Ant Hell (5)

I had never seen what I looked like when my Mimicry Organ was active.

The Mimicry Organ was a gland hidden in countless crevices of my carapace, exhaling pheromones that scrambled the senses of other living things. As the producer of those pheromones, I was immune to their effects.

Which meant I had no idea how I appeared to others when the organ was running. Judging from their reactions, however, the illusion carried a faint undercurrent of wrongness — the sense of something not human wearing a human shape. The first time, you might miss it, but use the Mimicry Organ over and over, and unless my enemies were fools, they would start to feel that something was off. Once suspicion took root, the organ's effectiveness plummeted.

Just like the Red Mist, which had once been an object of terror for its player impersonations and had since faded into an old, worn-out story.

'But it would be a waste to throw it away just for that.'

I had poured a great deal of effort into correcting the Mimicry Organ's weakness — that characteristic awkwardness. I practiced my voice. I gathered information on whoever I intended to become. After trial, error, and relentless training, I could now put on a fairly convincing performance even for a target I was seeing for the first time in my life.

For example, right now.

"What's wrong with everyone? I told you, I need help over here!"

The Temple Guard detachment was watching me from a careful distance. Tension radiated off them as they warily wrapped their hands around their weapons. Those carrying Galagon Claw Blades stepped forward a single pace; those with Demolishers took aim at my head from behind.

"What's the matter?"

"......"

Every time my voice echoed down the corridor, the eyes of the unit wavered. By sound alone, the voice belonged to a comrade — but it had to be the Cult's uniquely sensitive senses rejecting what stood before them. Telling them, without a word, that the being in front of them was not Cult Selone.

"What are your orders?"

When one of the Cultists aiming at my head asked, the woman beside him — the one glaring hardest at me — spoke up.

"...We subdue it first. Then we verify."

She was the only one in the group with yak horns sprouting from her head, which made her this unit's leader. Like her subordinates, she had been thrown into confusion when she first laid eyes on me, but she seemed to have recovered her composure now.

At their leader's command, the Cultists began edging toward me. The three Demolisher gunners kept their weapons trained on my head — or just above it.

'Hmm. Interesting.'

The reason for aiming above my head was simple: they no longer believed I was Selone. They had apparently concluded that I was projecting an illusion.

Creatures capable of high-level hallucinations, like the Red Mist or the Sea Demon, could deceive the senses themselves. People died lost in a mirage without ever taking a physical hit.

But the Mimicry Organ's illusion wasn't on that level. The Cultists knew that whatever ability I was using hadn't reached the domain of full sensory control, and they had responded accordingly — coordinating over telepathy, deciding how to handle me even while fear gnawed at them.

'Not a bad response, but...'

Unfortunately, it wasn't the best one.

The Mimicry Organ reproduced another being's appearance through pheromones. It did not physically reshape my body. So what happened to the actual parts of my body — say, my Erosion Tentacles?

The answer was simple.

'Invisible.'

The black tentacles extending from my back were already hovering directly over the heads of the Demolisher gunners. None of them had the faintest awareness that anything was there.

"......"

The Cultists with the Galagon Claw Blades closed in, eyes locked on me. They extended their hands — Champion Shields flaring to life — preparing to bind me with the psychic restraint technique known as Bind.

Every Cultist in the corridor was focused on me in that instant.

The Erosion Tentacles struck.

"Ghk—?!"

"Ambush—ugh!"

The six appendages at the tip of each tentacle snapped wide open and seized the Cultists' upper bodies. In the same motion, the mouths lining the inside of the appendages swallowed their heads.

The mouth of an Erosion Tentacle was packed tight with razor teeth. Even wearing Dragon Scale Suits — reinforced armor though they were — there was no withstanding a prison of blades closing in from every direction at once.

They didn't even have time to scream. Their upper bodies were crushed and consumed where they stood.

"What the— damn it! It's hiding its body! Prepare for contact!"

Perhaps because I had attacked the Demolisher gunners first, the enemy leader shouted at the top of her lungs. The Cultists closing in on me flinched and hastily threw up their shields.

Regrettably, my plan to sweep them all aside with a single stroke of my tail had come apart. They had caught the blow as I raked it across the floor — blocked it with their shields, so the damage was slight.

'Not bad.'

By my guess, that leader was the most capable of the Temple Guards who had come here. If not top five in the entire Temple Guard, close to it.

'Then again, this works out fine for me.'

