So yeah.

  Phase 3?

  Total disaster.

  We were supposed to be clever. Precise. Take Orbed off the board first—cripple them before they could react. That was the point of Vex’s squad. Slip into their chamber, steal the artifact they anchor their strength to, and leave them vulnerable so the rest of us could move.

  But the artifact’s still there.

  Vex barely made it out.

  The Veilstalkers didn’t.

  So now?

  Now we’re going with the backup plan.

  And by backup, I mean the throw everything into one desperate move and hope it sticks kind of plan.

  Rushing Ypal into ascension.

  That means no more subtle plays. No more slow dismantling. We’re pushing them through the ritual now. Even though we’re not ready. Even though Orbed knows something’s wrong. Even though we didn’t get what we needed.

  Because if Ypal becomes a Myconid Emperor…

  Then we might have a shot.

  Not a clean one. Not a guaranteed one.

  But a real, fighting chance to kick Orbed’s fungal ass off the throne.

  But here’s the real problem.

  Orbed isn’t sitting still.

  If they figured out Phase 3 failed—and let’s be real, they absolutely did—then they’re probably mobilizing right now. Not to investigate. Not to retaliate.

  To obliterate us.

  Ypal knows it. We all know it.

  Which is why we’re here, in this thick, humming chamber beneath Sporehaven’s core—gathered in a wide circle around the central bloom-cap, the place where decisions get made. Where the colony breathes through thought and resonance and the quiet, ever-present pressure of survival.

  It’s not just us anymore. Not just the brood.

  Fysteryl. Osterys. Astor. Gyldis. All present.

  The rescued Workers and Buds gather at the edges, silent but watching, listening. Ready.

  Victor stands at Ypal’s side, posture upright and composed. Tessa's lying on the floor next to Goldy, legs up, chewing something unidentifiable. Vex is silent, arms crossed, back against the wall—but he’s here.

  And me?

  I’m trying to make sense of everything that’s about to fall on us.

  Ypal steps forward, spores trailing behind them like a cape of light. Their voice resonates clearly now—not gentle, not uncertain.

  “Orbed is coming,” they say.

  “And we must be ready.”

  Ypal’s glow intensifies as they step closer to the center of the chamber, casting pale light over the circle of us gathered.

  “Before we proceed,” they say, calm but focused, “I need to know what strength remains at our disposal.”

  Their filaments drift outward in a slow arc, eyes sweeping across us.

  “Victor,” they say, “how many forces do we have?”

  Victor steps forward, his usual elegance muted. His limbs rest at his sides. No flourishes. No poetic preamble.

  Just numbers.

  “For Myconids,” he says plainly, “we have forty-seven Workers available.”

  Everyone stills at his tone—it’s rare to hear him drop the noble airs.

  “Eighteen Buds,” he continues, “but they are unfit for combat. Too young, too raw. We’ll be placing them into the ritual circle—they’ll serve as stabilizers, not fighters.”

  Ypal nods once.

  Victor’s voice stays steady, but a flicker of weight enters it now.

  “Twelve of the forty-seven Workers are needed to fulfill ritual positioning. That leaves us with thirty-five combat-capable Workers.”

  A pause. Then he adds:

  “For Advanced Myconids, we have ten.”

  Another pause.

  “But that number excludes the three required for the ascension itself: Osterys the Sporecaster. Fysteryl the Warden. And Ogrir the Guardian.”

  The room goes quiet.

  Ypal’s cap lowers just slightly in thought.

  Thirty-five Worker combatants. Seven Advanced Myconids.

  I stare at Victor.

  Like, really stare.

  “Wait,” I say, pointing a claw at him. “Did I just hear you talk like an actual person?”

  Goldy’s already snickering beside me. “Right? I thought I was hallucinating.”

  “First Vex turns into a pile of feelings,” I continue, “and now you’re dropping the whole ‘honored sirs and esteemed this-and-that’? What’s next, Tessa solving tactical formations?”

  “I could do that,” Tessa says proudly, “if you color-code it!”

  Victor sighs, antennae twitching just slightly. “We find ourselves pressed for time. I have elected to favour clarity over rhythm. I beseech your pardon should this disrupt your sense of balance."

  “No-no, don’t walk it back,” Goldy grins. “You sounded like one of us for a second there.”

  Vex, from the wall: “That’s the real emergency.”

  Victor gives a long, tired exhale. “If I had known speaking plainly would earn such fanfare, I would’ve reserved it for my deathbed.”

