Chapter 114

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  "Do you enjoy eating rats?" The voice came from beside me.

  I froze. Her voice—her first words.

  It was beautiful, clear, melodic, matching her doll-like allure perfectly. But the words... they cut like a knife, sharp and unexpected.

  I blinked, rubbing my ear as if to clear it.

  "What...?" I mumbled. Hallucination? Dream?

  She sat across from me, unmoving, her eyes fixed on mine. Her lips didn't move—or had they?

  And then again: "Do you enjoy eating rats?"

  A shiver raced down my spine. No illusion. She had truly spoken.

  I averted my gaze to the skillet, masking my shock.

  "No," I exhaled, forcing my voice steady. "I don't. But it's... cheaper. Saves money."

  I flipped the meat and stole a quick look at her.

  She watched me silently, her eyes reflecting the fire's dance. In that stare, something new stirred—something I couldn't quite decipher.

  And oddly, I found myself relieved not just that she'd spoken, but that her voice felt so... alive.

  I didn't lose my appetite. In my world, rabbits were standard fare, not "rats" as she'd dubbed them. The scent of roasting meat twisted my stomach into knots of anticipation.

  I transferred the cooked portions from the skillet, claiming my share, then pulled from my magical satchel a loaf of bread, a strip of jerky, and the pot of honey. I arranged it neatly on a cloth, making it look less rustic.

  "For you," I said evenly.

  She didn't move, but her eyes drifted to the food.

  I ate heartily, no shame in it—tearing into the crispy skin with my teeth, washing it down with water from my flask, feeling vitality surge back into my veins.

  And then she spoke again.

  "You still enjoy eating filthy rats."

  I chuckled without looking up.

  "You know... hunger doesn't care about stale or bad bread," I replied calmly. "Hunger ignores dirt. To hunger, it's all the same."

  I finished my bite and met her gaze.

  "And for me... it's the same. As long as I'm eating, I'm alive. And that means I've already won."

  She fell silent. But her eyes lingered on me longer than before. In them flickered something odd—not contempt, but curiosity, like a crack in her facade.

  I watched her stare at the untouched food before her—the bread slathered with honey, the jerky. Her gaze wandered over it repeatedly, yet she made no move.

  I gritted my teeth.

  "Eat," I commanded.

  No reaction. Just that doll-like wait, as if needing explicit permission to exist.

  I sighed, frustration building.

  "Eat and drink," I said more sharply.

  Only then did she reach out delicately, nibbling a small piece of bread. Her motions were precise, almost obligatory, devoid of any pleasure.

  I stared into the flames, anger simmering in my chest.

  "Damn it..." I muttered. "This isn't right. You act like you have no will of your own. Like you'd just sit there and starve without an order."

  I looked at her again. She ate in tiny bites, never lifting her head.

  A chill crept down my spine. Because I realized: I didn't want a slave who obeyed blindly. I wanted a companion. Someone alive.

  Yet here she sat, an enigmatic doll with a flawless face, but no spark of independent spirit.

  As she chewed mechanically, it dawned on me: her mind was sharp. She understood everything. She was just pretending to be this passive.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I straightened, running a hand through my hair, and spoke firmly.

  "Listen carefully. We're heading to the ants. But I'll do the killing. You stay out of the fight unless I order you in. Got it?"

  She set down the bread and lifted her eyes to mine—for the first time, a gaze that was alive, piercing like a blade.

  Silence stretched, broken only by the fire's crackle and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

  Then, softly: "You're so weak, you probably couldn't handle even one ant."

  The words landed flat, emotionless. No mockery, no pity. Just a stark observation.

  I went still, the world tilting for a heartbeat.

  Something ignited in my chest: rage, hurt, and... an unsettling recognition, as if she'd voiced a truth I'd been dodging.

  I clenched my fists, reining in the surge. Her words echoed, a tolling bell.

  "And why," I said slowly, locking eyes with her, "should you care if I can handle it or not?"

  She didn't flinch.

  "If I die," I pressed on, "you're free. No more orders, no more food handed to you. You can go wherever, do whatever. Isn't that what everyone wants? Independence."

  The quiet dragged on. No nod, no rebuttal. Just silence.

  I smirked bitterly and waved it off.

  "Fine. Do what you want."

