The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Worse still," he continued, his voice low but steady, "there's necroactive fungal corruption in play. These necro-fungi produce binding proteins that effectively transform vital nutrients into toxic dead zones. Regular crops stand no chance of survival, and even those that are moderately enchanted wither under the combined assault of the residual magic and these fungal expansions."

He tapped the charcoal again at a diagram drawn off to the side of the map. It was a less-detailed scribble compared to the visual data swirling in his lenses, but it served as a reference for the onlookers.

"These pollutants," he said, voice tinged with the faintest hint of urgency, "form ethereal chelates—compounds that meld arcane elements together. They're stable in ways typical soil toxins aren't, and that means they can't be broken down by normal means. Traditional cleansing rituals, typical magical wards, even standard chemical treatments—all fall short or only scratch the surface. Nothing can pry these complexes apart effectively…"

He let his words trail off, giving the room a moment to absorb the enormity of the problem. The hush became a living thing. It was as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see if he would present them with the miracle they so desperately needed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mikhailis could see Laethor tighten his grip on his quill. The man looked torn between dread and reluctant excitement. He was beginning to grasp the scope of the problem, but he also sensed that Mikhailis would not have come forward like this if he didn't possess some kind of solution.

In his mind's eye, Mikhailis heard Rodion's playful, silent voice: <Would you like me to prepare a pop quiz, or are you just showing off now?> A wry tug at the corner of Mikhailis's mouth threatened to reveal his internal amusement, but he kept his expression controlled. Instead, he answered the AI in kind, thinking, You love this, don't you?

He took a breath and stood a fraction straighter, feeling the weight of every gaze upon him. This was the culmination of countless hours of research, of clandestine experiments in shuttered laboratories, of careful negotiations for resources, and of a desperate need to salvage the kingdom's future. The path that had brought him to this moment had been fraught with risk—secret missions to gather exotic spores, quiet deals to obtain archaic scrolls containing partial references to solutions for magical blight. And now, here he was, standing in a chamber filled with the influential, the knowledgeable, and the desperate, about to unveil the very thing they had been seeking for so long.

"The solution," he went on, "is fungal."

Laethor blinked again, slowly and with palpable uncertainty. His gaze momentarily darted from Mikhailis's face to the map and then back again, as though weighing the credibility of what he had just heard.

"Fungal?" he repeated, as if the very word challenged his understanding of how to heal the land.

Mikhailis nodded, his features collected, yet brimming with the quiet satisfaction of someone who has just unveiled a well-guarded secret. He was used to this kind of reception—first disbelief, then wary fascination. "Symbiotic mycelium," he reiterated. "Genetically adapted to survive necroactive terrain. It's derived from Glowcap Fungus and Ironvine Root hybrids."

He watched Laethor's expression closely. The man's shoulders were squared, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw set in a half-clench. It was clear he wanted to believe that a solution existed, but the idea of a fungus saving crops long ravaged by the residue of ancient mist magic was a leap. In the tense silence that followed, Mikhailis ran a gloved hand over the edge of the large wooden table, upon which the map of Serewyn lay. His fingers lingered on the curls of old parchment, as though physically anchoring himself to the reality they were trying to salvage.

Meanwhile, Rodion—the AI-like entity that existed as a silent companion in Mikhailis's mind—highlighted a sequence of enzyme reactions before his inner vision. Pale-blue diagrams and shimmering chemical pathways appeared to Mikhailis as though suspended in midair, though to everyone else, he simply looked like a man lost in thought. The effect gave him a distant, almost haunted aspect, as if he were peering into places beyond ordinary sight.

"These fungi," Mikhailis continued, drawing in a measured breath, "produce arcane oxidoreductases—enzymes that break down the ethereal chelates poisoning the soil. They also secrete fungal ethereal laccases. These break the spiritual bonds that lock the mist contamination in place."