  Tessa squints. “What’s a fanfare?”

  “Loud,” I say.

  “Ah! Like you!”

  Victor closes his eyes for half a second—regretting everything—while the rest of us barely suppress a laugh.

  But underneath it all, the tension stays.

  Because no matter how we dress it up…

  We’re running out of time.

  The mood barely settles before Ypal cuts through it—calm, precise, and loud enough to flatten the atmosphere again.

  “Vex,” they say, voice echoing through the chamber, “how many does Orbed command?”

  Just like that, every grin fades. Even Goldy straightens up.

  Vex pushes off the wall, arms crossed again. His voice is rough but steady now—practical.

  “Hard to say. I wasn’t exactly taking headcounts while being chased halfway across a collapsing death maze.”

  Ypal says nothing. Just waits.

  Vex exhales. “But from what I did see? Inside Orbed’s chamber—at least sixty Myconid Workers. Organized. Patrolling.”

  “Advanced Myconids?”

  “Seven,” he confirms. “Not counting Orbed. Two of those were Combatants—we took them out. One Dreadcap too.”

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  Ypal’s filaments pulse once, slowly.

  Vex continues, “But outside the chamber? I passed more. Rot was thicker. I felt resonance—strong ones. I’d estimate six to nine more Advanced Myconids operating around the perimeter.”

  That hits hard.

  Victor mutters, “Which puts their total strength, conservatively, at twice our number—if not worse.”

  Goldy clicks her mandibles. “That’s fine. I like a challenge.”

  I shake my head. “You also liked throwing a fit on a dangerous looking ants when I was a hatchling.”

  She grins. “And I won.”

  Vex’s gaze stays locked on Ypal, serious and sharp.

  “We don’t have the numbers,” he says, voice low. “But we do have a wildcard.”

  Right on cue, Goldy perks up with a dramatic flare of her legs. “Oh right! Almost forgot—Spiky brought us a little surprise.”

  She steps aside with a grin, gesturing like she’s unveiling a priceless treasure.

  And there—emerging from behind her, quiet and composed—steps the Spikeward Mothkin.

  Their presence shifts the air.

  Tall. Armored in dense chitin, with feathered antennae and gleaming multi-faceted eyes that reflect the chamber’s glow. Their folded wings twitch slightly, the razor-thin spines along their forearms catching the light.

  The room stills.

  Even the spores seem to pause.

  The Spikeward steps forward, silent, calm—and utterly dangerous.

  Victor’s antennae lift slightly. “Ah. That wildcard.”

  Ypal’s gaze settles on the Mothkin.

  No words spoken.

  But the air tightens with purpose.

  We may be outnumbered.

  But we’re not without teeth.

  The Spikeward Mothkin steps into the light, his voice cutting through the quiet—measured, steady, but weighed down with something real.

  “Yes,” he says. “But don’t forget—Orbed has the artifact.”

  That alone shifts the room. Every Myconid stiffens. Even Goldy stops chewing whatever weird rock-flesh she smuggled in.

  “I’ve felt it,” the Spikeward continues. “Fought under its pressure. And even now…”

  He flexes one of his arms—slow, strained. You can see it: the subtle lag in his movements, like his body’s still dragging the rot with it.

  “…I’m still feeling the decay. It’s not just power. It seeps into you. Weakens you.”

  Before anyone else can respond, Ypal speaks—calm but heavy with memory.

  “I am aware.”

  The light around them pulses dim.

  “That artifact took our Emperor in a blink. Before anyone could react, they were… gone.”

  A pause. Just long enough to let that history land.

  “Our numbers were strong once,” Ypal says. “Structured. Unified. That artifact changed everything. It fractured us.”

  Their gaze meets the Spikeward’s. “And that is why I must ascend. Now.”

  No one argues.

  Because what they’re saying isn’t just strategy.

  It’s survival.

  Ypal steps forward, the glow along their filaments deepening into a steady, solemn pulse.

  They look directly at the Spikeward Mothkin—no grandeur, no formality. Just truth.

  “When I ascend,” they say, “I will renew the contract with your colony.”

  The chamber goes still. Even the spores hush for that.

  “And with the power that comes with being Emperor…”

  They pause, voice firm. Certain.

  “I can cure you of the rot.”

  The Spikeward Mothkin’s head tilts slightly, but he doesn’t speak. Not right away.

  You can feel the weight of that promise settling over him—like something he didn’t know he needed to hear until just now.