Things could have gotten dangerous if they'd regrouped with the Cult player. I charged forward, Mimicry Organ still active. My targets were the two Cult warriors moving to recover the Demolishers. The moment they saw me barreling toward them, they scrambled backward.

My massive body stomped clean over one harpoon-like Demolisher. The Cultists who managed to snatch up the remaining two weapons rolled clear of my attack at the last possible instant.

Bold movements — the kind you'd praise in an ally. Without a proper read on my overall shape, they had roughly gauged my sheer size and dodged on instinct alone.

The two half-risen Cultists immediately leveled their Demolishers at me. The sequence flowed like water; they were veterans, and it showed.

But if they had a problem, it was that their opponent was me.

The Tooth Fairy Nest near my lower back ruptured, and a swarm of black flesh-eating fleas burst out in unison. Their jaws went straight for the faces of the Cultists aiming the Demolishers. The fairies clattered their human-like teeth and hurled themselves at the Cultists.

"Ghh— ghaaak!"

"Get off— kghhk!"

With their vision swallowed by palm-sized fleas, the Cultists faltered for just a heartbeat — and I swung my tail at them. One blow to clear away both the Demolisher gunners and the Tooth Fairies.

This time, though, my intent was stopped. The enemy leader — the yak-horned Cultist — darted in and hammered my tail with her Champion Shield.

'Hm?'

She should have been knocked flying. Instead, unbelievably, she managed to deflect my tail's trajectory. The pincer at its tip smashed into empty space instead of its target.

The ice corridor's wall shuddered violently under my strike. Utterly unrattled, the Cult leader brought the axe in her other hand down onto my tail.

'Oops.'

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine!"

"Everyone, reform the line!"

Pain lancing up from my tail, I yanked it back immediately. Where her axe had landed, my hardened carapace was visibly damaged.

'Tch.'

The black axe in the Cult leader's hand — I knew that weapon. It was one of the rewards the Cult granted for clearing stage ten of a quest line.

'The Dragonslayer quest, wasn't it?'

The axe's name was Condemnation. By its lore, it was forged from a Black Galagon's horn — one piece of the Dragonslayer Set. Presumably the player who came to this place had handed it over to that woman.

'A nuisance.'

Condemnation's effect was simple: it elevated the wielder's physical parameters to Galagon level. The problem was that this buff was nothing to scoff at. Her slapping my tail aside with a Champion Shield alone proved ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that.

'...That's one more reason I can't drag this out.'

There was no telling when the Cult player might change their mind and teleport in. Judging by the axe she carried, that woman was likely wearing the full Dragonslayer Set. Which meant fighting her while worrying about someone that troublesome was going to be difficult.

I hurled myself at the Cultists, who had somehow already reformed their line.

One of the warriors fired a Demolisher at me. The weapon's signature indigo energy bolt streaked toward my head.

I wrenched my neck aside in time — but it still grazed the carapace at the back of my skull. True to a weapon that disintegrated matter, the spot it touched simply evaporated.

Ignoring the hit, I kept charging, driving forward to trample the Demolisher gunner. Seeing that I didn't even slow when struck, the Cultist panicked and flung himself sideways.

'Not a chance.'

I lashed out with an Erosion Tentacle and swatted him out of the air.

"Kghk!"

My tentacles were as thick around as a decent-sized log. However solid his armor, no suit could absorb all of that impact. The Cultist hit the floor retching blood, rolling and twisting.

Another tentacle flew in to finish him — and a different Cultist cut it off. A warrior leapt high and brought a white blade of Galagon claw down across my tentacle. Sparks scattered along its surface with a sound like a hook dragged across glass.

Every part of my body except my carapace was sheathed in synthetic scales, boasting formidable defense. The tiny scales covering the tentacle's surface absorbed the shock, leaving only a shallow scratch.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt. I snatched up the Cult swordsman as he landed, catching him in my combat arm.

"Th-that's— let go of me!"

Before he could put strength into his sword arm, I clenched my fist. What followed was a sound not unlike dropping a water balloon from the roof of a high-rise apartment. Warm juice trickled down between my four long fingers.

I shook off my hand casually and drove my head down toward the Cultist I'd knocked to the floor moments before.

"N-no, nooo!"

He clawed at the ground, trying to crawl away — far too late. His lower half was pinned beneath my skull along with his Demolisher, crushed utterly flat.

"Goddamn it!"

