CHAPTER 654: BONE AND WHISPER (END)

"Worthless..."

Mikhailis’s vision blurred. No, he snarled inwardly, not today. He ripped a squat vial from the inside of his coat—a peppermint-green psycho-gel grenade. Thumb cracked the seal. Vapor hissed out, biting cold and sharp, smelling of crushed mint and ammonia. He slammed the vial onto the stone; it shattered, sending a blue-white shockwave through the spore cloud.

The sweetness died instantly, replaced by bracing sting that made his eyes water. Thalatha jerked as though dunked in ice, pupils shrinking back to focus. She blinked twice, then managed a shaky laugh. "Science wins again," he coughed, waving residual fumes aside.

Her mouth twitched into a grin, small but real. "If you bottle that scent, remind me not to wear it." She stooped, retrieved her fallen arrow, and offered him a nod that said thank you without speech.

They advanced, boots crunching occasional brittle tooth or detached femur. Ahead waited a heavy stone door veined with thorny vines, each barb glowing faint crimson. Soft pulses of sickly light traveled the length of the tendrils as though the door had its own heartbeat.

"Your show," Thalatha said, wiping sweat from her brow with the cleanest scrap of sleeve. She planted herself beside the frame, arrow nocked in case the vines decided to object violently.

Mikhailis flexed his fingers. The ant-brand beneath his skin sparked, gold lighting boiling along the hex lines. He pressed his palm flat on the cold stone. Mana answered, humming through bone and root. He counted aloud, voice a low mantra. "One... two... three—"

On each beat, power surged. The runes flashed brighter, then sputtered like candles in a gust. On the third pulse, a brittle snap rang out—every vine recoiled, tips blackening. Stone slabs groaned and sagged inward.

"Move!" Thalatha seized his coat collar and hauled; a vine lashed, missing his ankle by inches. They tumbled through; she swung the slab nearly closed, vines whipping uselessly against the outside seam.

Mikhailis straightened, dusting debris off his coat. A thorn had scored a neat tear down the flank. "See? Smooth."

"Your coat isn’t."

He grinned. She smiled back, genuine this time, and for a shining second the dungeon felt almost bearable.

Then their lantern-fungus brightened, revealing a cavernous hall beyond. A massive double door filled the far wall—root knotted into bone, bone melted into claw-shaped hinges. Jagged scratches scarred the surface like desperate tally marks of those who’d attacked—or begged entry—before.

Rodion rolled forward, torso clicking into analytical posture. Plates slid, vents hissed clean, and the dirt that had clung to his chassis cascaded off in dull thumps. In moments he looked freshly polished compared to the grimy humans. He pivoted toward the gate. Analyzing... composition: ninety-four percent ossified lignin, six percent unknown alloy. Energy signature attests: this is a boss gate.

Mikhailis exhaled a low whistle. "So we’re not even that deep. We’ve been sprinting from trash mobs, not elite units."

Thalatha planted hands on hips. "You sound disappointed."

"Thrilled, actually. Means we finally have a compass." He tapped the dusty floor with the toe of his boot. "Boss gates equal midpoint. Find one, then aim opposite direction and—boom—surface."

Rodion’s optic glowed affirmative. Correct. Reverse traversal aligns with latest surface exit vectors with eighty-five percent certainty.

Mikhailis’s grin widened. "See? Sensible people exit through gift shops. My souvenir can be a fungal antibiotic."

Thalatha’s smirk curved. "And miss watching me scowl every time you flirt with a mushroom? Tragedy." She nudged his arm with her elbow.

He affected wounded pride. "Your scowl is a national treasure."

Their laughter echoed across the silent hall, bouncing off vaulted ceilings. A welcome release—until Thalatha’s heel found an oddly raised stone circle the size of a coin.

Click.

Soundless, motionless—yet final.

Her gaze dropped; his followed. They locked eyes.

...Shit, their thoughts mirrored, unspoken.

"Shit," she whispered.

"Shit," he confirmed.

A deep groan vibrated beneath their boots, like the dungeon clearing its throat.

Their eyes met. "Shit."

