Chrysalis Chapter 1741 - Return and Reflect

Logistics isn't exactly my forte, but the Colony is evidently sharpening its skills in organization. Tiny, Crinis, Invidia, and myself stride along the column's tail end toward the nest, vigilant against any mishaps—yet not a single one occurs. The seamless operation is almost a letdown.

Though they battled with fierce intensity, the Church soldiers now look utterly lethargic, stripped of vitality and resolve. Out of precaution, their leaders were isolated and tight security protocols enforced, but it seems none proved essential.

My mere existence keeps the tunnel beasts at bay, even amid plentiful prey, and once we arrive at the nest, the prisoners are silently guided into containment chambers and secured without fanfare. Word is, the healers are mildly uneasy about their health, fearing a possible wasting illness. Still, under our supervision, they'll enjoy solid nourishment and treatment, so with luck, no harm comes. We absolutely can't afford the Church of the Path finding any pretext to accuse us.

I hope we manage to exchange them with the Church for a generous payout and carry on. The notion of siphoning riches from that vile group offers a modest thrill, though it's hardly adequate. Forcing them to cough up small amounts now and then is satisfying enough, but reclaiming the complete toll they exacted from us demands something truly remarkable.

At least we've safely returned to the nest, the clash unfolded as favorably as anticipated, and the... retrieval endeavor I dispatched the Nameless on triumphed fully. Before long, Merchant ought to connect and assess the keen interest from Green Mountain's residents in reclaiming their explorers.

Gweheheheh.

While that's unfolding, a couple of issues demand my reflection. Chief among them, the outstanding outcomes from my fresh organs. Regeneration setup, utterly delighted, double thumbs-up from Tiny—heck, perhaps a bicep flex in endorsement.

Mutations have elevated it from outlandish to utterly preposterous. This degree of recovery I rarely glimpse beyond cases like Grokus, absent all his pitfalls. To say the least, it bordered on the grotesque. Even with the extended skirmish and enormous quantities of restorative essence created, I evaded the draining weariness Granin once outlined, suggesting the Vestibule has entirely neutralized the endurance costs.

Concerning the production hub in the rear territory... it borders on frightening. My trial discharge revealed the staggering potency of the output there, and the lone batch I unleashed at the fight's onset was, to be blunt, disconcerting. Far from simple acid, it resembles firing a slime-virus possessed of an almost infinite craving. The threat of unintended destruction is, in short, wildly excessive. Going forward, I'll need to handle it with utmost care.

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As for evolving it further... goodness, I'd rather not contemplate that.

Not to mention, I'm subtly satisfied with the Everflowing Well. It lacked the flashy impact of the other two externally, yet I relied on it heavily. That stockpile of mana to access was immensely practical. I dove into the fray having already tapped it, a substantial energy cache already housed within. When I began expending that resource, I reactivated the organ, restoring my reserves.

Although I struggled to capture much environmental mana, thanks to the horde of consciousnesses clashing over it nearby, I stayed far from exhaustion. In my view, the Everflowing Well emerged as the subtle, low-key standout.

With inexhaustible restoration, vitality, and even mana, I'm genuinely engineered for longevity.

Indeed, the Everlasting Paragon.

This modest frontier skirmish provided an excellent proving ground for my recent advancement. I've acclimated to this physique, experimented with the novel organs, and initiated some preliminary mutations. If Merchant's negotiations pan out, I'll promptly venture deeper to deliver devastating retribution against those vile slugs. The prospect excites me.

Yet currently, one person merits correction.

The culprit kneels right now, face mashed solidly against the earth—solidly indeed, if truth be told. Beyn, the one-armed Priest, has been presented to me, set to endure the thoroughly warranted antenna-thrashing he has coming. I can nearly feel his dread; he's quaking like a larva in his prostrate position.

I find myself lowering an antenna in his direction.

Stop! No! He's akin to a larva, a terribly wayward one unworthy of tickles or tumbling!

Instead of probing with my thoughts and inviting a migraine from his bellows, I choose pheromones alone for exchange.

“Well,” I say, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

The shuddering, stooped form upon the soil halts, and momentarily, I'm uncertain if he's grasped that I'm speaking to him. Then...

“GREAT ONE I AM NOT WORTHY OF YOUR BLESSED AND HOLY SCENT! PLEASE ALLOW ME TO—”

“Loud! Why are you so loud?! My antennae are itching. How is it even possible to produce that sort of quantity of pheromones? Sheesh!”

“I AM SHAME—”

“You’re loud, is what you are.”

I observe the clustered silhouette battle for composure.

“I apologise, Great One.”

This happens every time with him. Managing him is utterly draining. Truthfully, were it not for my lingering guilt over unintentionally severing his arm that once, I wouldn't exert myself to endure him so.

“I HAVE—*ahem*—I have no excuse for my behaviour. Seized with enthusiasm and holy zeal, I disrupted your strategy and led my people into danger. As your Prophet, I cannot be allowed to make such mistakes and lose control of myself.”

That's... remarkably level-headed. More than I anticipated.

Hold on.

“As my WHAT?!”