The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 382 : Tending Wounds, Bearing Regret

Mikhailis took a steadying breath, eyes swiftly moving from one wounded companion to another. His jaw clenched involuntarily, guilt pressing heavily against his chest like a stone. He knelt first beside Rhea, whose face had gone pale beneath a layer of grime. Her breathing was shallow, lips parted and trembling slightly. The dark crimson stain soaking her makeshift bandages had begun to seep onto the bedding beneath her, forming a stark contrast against the pale straw. He reached out gently, pressing his hand lightly to her forehead, noting how clammy and cold her skin felt beneath his fingertips. A surge of worry tightened his chest.

<Rhea's heart rate is declining, Mikhailis,>

Rodion warned urgently, his voice slicing through Mikhailis's tension with clinical precision.

<She requires immediate rest and significantly improved wound treatment to prevent infection from escalating.>

"Yeah, I got it, Rodion," Mikhailis replied sharply, voice strained with impatience as he quickly redressed her wound. His movements were deft yet tender, the tension in his jaw deepening with every weak, shuddering breath that escaped her lips. Rhea's eyes fluttered open momentarily, glazed with pain but flickering briefly with determination.

This is bad...

Mikhailis couldn't help but make a worried face, which is bland to see by Rhea.

"Is it that bad?" she whispered faintly, managing to hold his gaze even through the haze clouding her vision. Her voice was brittle, hoarse with exhaustion yet defiant to the very end.

"You'll be fine," Mikhailis reassured her softly, masking his own anxiety behind a carefully gentle tone. "But you need rest. Don't argue with me this time. You've been changing your personality ever since we're not together with Estella,"

"Since when have I ever argued? Hehehe, somehow freshness are needed, right?" Rhea murmured faintly, the ghost of a smirk briefly touching her lips before fading away into a quiet sigh. Her eyes fluttered shut again, surrendering to the sleep she desperately needed.

Mikhailis moved swiftly to Cerys next. The usually formidable knight lay rigid, eyes closed, her breathing careful and deliberate—her iron discipline on full display despite the pain she surely felt. Yet he noticed the tightness around her eyes, the subtle wince whenever she inhaled too deeply. Her pride might keep her from openly admitting weakness, but her injuries were clear enough.

<She has bruised ribs, along with internal contusions,>

Rodion provided evenly.

<Though stable for now, she'll need to remain immobilized to avoid further internal damage.>

Mikhailis nodded silently, placing a gentle hand against Cerys's shoulder. "Stay still, Lone Wolf. No heroics today."

"Noted," she replied softly, voice tight and controlled, though a faint tremor revealed how fragile that control truly was. "Just…get us through this."

He offered a small, reassuring smile, briefly squeezing her shoulder. "I intend to."

He quickly shifted to Lira, whose elegant composure, though battered, remained remarkably intact. Dirt and grime streaked her graceful features, and her eyes were heavy-lidded with fatigue, yet she managed a dignified tilt of her head when he approached.

"Your Highness, I assure you—I'm quite alright," she murmured politely, though her voice was strained, edged with suppressed discomfort.

<Her injuries are superficial, but she is nearing exhaustion,>

Rodion interjected, tone carefully neutral but firm enough to communicate concern.

"Let me help," Mikhailis insisted gently, ignoring her faint protests as he carefully examined the bruises along her ribs, swiftly applying ointment and a tight wrap. Her breath caught briefly at his touch, dark eyes softening slightly as she met his gaze.

"I appreciate your concern," she whispered finally, resignation mixing warmly with reluctant gratitude. "Though you really must stop making a habit of saving me like this. It's becoming rather embarrassing."

Mikhailis chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "And yet, I don't see you refusing."

She sighed softly, the ghost of a smile touching her lips, briefly lowering her eyes in concession. "Only because I know you won't listen."

Vyrelda was last, her eyes half-lidded, glaring weakly at him as he moved closer. She flinched slightly as he gently brushed hair aside to better inspect the shallow cut near her temple. Her gaze, usually fierce, now flickered with vulnerability—resentment not quite strong enough to mask her gratitude.

"This feels unnecessarily intimate," she muttered irritably, though exhaustion drained most of her venom.

"You'd rather bleed out?" he shot back lightly, swiftly disinfecting and bandaging the wound.

She hissed softly at the sting but quickly bit back further complaints, eyes closing tightly for a brief second. "I'd rather complain, honestly."

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.

He chuckled dryly. "You're welcome."