The remaining Cultists spat curses as their comrades died one after another, but they didn't recklessly rush in. Instead, they abandoned close combat and pulled out the card only the Cult could play: psychic power.

Two goat-horned Cultists spread both hands wide and trained them on me in unison. My body abruptly grew heavy, as if soaked through with water.

'Gravity Control, is it?'

A psychic technique that manipulated gravity — fairly versatile, as control skills went. Somewhere in the same family as the Bind that No. 26 was so fond of.

The ground beneath me split and cracked, and my upper half began sagging downward against my will. While the goat-horned Cultists sealed my movements, a ram-horned warrior and the leader launched their attacks. The warrior hurled a psychic whip — a Psychic Whip — and the leader fired a spear-like lance of violet: a Pain Sphere.

The Pain Sphere was a psychic technique boasting tremendous penetrating power, while the Psychic Whip's potency varied wildly with the user's skill.

I had faced both before, back when I fought Code Black, one of the Eugene Family's Shadows, in the space city. The very techniques that had once driven me to the edge of death were flying at me again.

'But...'

The violet whip lashed across my combat arm; the elongated spear punched through the carapace of my skull. Scales peeled from my arm; a hole opened in my head.

'The me of now is very different from the me of then.'

Psychic Reflection Carapace — the trait ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'd gained from devouring the Swamp King.

Its effect: when struck by a psychic-type attack, thirty percent of the damage taken was reflected back.

As if rewound through time, the whip and the spear that had struck and pierced me came shrieking back toward the Cultists.

"What—?!"

"Oh no—!"

The leader threw up her Champion Shield in a flash; the ram-horned warrior rolled to the side. Those choices decided both their fates.

"Kghk!"

True to its piercing power, the Pain Sphere punched straight through the Champion Shield — but only managed a light wound to the leader's left arm.

The ram-horned warrior was not so lucky. The reflected Psychic Whip slammed mercilessly into the upper body he'd ducked low.

"Ghhhhaaaaaagh!"

Torn open from his left shoulder blade down through his chest, he shrieked in agony. The goat-horned Cultists, seeing his ruined body, wavered.

I seized that opening and fixed the Gaze of Horror on one of the Cultists still channeling Gravity Control.

The eye-shaped patterns on my cranial carapace glowed with an ominous light.

The Gaze of Horror was a downgraded version of the Sea Demon's Fear of the Deep — a trait that bombarded a single target with overwhelming visions of terror. Deployed at a moment like this, when the enemy was already in disarray, its effect was devastating.

The color drained from the afflicted Cultist's face.

"U-uaaagh! Aaagh! S-senior! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Wh-what?! Hey! Snap out of it!"

He crumpled to the floor, hands clamped over his head. The weight crushing my body grew noticeably lighter.

I raised my head and leveled my snout at the remaining goat-horned Cultist. He gritted his teeth at the sight of me, but there was nothing he could do.

I spread my lower jaw wide. A mass of green surged up from deep in my throat and erupted outward.

The blob, thick with virulent acid fungus, flew for the goat-horned Cultist's palm. Confined within the gravity-manipulated field, it couldn't travel far — but that didn't matter. All it needed was to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠touch him somewhere.

And the fungus landed on the enemy's right hand.

"What is th—ghhk, ghaaaaAAAAAGH!"

As the fungus began its erosion, his hand melted away with alarming speed. The ivory Dragon Scale Suit fought desperately to repair itself, but there was no restoring flesh that no longer existed.

Any being who could keep their sanity after losing a hand in an instant was rare among ordinary lifeforms.

Finally free of the Gravity Control, I turned my gaze on the last one standing — the leader.

"Hkk, khk, khaaa..."

"Hiiiik! Senior! Please don't hit me! It was my fault! Hiiik!"

"Uuu, uuuuh, uu..."

"......"

Her eyes swept rapidly over her panic-stricken comrades. I could feel strength gathering in the hand that gripped Condemnation.

It looked as though the Cult leader intended to bury her bones here.

'She isn't running?'

Her heartbeat was still hammering, though somewhat steadier than before. And in the eyes glaring at me, there was no fear at all.

If anything, she looked... relieved.

'Wait. Don't tell me—'

Seeing her like that, I understood.

'The player sent her a telepathic message!'

No doubt about it — I'm coming, so buy me time. Perhaps the Cultists' sudden shift in tactics a moment ago had itself been the signal that the player was on the way.

