The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 360 The Glass Shows Too Much

"What…?" he muttered, stepping closer to one of the panels. His heart gave a strange jolt. He saw himself—not in the present, but changed. Gone was his usual smirk, replaced by a grim, hollow stare. Dark tendrils of mist coiled around his limbs like living chains, pulsing with a sinister energy. The Mikhailis in the reflection looked isolated, shadows curling at his feet. Is that me if I lose control…? The idea made his throat tighten.

Rhea let out a sharp gasp beside him, her breath catching in her throat. "No," she whispered, her gaze locked onto a different panel. Mikhailis tore his eyes from his own reflection to see what had rattled her so much. Rhea's mirror image showed her clutching a bloodied sword, her eyes dark with anguish. At her feet lay a motionless figure—Estella, perhaps, with no life left in her. The horror written on Rhea's face in that reflection was almost more painful to see than the scene itself. He saw her hand twitch, as though she wanted to shatter the glass or at least reach in and fix this impossible nightmare.

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Lira stood a little farther away, staring at her reflection in silent dread. The image was more abstract but no less harrowing: it showed Mikhailis twisted by the Mistborn Entity's corruption, a visage of madness. Lira looked on from a distance, her elegant composure marred by heartbreak. She seemed paralyzed with sadness, like she wanted to help him but couldn't move. Is that how she sees me? Mikhailis wondered, an uncomfortable heaviness settling in his chest. Does she think I might fall so far?

Silence fell, thick as sludge. Even the corridor itself felt suffocating—like the air refused to flow, forcing them to confront these terrifying visions. Mikhailis's fingers tightened around the runic key still in his grasp. He could feel his pulse banging in his ears. We can't stay here. We'll lose our minds before we find a way out. Yet the illusions had a way of hypnotizing them, like whispers of what might come to pass if they failed.

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Gritting his teeth, he forced a small, sarcastic smile onto his lips. "Alright," he said, clearing his throat a little too loudly. "So these mirrors are clearly enchanted to mess with our heads. No one look too hard at themselves, or you might get self-conscious."

Neither Lira nor Rhea answered immediately, still trapped in the aftershock of what they'd seen. Another tremor shuddered through the walls, sending a thin crack snaking across one of the reflective panels. Mikhailis took a step back, feeling a sense of urgency claw at him. The catacombs were still unstable, and every second they lingered meant more risk.

He drew a breath, then spoke more firmly, "We keep moving. Whatever these visions are, they aren't real. Just the catacombs trying to screw with us." He pushed some confidence into his words, hoping to jolt them out of their dread.

Rhea tore her gaze from the horrifying image of Estella, letting out a heavy exhale through her nose. Her jaw set in a way that told him she was angry—maybe at herself for reacting or at the illusions for being so cruel. She nodded, though she didn't look at him. Lira took a moment longer, her eyes lingering on the reflection of Mikhailis under the Mistborn Entity's thrall. Then, with a slight tremor in her elegant fingers, she tore herself away and fell in behind him, her posture rigid but ready.

They advanced down the corridor, each step stirring more dust from the cracks in the floor. The reflective panels continued to shimmer with ghostly images, but the horrors inside them began to fade as they passed. Mikhailis refused to glance at his own reflection again, not wanting to see that bleak version of himself. I won't end up like that, he vowed silently, no matter what.

It wasn't long before they reached a split in the path—a grand junction where two tunnels branched in separate directions. The space here was a bit wider, the walls etched with faded symbols that might have once guided travelers through these catacombs, though now they were mostly unreadable. Mikhailis slowed, raising the key slightly to see if it resonated with any particular route. The runes flickered but offered no clear direction.

Lira stepped up to his side. "Any sign?" she asked softly, scanning the arches that led left and right. Her voice still held that calm, almost musical quality, though tension edged it. She glanced at Mikhailis's face, searching for some clue that he had a plan.

Rhea stood guard, her blade at the ready, scanning the darkness for threats. "We can't stand here too long," she muttered, pressing her free hand over the hilt to steady herself. "This place might decide to collapse on us again."

Mikhailis opened his mouth to suggest checking the left route first when, suddenly, a sound echoed from the right tunnel—a voice he recognized immediately.

"Mikhailis!"

He froze, heart leaping. That's— he started to think, relief flooding him. Rhea spun around, eyes wide, and Lira's posture shifted from wary to alert.

"Mikhailis!"

Cerys and Vyrelda emerged from the dim corridor, dust-covered but very much alive. The moment they stepped into view, Cerys did a quick sweep of the group, her keen gaze flicking from Mikhailis to Lira, then Rhea, checking each for any obvious wounds. Only after confirming they were still in one piece did she allow herself a quiet breath of relief. Even so, she kept her posture taut, ready to fight or run at the slightest threat. Her red hair, once tied neatly, was messy now, tangled around her shoulders, but her eyes still held that sharp intensity he'd come to respect.

Vyrelda, on the other hand, wore her usual faint smirk, as though she thrived on chaos. Dust clung to her dark clothes, accentuating the lines of her lean frame. She flicked a glance over Mikhailis with dry amusement. "You look awful," she remarked, crossing her arms over her chest. "Glad to see you're still breathing."

