The footsteps above Zora were steady. Heavy. Eleven sets, landing in rhythm, clawed toes tearing against the steel train roof.

  He tilted his head, listening as the vibrations traveled through the frame. Mapping the bodies and feeling their auras, he assumed they were all Mutant-Classes about the same size as the one standing in front of Kita right now. Some were slightly stronger, some were slightly weaker—but they were all ants, so it didn't really make a difference.

  He hadn't known this until he'd left Amadeus Academy to go on his long march, but apparently, Mutant-Classes weren't exactly special. Not in the Six Swarmsteel Fronts, at least.

  At the borders of the Brightburrow Continent where the Six Swarmsteel Fronts were located, Mutant-Classes were little more than Cannon fodder, crushed under the assault of mortars, bioarcanic artillery, and the sheer overwhelming firepower of the border militaries. There were hardly any distinctions between Critter-Class, Giant-Classes, and Mutant-Classes. Hundreds and thousands of them were slaughtered every day, because past the borders of the continent—there, on the empty plains of the Crawling Seas— there was no cover, no refuge. The Swarm could only charge forward into oblivion, shredded apart before they could ever become a real threat.

  Though, things were a little bit different here, relatively deep into the continent.

  The bugs here were survivors. They had places to run. They could burrow into the ruins of old cities, vanish into forests, slip into the underbellies of towns and villages, never to be found again. They could devour humans, climb the ranks, and grow immensely smarter. They could learn to use the terrain. They could learn how to pick fights and run away from them. It wasn't a stretch to say that the average bug within the continent was far more powerful than a bug outside the continent, sent forward to only be churn for the meat grinder.

  The same applied for Mutant-Classes, and when twelve of them gathered—when they actually worked together—they’d all be exponentially more dangerous than even thirty border Mutant-Classes with no real combat experience.

  Zora exhaled slowly, listening to the eleven above him click their mandibles in expectation.

  A single D-Rank Mutant-Class was already a problem for most people. The only ones who could reliably solo them in the Attini Empire Front were the Spore Knights, the Divine Capital’s elite guard. And there were only two hundred or so of them.

  Ninety percent were stationed at the far southern border, leaving barely twenty or so scattered across the empire. To rival the strength of twelve Mutant-Classes, they’d need at least thirty Spore Knights. Fifteen percent of the empire’s best warriors. And even if the Capital was willing to spare thirty for an outer region, to spare thirty for a troubled outer region that'd been in a slow decline for the better part of the decade… that would be thirty Spore Knights not garrisoned anywhere else the Divine Capital considered to be more valuable.

  Zora pressed his lips together, his grip tightening slightly on his wand. Kita shifted at the far end of the carriage, her twin sawtooth blades poised as she faced the single Mutant-Class ant still standing in their way. Her stance was firm. Focused. She was ready to fight.

  But for a moment, he wondered if maybe—just maybe—he’d made a slight miscalculation bringing her along.

  Twelve of them.

  That's a lot, even for me.

  Their combined auras bore down on him like a storm, a suffocating mass of killing intent and predatory instinct. He felt it pressing into his skin, worming its way into his lungs, sending involuntary shudders through his body. There was no way he could cast any spells like ‘die’ or ‘break’ directly on them. Until he whittled them down to manageable numbers, he'd have to resort to simpler, environment-affecting spells instead.

  Even he couldn’t fully suppress his subconscious reaction to their killing pressure.

  “... But men are architects of their own fate,” he whispered. “And you're barely even a full brood of ants.”

  Fear was nothing but another chain, and he refused to be bound.

  He whipped his wand at Kita, speaking “ward”, and the air around her rippled. A thin shimmer spread over her body, locking in place like the surface tension of still water. The protective barrier wouldn't last long—not against a Mutant-Class like the one in front of her—but it'd hold long enough for him to not have to worry about her.

  Long enough for him to move ahead.

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  "Stay here," he said, smiling softly as she whirled to glare at him. “Handle that one. I'll take the rest.”

  He could practically feel her irritation, but there was no time for hesitation. The bugs above were already breaking through. Metal buckled beneath weight, the steel warping as their claws tore through the ceiling.

  With another simple flick of his wand, he “struck” the ceiling. The already weakened roof split apart, tearing with a shriek of metal, and the bugs above barely had time to react before he leapt up to meet them instead.

  Wind rushed past him in an instant, snatching at his cloak, dragging at his hair. The night yawned open around him, blurred by speed, and the world was just a streak of dark and light through his barely-functioning eyes. No point keeping them open.

  In the best case scenario, ‘Basic Ocellus’ would give me a new eye… but I'm not counting on it.

  On the other hand…

  His feet found the roof of the train, and he stood, unmoving, as the train continued screaming over the rails.