Mikhailis felt the curse leave his lips at the exact heartbeat Thalatha’s did—a perfect duet of dread. Before the sound had even faded, the floor answered.

Silver runes beneath the half-buried flagstones flared from dull scratches into white-hot veins, racing outward in spider-web lines. Light spilled up his boots, bathing ankles in eerie glow, then climbed the columns like a storm finding the tallest tree. It was beautiful in the worst possible way—like lightning inside a glass bottle seconds before it burst.

Crystal spikes punched out of the walls with a sound like shattering ice. Slabs of rock moaned as hidden seams split open, revealing long spears of translucent mineral. They grew in jerks—six inches, a foot, two—until points met across narrow alcoves, sealing passages with glittering teeth. One narrowly missed skewering Thalatha’s braid; she ducked, hair whipping forward against Mikhailis’s chest.

"Down!" she barked, snagging his collar and yanking. A spike rammed where his head had been, spraying shards that tinkled across their shoulders.

An acidic hiss followed, vents popping open at random heights. Sickly green vapor spewed forth, smelling of vinegar and rotting apples. The first wave touched Mikhailis’s cheek, stinging like hot nettles. He felt skin prickle under sweat.

The ground shuddered, rippled; a low groan built beneath their soles. Dust sifted from ceiling roots in hazy curtains, turning Rodion’s diode into a single searching headlamp.

Then came the sound—distant, rhythmic, deliberate. Not the heavy thump of a lone monster but an endless percussion. Thousands of bone heels marking time. The very air seemed to pulse with the cadence, each beat rattling Mikhailis’s teeth. Marching, and close.

"Rodion!" he shouted over the growing clang.

Emergency Protection Protocol activated! Seeking safest vector...

The AI’s voice stayed calm, but his chassis was already shifting. Stubby arms telescoped into wide, shield-like plates; his torso elongated, pistons locking with a metallic thunk. What had once resembled a stout marshmallow now looked like a barrel-chested guardian statue come alive.

Thalatha planted her heels, eyes scanning for any gap in the crystal forest. She nocked an arrow, but her fingers trembled—less fear, more furious calculation. "Too many spikes, no clear lane. We’re corralled."

Mikhailis grimaced, nostrils burning from acidic mist. "Like cattle led to slaughter. Charming architect."

The marching grew louder. Through the green haze he glimpsed movement beyond a half-closed arch: a tide of bone helmets, eye sockets glowing blue, shields raised above interlocking ribs. One skeleton clattered forward, pushing its way through the spikes with methodical persistence, tendons of black vine flexing in place of muscle. It wedged a blade between two crystals, levering room for the next.

"Wonderful. They know simple physics," Mikhailis muttered, heart thumping.

Rodion rotated, grabbed them by the backs of their belts in one smooth motion. Directive: relocate to minimal-threat zone. Without waiting consent, he launched into a rolling tackle—half leap, half powered skid—toward the only structure in the hall untouched by traps: the looming boss door.

Mikhailis’s yelp was swallowed by the grind of metal on stone as Rodion’s wheels engaged. Thalatha let out a surprised "Oi!" that was half indignation, half amusement. They bounced over uneven flooring, spikes scraping harmlessly against Rodion’s armor plates, sparks spitting in their wake.

At five meters out the massive double leaf towered like a fortress wall. Carved root ribs formed grim visages—open-mouthed guardians whose teeth were keys long lost. Deep grooves told of claws or weapons that had failed to breach. Something about those scars made Mikhailis’s stomach lurch; each gouge felt like a failed escape recorded in stone.

Rodion hit the doors shoulder first. The impact boomed through the chamber, echoing like a struck gong. Hinges, stiff with centuries of neglect, shrieked in protest but swung inward under the construct’s momentum. Dark air rushed out—cool, stale, strangely clean compared to the acid haze behind.

Rodion tumbled across the threshold, plating folding to cushion his human cargo. They rolled twice, skidding on polished root-stone. The door’s own weight slammed it shut with a final thunderclap, locking out the howling of vents and the skeletal march. Echoes faded into a hush so sudden ears rang with the absence of noise.