Mikhailis responded with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'd say the same about you, but we both know you'd kill me first if I pointed out your hair's a little… dusty." He added a playful wag of his eyebrows, hoping to lighten the tension.

Vyrelda's smirk widened for a fraction of a second, though she didn't dignify him with an answer. Instead, she studied the flickering glow of the runic key in his hand, as though assessing its significance.

Cerys crossed her arms, the movement carrying a quiet command. "What happened?" she asked, her voice even but firm, with an undertone that suggested she expected a full report.

Mikhailis gave a swift rundown of everything that had transpired: encountering the warden in the previous chamber, the risky choice to seal it using the key, and the subsequent collapse that nearly buried them alive. He spoke quickly, not wanting to dwell too much on how close they'd come to disaster, though a bit of tension lingered in his voice. Lira stood by, occasionally adding small details in that calm, measured tone that offset Mikhailis's more animated recounting. Rhea, arms folded and expression grim, would occasionally grunt or nod when Mikhailis glossed over certain facts, like the illusions in the mirror corridor that had rattled them all.

When Mikhailis finished, Cerys gave a curt nod, then returned the favor by explaining how she and Vyrelda had run into a group of Technomancers deeper in another section of the catacombs. They'd also discovered a strange device, half-constructed, bearing runic inscriptions that indicated it might manipulate or contain the mist somehow. The memory made Cerys's eyes darken with disapproval, and Vyrelda's smirk twisted into something sharper, more dangerous.

Lira's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of the device. "They're trying to suppress the mist's power," she said, folding her hands together in a thoughtful gesture. Her ponytail, once perfectly neat, now held faint streaks of dust that made her look surprisingly battle-worn, though she retained that aura of refined control.

"Or steal it for themselves," Vyrelda added darkly, her tone cutting through the quiet like a blade.

The words fell into a silence weighted by the knowledge that the Technomancers, if left unchecked, might turn this entire place into their personal laboratory. Rhea's lips tightened into a thin line, and she shifted her stance, looking at Mikhailis as if expecting him to make a pronouncement that would send them charging off to handle the threat.

A chill draft snaked through the corridor, stirring a few stray pebbles. The faint torchlight played across each of their faces, revealing the weariness they tried so hard to hide. Their clothes and armor were scuffed, caked with the powdery remains of broken stone. And still, the catacombs rumbled faintly, like a distant drumbeat warning them not to linger.

No one spoke for a moment. They all turned to look at the two possible paths stretching out ahead of them. One route sloped downward into further darkness—a faint aura suggested it led toward something deeper and more ancient than anything they'd yet encountered. Mikhailis recalled rumors he'd heard about the Deep Sanctum, a place sealed centuries ago, rumored to house unspeakable powers or treasures left behind by the catacombs' original builders. The other path bore signs of recent activity: footprints in the dust, scuff marks along the stone that might be from Technomancer boots, or the dragging of materials for that half-built device. Both routes promised danger, but in different forms.

Cerys studied Mikhailis carefully, her arms still folded. "So. What's the call?" She sounded calm, but tension simmered beneath every syllable. Her red hair hung loosely around her face, half-unraveled from its usual ponytail, and she didn't bother brushing it aside. Right now, her entire focus was on what Mikhailis would decide.

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing between the dark corridor leading to the rumored Deep Sanctum and the one that almost certainly led to the Technomancers. We can't afford to ignore either threat, he thought with a flicker of exasperation. If we let the Technomancers finish that device, who knows what havoc they'll unleash. But the catacombs themselves are falling apart, and the deeper wards might hold something that can tip the balance.

His usual smirk returned out of habit, though it was tinged with a seriousness that hadn't been there before. He noticed Lira watching him with concern in her gaze. She wants me to be careful, he realized, but also trusts me to make the right move. That trust was both reassuring and a burden. His heart did an odd little jump.

"Decisions, decisions," he said, forcing a lightness to his tone. "And here I thought today was going to be boring." He shifted his grip on the runic key, its gentle hum a reminder of the power he'd already tapped—and might need again.

Rhea sighed, the sound echoing faintly against the stone walls. "Mikhailis," she murmured, not quite scolding but definitely concerned. The way she said his name carried a weight that was new, as though her frustration had given way to genuine worry.

He exhaled, glancing around at the tired but resolute faces of his companions. Cerys, stoic and watchful, still recovering from near-disaster but prepared to fight again if need be. Vyrelda, quick to sarcasm yet unwavering in her goal to stop the Technomancers from gaining too much power. Rhea, protective in her own fierce way, grappling with the illusions she'd seen in those mirrors, but determined not to lose anyone else. Lira, calm and strategic, a figure of unflappable elegance whose eyes hinted at deeper feelings she rarely put into words.

They were all here because of him, in some way—because he'd barged into this city's conflict, or because they believed in him, or simply because they had no other choice. I can't let them down. He clenched his jaw, feeling a ripple of resolve course through him.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the ache in his muscles from all the running, ducking, and near-death scrambles they'd endured. Another faint tremor shivered through the floor, reminding him that these catacombs wouldn't wait forever. If they hesitated too long, the next collapse might seal their fate.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter but filled with certainty. "Alright, let's pick our poison."

And with that, he made his choice.