Round Thirteen: The Queen
Forty-Seven did not enter the cave immediately. He observed his surroundings and even looked up at the sky—the dark clouds, like lead, covered the night, rendering everything pitch black. He dropped his sword, whose blade had already become dull, and carefully adjusted his joints and gears for a while. Then he stood straight and took a deep breath—or at least pretended to. All the parts of his body came into action. They rotated, stretched, and meshed in new ways. In the swamp’s damp, foul, oily air, Forty-Seven gradually twisted, the remaining leech-like skin on his body breaking apart. His shoulder blades raised, his ribcage, shaped like scimitars, stretched and deformed, and two long, slender limbs emerged from the gaps under his arms. His original arms moved backward to his back, his metal bones misaligned, with blades slightly exposed. His fingers contracted, turning into hook-like shapes. His misaligned shoulder blades and ribs moved upward to protect his head and neck, while his lower body began to transform—his legs separated at the waist, splitting to reveal a pair of appendages that, along with his original legs, formed powerful hind limbs resembling those of insects.
A moment later, Forty-Seven had become a mutated, deformed giant spider. It tore apart the crude cover at the cave entrance and plunged inside.
The ratfolk’s caves were twisted, complex, like labyrinths. But Forty-Seven wasn’t concerned; he had no intention of following their rules. He pushed aside the obstructive cave walls, regardless of whether it might cause collapses. Occasionally, unlucky ratfolk would squeak and approach him, and he would pounce on them like a real spider, biting them. His ribcage, like blades, easily tore apart these poor creatures.
For some reason, Forty-Seven’s senses were much sharper than in his human state. This was his first attempt at the systematic transformation he had been experimenting with, and it made him increasingly complex, often drawing criticism from Old Marcus. More needle-like flames ignited in Forty-Seven’s head and chest. He could even feel the mysterious core he called the “flame seed” releasing heat… a coldness that affected him as well.
It was utterly dark underground, but Forty-Seven saw clearly. He could see almost every direction—up, down, left, right—watching every clod of soil roll, every root stretch, and every stream of water flow. He continued digging deeper, charging through the ratfolk’s tunnels.
Morrill felt no humiliation at that moment—only uncontrollable anger.
This seemed to be the ratfolk’s great hall. It was hard to believe that the ratfolk had created such a spacious cave underground, with even fire for lighting. She was drenched, tightly tied to a large wooden post using strips made from her own robe and ropes woven from some unknown material. The ratfolk had stuffed something in her mouth. The only reason she hadn’t fainted was that she could smell the scent of her own underwear on it. If the ratfolk had used the clothes they stole from dead adventurers, Morrill felt nauseous.
Cold water was poured over Moriel’s body, flowing over her chest, abdomen, and down her legs… causing her fair, patterned skin to tremble involuntarily.
If only she could murmur a single syllable… Moriel’s mouth was stuffed so full that breathing was difficult. A dozen or so rudimentary pieces of equipment, along with tall ratfolk warriors—actually no taller than three or four feet—formed a loose perimeter around the haphazardly piled altar and the bound Moriel on it. The ratfolk moved between the entrances, carrying water in containers made of grass roots and mud or simply using the warriors’ helmets, pouring it on Moriel. The water was surprisingly clear, as if meant to cleanse her.
That damned exosuit! What use was it? Moriel cursed, ignoring the fact that she had forbidden it from entering the tent.
What were these ratfolk doing? Enduring wave after wave of water, her thoughts became increasingly chaotic.
Suddenly, all the ratfolk stopped moving. The warrior ratfolk tried to straighten their hunched bodies, their tattered and ill-fitting weapons and armor clinking noisily.
Moriel strained to turn her head—
An unimaginably fat ratfolk was carried out of the largest entrance by dozens of others. This disgusting creature was almost as tall as a human but even thicker than a giant. It slammed its hands—too many to count—on the throne, screaming curses at the poor slaves beneath it. Its six breasts hung loosely on its chest, like a pile of rotten, furred, oozing fat.
The Rat Queen? Moriel quickly averted her gaze, almost choking as she felt genuine sympathy for the unfortunate victims of the legend that ratfolk hunted males from other races for the queen’s pleasure.
“Sacrifices! Sacrifices!” The Rat Queen seemed unaccustomed to the light in the cave; her voice sounded like countless claws scratching against stone. “Hurry up with the sacrifices! The gods are angry!”
Gods? Moriel knew the ratfolk believed in gods—but their so-called gods might be a venomous snake lizard one day, a mage who passed by and threw a fireball to drive them away the next, or even a magically charged weapon after that. There were never any real gods who accepted them, nor any proper rituals.
More water was poured on Moriel, as if to clean her as thoroughly as possible.
The Rat Queen’s shrill screams echoed through the cave, even causing some of the ratfolk to suffer. Moriel struggled desperately to break free, even if just a little. Her twisting body was full of charm… but unfortunately, the ratfolk didn’t know how to appreciate it.
Forty-seven clawed feet sensed vibrations coming from beneath the soil.
It continued to dig down.
A pile of muddy water mixed with tangled roots was dumped on Moriel.
The Rat Queen, who had already started to calm down, immediately screamed again—had Moriel’s own magic not still been in effect, her eyes would have been blown out by those shrieks.
A huge black shadow descended from the sky. It swung its eight legged claws, slicing through everything in its path like a meat grinder. Upon landing, it stepped on a ratman warrior who failed to dodge, crushing him outright. Then, it grabbed the unlucky man’s head with another claw and severed it, silencing his screams instantly.
“Sorry, may I join this party?”
“Sacrifice! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill—” shrieked the Rat Queen. Her sharp beak was already buried in the fat and invisible, but as she screamed, it gradually reappeared.
47 moved with steady steps, completely different from a human’s gait. He retracted his four hind legs, launched himself forward at an unimaginable speed. Two ratman warriors were grabbed by him head-on; with a single strike, twist, and throw, they turned into scattered pieces of flesh. It seemed he wasn’t affected at all by the visual obstructions, determined as he was to make a hole in that pool of flowing fat.
The Rat Queen’s voice suddenly became hoarse. Perhaps from screaming too hard, she lost her voice. But 47 froze mid-charge. Moreover, he raised his spinning front claws, lifting a large amount of soil—
A ratman warrior wielding a spear rushed toward 47, blocking between the Rat Queen and him. He swung his spear, thinking the flying mud was aimed at him. Suddenly, the warrior’s movements stopped. Some formless force struck him, breaking the ropes holding his armor apart and scattering the metal pieces. Then his gaunt chest bulged as his entire body pushed forward—only to turn into a mass of writhing plasma and rotten flesh in the next instant.
The pale red waves touched the mud, turning it to dust. The formless force, mixed with mud and flesh, took shape like a cannonball, hitting 47 with a loud impact.
Morriel even saw 47’s entire body tremble. His metallic frame seemed to ripple like water for a moment. 47 was flung backward through a dark red cloud of smoke, rolling past Morriel, leaving chaos in its wake.
“Kill… kill…” Black, filthy blood seeped from the Rat Queen’s mouth. Out of breath, the remaining ratman slaves gathered around her and started running back. All the ratman warriors rushed frantically at Morriel.