existed. The darkness swallowed its existence and erased it from all reality.

The last grasshopper froze.

Its body vibrated, instincts screaming. It leapt back in a burst of speed, spinning toward the cave's exit. Its claws dug into the rock, trying to resist the suction force coming from the monster's colossal mouth.

But it was like fighting a black hole. Everything began to be dragged in—stones, liquids, pieces of the mountain.

The ground beneath the grasshopper gave way. It tried to dig its claws into the wall, but it was pulled like a leaf in the wind.

And swallowed.

No sound. No struggle.

Silence.

"Let's get out of here. Now!" Aeloria shouted, and none of us dared to disagree.

**

The wind howled atop the fourth mountain, slicing skin like cold razors. It was night, but there were no stars—only a distorted moon, faded behind thick clouds, like a weary eye refusing to witness the world.

The fire at the center of the group crackled softly, the flames struggling against the wind, flickering like the thoughts inside each of us. The warmth barely reached our bodies, let alone our hearts.

Dália held her knees close to her chest, eyes lost in the hypnotic red of the fire. Her arms trembled, but it wasn't from the cold. It was something deeper. The kind of trembling born from the recognition of an absolute enemy. An evil that cannot be defeated. Only watched, feared... and fled from.

Aeloria stood, still as a worn statue, eyes fixed on the void below the mountains. The thin air made his breathing sound heavy, but he didn't seem to care. Maybe he didn't even notice. His mind wandered in silent spirals, trying to comprehend, rationalize—failing every time.

No one spoke.

Minutes dragged like hours. A creak of armor here, the snap of an ember there. And in between, a silence too heavy to be comfortable. Too heavy to be ignored.

"It shouldn't be possible..." someone murmured. Maybe it was Dórian. Maybe it was the wind. No one replied.

Everyone had seen it.

The absurd regeneration. The absence of pain. The shifting, hollow, existence-devouring body. That thing wasn't a beast. It wasn't an abomination. It was a concept. A force of negation. A hole in the world where even hope was swallowed.

There, atop the fourth mountain, the group seemed smaller. Not in number. But in weight. In courage.

It was as if part of them had been left in that cave: the part that believed there would always be a way. That some strategy would be enough. That the right strength, the right strike, the right unity would bring victory.

But now they knew.

Not speed.

Not blades.

Not courage.

Nothing had been enough.

The creature had swallowed it all.

And the worst part... it was still there.

Waiting.