Dust drifted where they landed, swirling in lazy spirals through Rodion’s still-glowing beam. Mikhailis found himself sprawled half-on, half-off the construct’s chest panel, legs tangled with Thalatha’s thigh guards. Her hair had come loose, gold strands plastered to her cheek by sweat. Both of them breathed in ragged—almost hysterical—gasps.

"Eh?" Her voice, small as a squeak, cut through the silence. She was balanced across Rodion’s armored abdomen, one knee awkwardly planted between his shoulder plates, the other foot braced against Mikhailis’s shin. Realization dawned in her eyes; blood rushed to her already flushed cheeks. "Rodion, release grip!"

Current posture ensures optimal human safety. The AI responded deadpan, though a faint servo whirr suggested private amusement.

Mikhailis blinked up at intruding roots arrayed overhead like a frozen explosion. Lamps embedded in the walls flickered to life one by one, casting warm amber halos. From this upside-down vantage he thought they looked like moths pinned to velvet.

He tried to shift but Thalatha’s scabbard pinned his coat. "Could you—um—maybe roll?"

"I would if your foot wasn’t in my rib," she growled, cheeks still burning. She pushed herself up on palms, but the motion tightened her bandaged shoulder; she hissed and sank back down.

Mikhailis winced in sympathy. "Sorry—injury over decorum." He freed a hand, tweaked the strap so scabbard slid free. They scrambled off Rodion in a tangle of cloaks and embarrassed mutters, finally sitting upright against the sealed door.

Rodion unfolded back to standard form, servo joints clicking. A fine mist vented from small ports, washing grime off his plates in self-cleaning cycle. Damage report minimal. No hostiles detected within chamber. Ambient mana steady.

Thalatha adjusted her braid, refusing to meet Mikhailis’s eyes for a second. Then, humor winning over mortification, she chuckled under her breath. "Saved by a rolling teapot."

"Excuse you," Mikhailis said, refusing to stand lest his knees betray him. "He’s at least a rolling samovar."

She laughed—really laughed—head tipped back until tense shoulders loosened. The sound echoed off high vaults, bright and human amid grim décor. Mikhailis let himself share it, chest expanding despite the bruises.

Once calm returned, they inspected surroundings. The boss chamber stretched circular, twenty paces across, its ceiling lost in upward darkness. Root pillars curved like ribs into a central dais where a single stone pedestal waited. Upon it sat a sealed vessel shaped like a lotus, petals of bone and bark interlocking. Chains of rune-etched silver anchored it to four floor rings.

"There’s no guardian?" Thalatha whispered, suspicion lacing every syllable.

Mikhailis rubbed his jaw. "Either dormant or... hidden until we touch that." He nodded at the lotus. Never trust an obvious MacGuffin.

Rodion’s optic zoomed. Energy readings minimal. Vessel appears containment, not bait. Unknown if entity inside. Recommend non-interaction until regrouping.

Thalatha flexed fingers on her bow, gaze sliding to the sealed doors behind them. The faint boom of skeletal fists was muffled but steady—an army that hadn’t given up. "We’re trapped either side. Boss fight or skeleton swarm."

"Story of my life," Mikhailis sighed, then smiled at her sidelong. "At least my day ends with a lady on top of me. Usually takes more wine."

She rolled her eyes but the blush returned. "Focus, Prince of Mushrooms."

He stood, wobbling only slightly, and offered her a hand. She took it, grip strong despite exhaustion. Their fingers lingered a heartbeat before parting—silent promise they’d keep each other alive.

They turned toward the dais together, Rodion flanking like a silent butler. Behind them, the barricaded doors creaked again under relentless bone strikes, dust puffing in small clouds from each impact.

Mikhailis inhaled, tasting metal and earth. One final riddle, he mused, stepping onto the first circle of carved root. Lamps brightened, casting elongated shadows that merged into a single monstrous silhouette on the floor—an omen of the test to come.

He squared shoulders, adjusted cracked spectacles, and whispered only for Thalatha: "Ready to dance?"

Her answering smirk was wicked, brave. "Lead on, dungeon diva."

Somewhere overhead, a lock snapped open with the echo of distant thunder.

...Of course this is how the day ends