  Victor murmurs under his breath, “A contract… and a cure.”

  Goldy whistles, low. “Now that’s an Emperor.”

  Ypal doesn’t flinch. “That is my vow. To your kind, and to all who still believe in this colony’s future.”

  No one moves.

  No one breathes.

  Because in that moment?

  We don’t just have a plan.

  We have hope.

  Ypal’s glow pulses once, casting a pale shimmer across the gathered crowd.

  “Alright,” they say, voice sharp with purpose. “Let’s summarize our forces.”

  The room stills, focus drawn in like threads being pulled taut.

  “The ritual requires three Advanced Myconids,” Ypal begins. “Osterys, as Sporecaster. Fysteryl, as Warden. Ogrir, as Guardian.”

  The three step forward in unison, standing tall and silent.

  “Twelve Myconid Workers will maintain the ritual circle. The eighteen Buds, while unfit for combat, will stabilize the resonance flow throughout.”

  They turn slightly toward Victor.

  “Forty-seven Workers total. Subtract twelve, that leaves thirty-five for defense and frontline support.”

  Victor nods once, precise.

  “Seven Advanced Myconids remain for direct combat,” Ypal continues. “That includes Gyldis, Astor, and the five recently freed.”

  Then they look toward us.

  “Among the Royal Brood…”

  I shift slightly. Goldy straightens and throws up a leg like she’s saluting. “Explosives. Mandibles. Good attitude.”

  Tessa flops over and points at herself with her paw. “Zoomy teeth.”

  I grunt. “Still alive.”

  Vex crosses his arms. “Still dangerous.”

  Ypal’s gaze doesn’t stop there. It moves—past us—to the others standing just behind.

  “Spiky,” they say, nodding toward the quiet Spiky Caterpillar near Goldy’s side. He chirps once, stiff with pride.

  “With him,” Ypal adds, “Two Spiky Caterpillar and three Lesser Spiky Caterpillar brood sibilings.”

  The younger ones shift excitedly, trying to look tougher than they are.

  “And,” Ypal finishes, eyes settling on the looming figure at the edge of the circle, “our unexpected ally.”

  The Spikeward Mothkin unfurls his wings just slightly—just enough for the light to catch on the edges of his spine-rimmed frame. No words. Just a gesture. A reminder of what he is.

  Ypal steps forward at last, their presence steady—measured, even in the wake of everything.

  “Alright,” they say, voice low but clear. “We’ll begin preparations for the rituals.”

  They glance at Gyldis, then Spiky, then the rest of us—each burned, battered, or worse.

  “In the meantime… please. Rest. Recover what you can. Tend to your wounded.”

  They pause, their tone hardening just slightly.

  “And get ready for Orbed.”

  The name lands like a stone in the middle of the silence.

  No one moves, but something shifts beneath the surface—tension, dread, maybe resolve.

  But for now, we rest, we earned that.

  Goldy’s steps drag, her spines twitching with every shift. Tessa leans on me despite herself, muttering something incoherent between pained huffs. Spiky stays close, unusually quiet, his antennae low, eyes never quite meeting mine.

  The corridor opens into that familiar chamber—the one bathed in soft light.

  Glowing crystals jut from the walls in crooked angles, casting faint blues and purples across the space. Bioluminescent mushrooms blanket the floor, pulsing gently with each footfall like they’re breathing with us. The air is thick with warmth and spores, but it’s not unpleasant. Not anymore.

  I let myself collapse into the softest patch of mushroom I can find. It squishes beneath me—wet, springy, weirdly cozy.

  Ugh. Finally. Some rest.

  “This is worse than the sore from sports day at school,” Tessa mutters, half-buried in the glowing mushrooms beside me. Her fur’s a mess—singed in uneven patches, clinging to the bioluminescence like it’s trying to glow with it.

  I snort. “Oh, you mean when you tripped all over yourself trying to beat Kai in the relay?”

  “Hey!” She lifts her head just enough to glare at me—one eye squinting, the other half-swollen. “That was sabotage. He cut in front of me on purpose.”

  “Sure. And the ground just leapt up to meet your face.”

  “I was winning, okay?” she groans, flopping back down. “If that damn cone wasn’t there I would’ve crushed him.”

  “Pretty sure you crushed your pride instead. Remember the way Reza laughed?”

  She groans again, louder this time, and covers her face with one paw. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. I had gravel in my mouth for a week.”

  Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitches. The ache in my side makes it hard to laugh, but I can feel it building anyway—some stupid little warmth in the middle of all this pain.

  She’s still here.

  We both are.

  Barely. But still.

  Tessa exhales slowly, staring up at the glowing cap of a mushroom above us. “Still can’t believe Zafi carried me all the way to the sick room after that.”

  "Oh right… I forgot about that.”

  “No you didn’t,” she mutters. “You laughed so hard you choked on your drink.”

  I grin despite the burns. “Hey, in my defense, you were dangling like a sack of potatoes and yelling ‘put me down!’ the whole way.”

  “I was trying to act tough,” she groans. “But he just picked me up like I weighed nothing. I couldn’t even move my legs properly.”

  “You kept kicking him anyway.”

  “I thought if I swung enough, he’d drop me!”

  “Didn’t work.”

  “Nope,” she sighs, a little quieter now. “He just smiled and said, ‘save your energy, idiot.’”

  We both fall quiet for a bit.

  The mushroom light pulses gently around us—soft, steady, comforting in a way I didn’t think possible after everything that just happened.

  “I kinda miss that,” she says eventually, voice barely above a whisper.

  “Yeah,” I murmur back. “Me too.”

  “You think they’re here too?” Tessa asks suddenly, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. “Zafi. Kai. Reza. The others. You think… they got reincarnated in this world too?”

  I tilt my head back, watching the glow ripple across the ceiling. It’s a strange question—but not really. Not after everything.

  “I mean… seeing you here?” I glance at her, trying to smile through the soreness. “Yeah. Probably.”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me, waiting.

  I sigh. “Hopefully not stuck in a labyrinth fighting mushroom people like us.”

  Tessa lets out a sharp exhale that turns into a laugh, then winces immediately. “Ow—don’t make me laugh, idiot.”

  “Not my fault the truth hurts.”

  She snorts, then rests her head back on the glowing floor. Her eyes flutter closed, but there’s something softer in her expression now. A little hope. A little ache.

  “Still,” she mutters, “it’d be nice if they were out there. Somewhere. Not… dust.”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly, watching the faint shimmer of spores drifting above us. “It would.”

  Tessa shifts beside me, her voice growing slower, softer. “Zafi always knew what to do, didn’t he… even when everything went to hell. He never panicked. Just… thought through it. Like it was all a puzzle.”

  I nod, even though she can’t see me.

  “And Reza…” she murmurs, “he talked big, but he was such a softie. Always got mad when someone else cried before him.”

  I let out a quiet hum. “He’d punch a wall just to distract himself.”

  “Yeah…” she says, barely audible now. “And Kai… that dumb grin. Always flipping his coin. Like he was in some kind of movie…”

  Her voice trails off. She tries to say something else, but the words slur at the edges.

  She doesn’t finish.

  By the time I glance over, her eyes are already closed—breath slow, finally steady. A little fur still smoldered near her shoulder, but she’s out cold.

  And for once, the room feels… still.

  I watch her for a moment longer—Tessa, curled into the mossy glow like it’s the safest place left in the world. Her breathing’s shallow, but steady. No twitching. No groaning. Just sleep.

  “...Well,” I murmur, letting my head drop back against the soft fungi, “guess it’s time for me too.”

  The aches throb in time with my heartbeat, but they’re dull now. Manageable. And the light—dim, warm, almost like moonlight filtered through water—wraps around us like a blanket no one asked for but needed all the same.

  “Goodnight, Tessa,” I whisper.

  Then I close my eyes.

  And for a little while, I let the world disappear.

  And then I feel the pull.

  That strange, sinking pressure behind my eyes… like the air thickens, like my breath catches mid-dream, like gravity has decided to change direction and take me with it.

  Yep. There it is.

  The Lucid Reflection.

  The warmth of the mushrooms fades, and the glow dims into nothing. The world around me dissolves—no sound, no touch, no pain.

  Just white.

  Endless, impossible white.

  Like I’ve slipped through the crack between sleep and somewhere else entirely. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just am—suspended in the void.

  Until the gas begins to rise.

  Wisps of glowing life essence drifting in the air, curling like smoke but heavier—denser. I know what they are. I’ve seen them countless time. Each one holds something. A skill. A memory. A piece of the path I’m meant to walk.

  And there, in the center, the mound.

  Silent. Waiting.

  Yep. Definitely the Lucid Reflection.

  Again.

  Alright, let's see if it's finally gonna show me something.

  End Chapter 32