He stopped, letting his words hang in the room, giving them time to sink in. One of the lesser-known truths of the ancient mist magic was that it didn't simply infect the land with a mundane poison. Rather, it warped the very essence of the earth, binding itself to physical and metaphysical properties alike. Mikhailis had spent years in hushed corners of libraries and musty archives, decrypting old scrolls, learning about the intangible grip such sorceries had on the soil. To him, the unveiling of the fungus was the final piece in a puzzle that had taunted him for too long.

He paused, letting the silence breathe. The hush felt like a note of punctuation, a necessary pause to emphasize the gravity of what he was proposing.

"And more importantly," he went on, tapping a fingertip gently against the map's surface, "these particular fungi secrete polysaccharide shields. These shields stabilize osmotic pressure and create microchannels, allowing new root structures to take hold. In simpler terms, they protect the very heart of the soil and give our crops room to flourish again."

Laethor continued to stare, the corners of his eyes tightening. "You're telling me you grew this?" His voice was laced with equal parts astonishment and apprehension. It sounded as though he were still trying to figure out if this was some outlandish joke.

Mikhailis allowed himself the ghost of a grin. He recognized that the line between the miraculous and the absurd often blurred where magic and biology intersected. "It grew," he replied modestly, "I just guided it."

<And by guided, you mean buried it in necromantic sludge and stared at it for six hours like a lonely gardener.>

Rodion's mental quip made Mikhailis's lips twitch ever so slightly, a flicker of humor that Elowen, standing close by, did not fail to notice. She covered a small laugh with the back of her hand—a gesture that could have been mistaken for a delicate cough by anyone not privy to the subtle interplay between them.

"Over time," Mikhailis added, composing himself once more, "these fungi improve tilth—that's the structure and microbial content of the soil. They invite back decomposers, reintroduce balance, and eventually create a self-sustaining recovery cycle."

He felt a frisson of excitement pass through him as he spoke. This was not the usual sort of triumph people displayed when they brandished swords or raised armies; it was the quiet elation of a scholar who sees a dream realized in data points and sprouting seedlings. A soft ripple of astonishment swept through the onlookers, some of whom shuffled a bit closer to peer at the circles and marks on the map that Mikhailis had drawn.

He pointed to three distinct zones delineated by rough charcoal lines. "Black zones," he explained, tapping them for emphasis, "are too far gone. The contamination is so ingrained that the land is effectively lost. We cordon them off, at least for now. Grey zones can be restored over months with the proper intervention. And recoverable zones can be productive again by next season."

A rapt silence fell. Many pairs of eyes flicked between the map and Mikhailis's face, a silent question on their lips: Was this truly possible?

To dispel any lingering doubt, Rodion flashed a yield graph in front of Mikhailis's eyes—projected data that soared in bright arcs across a hypothetical timeline. Mikhailis read out the figures aloud, his voice growing in confidence with each percentage. "Twenty-five percent yield restoration in one month. Sixty percent by harvest. Ninety by the year's end."

He allowed himself a quiet exhale, remembering the exhaustive nights testing fungus after fungus, poring over chemical analyses, and trying to replicate the conditions of ancient plague-ridden soils. Sharing the results out loud felt like lifting a tremendous weight from his shoulders.

Laethor, who had opened his mouth as though to speak, snapped it shut again. He looked overwhelmed, almost younger in that moment, like a student on the verge of an epiphany. The man had doubtless witnessed countless attempts to revitalize the land—rituals, spells, archaic incantations—and all had failed or brought only meager results. But this was something else.

Mikhailis then moved his finger to another part of the projected data, which only he could see. For an instant, his gaze went unfocused as Rodion populated the mental overlays. "And before you ask, this isn't mere theory," he assured them. "Rodion—" He caught himself, remembering that not everyone in the room needed to know about his AI companion by name. "My team cross-checked this with the historical records of ancient elf-ruled kingdoms who suffered under mist-plagued lands. The process we're employing here mirrors the methods they used—albeit updated for our current environment."