I swept the area with my auxiliary organs. No particularly powerful energy currents detected yet.

'...Time to move.'

This was a poor place to fight them. I wheeled around and retreated.

Just as I'd predicted, the Cult leader did not pursue. Instead, she moved to tend the wounded.

'That leader's finished anyway.'

I still had one more trap hidden up my sleeve — a set of traits acquired long ago, waiting all this time for a chance to be used.

When they went off, that woman would die.

I put the leader out of my mind and ran up the darkened corridor.

'...Damn it all!'

When she could no longer sense the creature's presence, Aliya sank to the floor. Her life had hung by a thread against powerful monsters more than once or twice.

It came with the territory — the Temple Guard was only ever deployed when a monster appeared that could not be subdued by ordinary means.

But never, not once, had an enemy frightened her as much as this one did today.

Her lover Jason's words had been true. The thing was a monster fearsome enough to be called a devil without a shred of exaggeration.

In her eyes, the true strength of the Three-Headed Demon lay in its brilliance at scheming. The creature fought several moves ahead of her — and she was a veteran of the unit.

Even now. It could have killed her, yet it chose to withdraw instead. It must have read in advance that her lover was on his way to this place.

'It is a threat to the Empire.'

Once she'd seen to the wounded, she walked over to Billone, who was slumped against the wall.

Aliya knelt before her. Paralyzed from the neck down, Billone was weeping tears of blood from eyes red and swollen.

'Jason says she was being controlled, but...'

Billone had to be brought back alive — for Aliya's sake, no, for the security of the Empire. She was the one who had survived longest at the Three-Headed Demon's side. She could not be allowed to die until the necessary information had been pried from her head.

Perhaps sensing the tangled love and loathing in Aliya's gaze, Billone spoke.

"A-Aliya, ma'am... I-I'm sorry..."

"You are being spared because you are of use to the Empire. There is no need to apologize."

Aliya said it coldly, but something in Billone's reaction was off.

"S-sorry... sorry, s-sorry, uu—hurk!"

"Hm?"

Billone retched again and again, then her head dropped forward heavily.

"Hey? What's wrong with—"

The instant Aliya leaned in close, Billone's head snapped up.

The face that rose was no longer the Billone Aliya knew.

From her eyes, nose, mouth, ears — from every opening in her face — vivid red vines had burst into growth. At the sight, a telepathic message tore into Aliya's mind.

'Fuck! That's a Tetanus Vine! Aliya! Get away!'

'What?'

Before she could even parse her lover's words, the head that had been Billone exploded. Shreds of crimson vine scattered into Aliya as tiny shards.

"What in the world..."

Aliya wiped the vine fragments and some unidentifiable red fluid from her upper body. She stared down at the headless corpse, her face pale and frantic.

On the clean-sliced cross section where her neck had been, red tendrils squirmed like worms.

She had no time even to feel disgust before a strange itch bloomed on her left shoulder.

"Why all of a sud—ghk?"

She'd assumed it was just the wounds from her fight with the monster beginning to heal. She was wrong.

The itch lasted only a moment. Then searing pain erupted, spreading from her shoulder across her entire upper body.

"Ghh—ghhk?! GYAAAAAAAAAAH!"

It felt as if thousands of insects were crawling through the blood vessels beneath her skin. Raking her nails into her own flesh, she clawed at her torso as if to tear it open.

"GHAAAAAAAAGH!"

When scratching proved useless against the Dragon Scale Suit's protection, she tore the armor off and kept clawing. Her fresh, delicate skin was soon smeared with blood.

And perhaps because of that, she failed to notice the thin, vine-like shapes wriggling inside her bleeding wounds.

'IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS!'

Only then did she understand what had happened to Billone. And what was going to happen to her.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

"Aliya!"

Through the haze ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of her dissolving mind, her lover's voice reached her. Even in that ocean of agony, she ran toward the sound of it.

Was it the instinct born of love — or the command of the things crawling through her body?

There was no way for her to know.

"Fuck..."

That unfamiliar word again. The instant she heard it, Aliya felt no more pain.

To be precise, she felt nothing at all — pain or otherwise.

"MORPH-FUCKERRRRRR! YOU SON OF A BITCHHHHHH! YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT DOG! BECAUSE OF YOU, MY ALIYA IS DEAAAAAAAD!"

She couldn't understand what the man she loved was screaming.

And she couldn't have.

Cult or not — cut off the head, and you die.