  I finished my rabbit, swigged more water, and leaned back, staring at the gray morning through the treetops. She methodically consumed her bread and meat, then sat with hands folded in her lap, awaiting my next cue.

  I rose first, brushing ash from my boots and dousing the fire.

  "Time to move," I said.

  She stood without a sound and fell in step beside me, a silent shadow.

  We ventured deeper into the woods. The foliage closed in tighter, the air growing oppressive. Each step whispered a reminder: ahead wasn't just a path—it was the brink of an abyss, concealed in the ants' labyrinthine tunnels.

  We had been trekking through the forest for a solid hour when I caught a rustle among the dry leaves ahead.

  There, emerging from the underbrush, was an ant the size of a large dog. Its black exoskeleton gleamed under the sporadic sunlight filtering through the canopy, its mandibles snapping like predatory shears. The chitinous armor shifted with each deliberate step, a living machine of hunger and instinct.

  I halted abruptly and raised a hand toward my companion.

  "Stay here. Don't move."

  She froze in place without a word, and I advanced alone.

  I drew my knives—the first, eternally sharp, and the second, unyielding as forged steel. In my grip, they felt like extensions of my own limbs, familiar and deadly.

  I moved with deliberate slowness, crouching low in a stealthy prowl. I channeled mana through my veins, feeling the energy surge like liquid fire, infusing my muscles with enhanced strength, steadying my breath, and lightening my body. My heart pounded, a thunderous rhythm in my chest, but I held the reins of control firmly.

  That's when I noticed something odd.

  The ant didn't react. At all.

  It continued its path, antennae twitching possessively over the ground, as if I were nothing more than empty air.

  I narrowed my eyes, testing the waters. I abandoned stealth, taking deliberate, noisy steps—crunching a branch underfoot with a sharp crack that echoed through the woods.

  The ant's antennae flicked slightly—and that was it. No alarm, no aggression. As if I didn't exist.

  "There it is..." I whispered, a grin tugging at my lips. "Damn."

  It clicked: my enchanted clothes. They didn't just stay clean and unstained—they masked my scent, my pheromones. To the ant, I was a void, invisible in its chemical world.

  "Thanks, tailor," I murmured under my breath, then lunged forward.

  I closed the distance in a blur, breath ragged, knives poised. My first strike landed precisely at the joint between head and thorax. The ant jerked violently, its mandibles clashing with enough force to send a ripple through the air.

  But it didn't drop. Its body convulsed, legs scrabbling against the earth in a desperate bid for traction.

  I didn't hesitate. I plunged the second blade into its thorax, then again. And again. The knives pierced the chitin with heavy, splintering cracks, each impact vibrating up my arms like a shockwave.

  The ant emitted a grating screech, its mandibles snapping at nothing, body thrashing in agony, refusing to yield.

  I loomed over it, throwing my full weight behind the blades, driving them in repeatedly. Dark ichor splattered the ground in viscous droplets, staining the leaves, but I pressed on.

  "Die... just die, damn you!" I hissed through gritted teeth.

  The creature's struggles weakened, then stilled. But I wasn't done. I struck once more. Twice. Until a familiar, icy notification flashed in my mind:

  > System: You have slain a young scout ant.

  > Experience: +100.

  I paused, chest heaving, hands trembling. My knives glistened in the dim light, coated in thick, foul-smelling slime.

  Only then did I step back, wiping sweat from my brow and rising unsteadily.

  "Now you're definitely dead," I panted.

  I looked up and saw her still standing exactly where I'd left her. Watching. Silent. Her face remained that impassive doll's mask, but in her eyes flickered a tiny spark... of interest.

  I stood there, breath ragged, staring down at the ant's lifeless husk at my feet.

  And suddenly, it hit me: I'd enjoyed it.

  Not the fight itself—it had been brief and brutal. But the sensation of the knife sinking into chitin, over and over. Feeling the life ebb away under my hands. The system's cold acknowledgment of my triumph.

  A strange rush coursed through me—a blend of relief and intoxicating power. Each drop of ichor on my blades was proof: I was alive. I was strong. I could conquer.

  I gripped the hilts tighter, realizing with a start that I was smiling. Grinning like this wasn't my first kill, but a long-awaited victory celebration.

  I shook my head, trying to dispel the feeling, the warmth fading into unease.

  "Damn..." I whispered. "This isn't right. This isn't me."