After tending to them, Mikhailis exhaled heavily, the silence of the room oppressive now, broken only by the soft, labored breathing of the injured women. He rocked back onto his heels, staring down at his trembling hands, smeared with blood and grime. Guilt clawed at his chest again—fierce and relentless—as the weight of responsibility pressed harder, a heavy stone resting upon his heart.

His voice, quiet and strained, betrayed the turmoil swirling beneath his calm exterior. "Rodion, tell me my own status. How bad is it?"

Rodion hesitated only slightly before answering, voice clear yet subtly gentle—something uncommon from the AI. <Allow me to perform a direct analysis through the Chimera Ant Workers. Please remain still for a moment, Mikhailis.>

Mikhailis nodded curtly, feeling dozens of tiny eyes turning toward him as the Chimera Ant Workers scuttled silently into place, forming a careful circle around him. Their small forms skittered quietly, positioning themselves precisely to provide Rodion with the most detailed analysis possible. A faint shiver ran down his spine; despite knowing these were allies, their coordinated precision still felt unsettling.

The lenses of his glasses flickered, images of himself from multiple angles appearing clearly in his vision. He saw his own form displayed vividly: tired eyes shadowed deeply from fatigue, muscles tense, veins pulsing faintly with the alien strength of the mist's influence. Rodion's voice resonated softly, clinical yet laced with an unusual note of concern.

<Your physiological condition is… anomalous, Mikhailis. Your neuro-muscular connections have undergone significant enhancement due to the mist's influence, greatly amplifying your strength, speed, and reflexes. Your musculature has adapted to channel this force without immediate harm, but this comes at a cost.>

Mikhailis frowned, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he studied the unsettling visuals Rodion projected directly into his view. "Explain clearly."

Rodion continued carefully, as though choosing each word with great precision.

<Prolonged use of this power places considerable strain on your body, particularly your cardiovascular and nervous systems. If you continue to push beyond your limits, you risk severe physical breakdown and potential neurological damage. Additionally, your mental state may be compromised due to prolonged exposure to this external influence.>

A heavy silence settled over Mikhailis, broken only by the faint crackling of distant fires and the soft breathing of his companions. He flexed his fingers thoughtfully, feeling the alien strength swirling beneath his skin, seductive yet undeniably dangerous. It whispered promises of power, of victory—but at what price?

"Meaning," Mikhailis murmured, his tone edged with bitterness, "if I keep relying on this power, I could lose myself completely."

Rodion's reply was measured, gentle yet firm.

<Precisely. It is an extraordinary tool, but one you must wield carefully—lest it become your master rather than your weapon.>

Mikhailis closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply as he grappled internally with the gravity of Rodion's words. The price of leadership had never felt heavier, the responsibilities he bore more demanding. He'd always prided himself on intuition, believing he understood people, their motivations, their hearts. But now doubt crept in, whispering dark truths: his arrogance, his misplaced confidence, had brought them here. His decisions had led directly to these injuries, this chaos.

Yet despite the gnawing guilt, he couldn't allow himself to crumble beneath it—not now, not ever. These lives were his responsibility. These consequences were his to bear. He opened his eyes again, determination flaring bright and fierce in his gaze. For a moment, Rodion's analysis faded to the background, leaving only clarity—a fierce resolve born of bitter necessity.

"Funny," Mikhailis muttered bitterly, flexing his fingers as he felt the foreign surge of power ripple beneath his skin. This alien strength, while intoxicating, also felt dangerous—like a drug promising potency at the cost of sanity.

His throat tightened, the heaviness of his decision settling like a stone in his stomach. He brushed away a strand of Rhea's hair from her forehead, feeling the cold sweat dampening her skin. For a moment, the quiet vulnerability in her expression gripped him painfully, and guilt clawed deeper at his chest. He'd brought her into this mess—brought all of them into this chaos. These women, these fierce companions, who'd trusted him implicitly were now lying injured and vulnerable, victims of a conflict far greater and darker than they'd anticipated.

He turned slightly, gaze moving to Cerys. The Lone Wolf was never one to openly show weakness, always so controlled, so composed. Yet, in this moment, she lay exhausted, her usually stern features softened by fatigue and pain. Her red ponytail sprawled loosely across the makeshift pillow beneath her head, and her breathing was careful, controlled, betraying the internal effort she expended even at rest. The bruises along her ribs were darkening visibly beneath the edges of her shirt, hints of deeper injuries. For someone who took pride in self-reliance and strength, being incapacitated like this must've stung her fiercely.

He moved closer, quietly brushing a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. Even now, unconscious, her jaw was tense, stubbornly holding onto dignity and strength. "Sorry about this, Cerys,"