  He didn't regret unlocking his ‘Basic Setae’ mutation. His shoes held firm, gripping the steel with incredible stickiness. A northeastern shoemaker he'd come across a year ago had been a master of her craft—she’d poked a thousand tiny pores in the soles of his shoes, allowing his tiny wall-clinging setae to poke through and function even if he wasn't barefoot. He didn't have to take off his shoes whenever he wanted to walk up the side of a tree, and he didn't slip very often. A truly useful mutation and specially-crafted garment.

  It was how he could stand up straight to face the eleven ants in front of him.

  His hearing hadn't failed him. They were all two metres tall with four arms flexing, claws clinking against each other. If not for the pairs of paper-thin wings on each of their backs, he wouldn't have been able to distinguish them from any other Mutant-Class ant, so he was somewhat grateful for their easily identifiable feature—they were all gliding ants. Throwing them off the train wouldn't kill them.

  Slowly, he raised his wands to his lips.

  Slowly, the ants reared their claws back.

  And for a moment, nothing moved.

  Nobody moved

  …

  Then they all lunged at the same time.

  He moved in kind. His wand flicked out in a sharp, deliberate arc. The first “swerving strike” slammed into the closest ant and knocked it off the train, while his second yanked another aside mid-leap. The rest didn't slow.

  “Be careful not to get hit by a mushroom up here, you know?” he snapped, letting his voice fan out around him, and several massive fungi—towering bioluminescent stalks flashing past the train—ripped free from the earth. Their glowing caps pulsed, the roots snapping like tendons torn from bone.

  Then they hurled inwards, flying straight at the carriage.

  The first Mutant barely had time to react before the fungal mass collided, knocking it off the train. Another was hit mid-leap again, its body crumpling as it was sent tumbling away from the train. Two more were caught in the rolling impact, flung into the rushing dark beyond, but the others didn't fall. Of the eleven, the five of them who hadn't been struck off leapt into the sky and fanned out their wings, swerving around in an attempt to swoop down at him from above.

  Zora exhaled. He wasn't too inclined to damage the carriage at the end of the train considering Kita was right beneath him, so he ran straight ahead.

  The train roared beneath his feet, the wind battering his form, but he had just enough strength to run against the wind as he jumped across the carriage. The Mutants pursued, wings cutting through the air. The other six he'd knocked off had recovered and were flying after him as well. He made it no further than six carriages down the train when the first of them swooped down at him, aiming to rip his head off.

  In a single motion, he whirled around, flicking his wand into a sword.

  “Ignite.”

  Flames roared to life. His sword blazed, fire licking hungrily along its edge, and he met the first Mutant with an overhead slash.

  Heat met hardened chitin. A claw lashed toward him, but he twisted his wrist, catching the strike with his blade. Sparks flew as the impact rattled through his arm. Before the ant could retreat, he pressed forward, slashing clean through its limb.

  The mutant shrieked, stumbling back, mandibles clicking in pain. He didn’t let up. He pivoted, slicing through the air in wide arcs, flames trailing behind his sword and sending waves of heat across the air. The other ants hesitated, antennae twitching as a few of them landed and reevaluated him on foot, where they couldn't be knocked out of the sky by a random projectile.

  They were smart.

  Five stood in front of him, low to the ground, stalking toward him like predators. Six more moved above, swerving in the air, looking for openings. The chittering between them wasn’t random noise. They were talking, strategising—Zora focused, adjusting to their dialect, piecing together the structure of their speech.

  Then, he spoke casually.

  “Do any of you know anything about Decima?”

  And the effect was immediate.

  The five in front of him froze. Their bodies went rigid, mandibles twitching, eyes locking onto him with something between shock and suspicion. Even the ones above hesitated mid-air.

  Zora moved.

  Before they could recover, he lunged, sword flashing. One clean stroke and an ant split apart at the torso, its smoldering halves crashing to the floor. The smell of burnt chitin filled the air briefly, but then they passed under a particularly thick canopy and the scent was washed away.

  Ten Mutant-Classes left.

  The others backed away, more cautious now. One of them—the second closest to him—finally pried their mandibles open and spoke.

  “... You really are the Thousand Tongue.”

  He raised a brow, tilting his head. "So you have heard of me. Was it the Magicicada Witch who told you about me?”

  The ants seemed to smile. All of them.

  Zora’s grip tightened on his sword. Something was wrong. The way they moved, the perfect synchronisation…

  “No,” he murmured. “I’m mistaken, aren’t I?”

  And the ants tilted their heads before speaking in unison.

  But not in their own voices.

  “... I’m always watching, after all,” Decima said, and it was a lady’s voice, coming out from all ten of their mouths at the same time. “Eyes and ears across the empire.”

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