A scream rang out from somewhere in the distance. A harsh, guttural groan that scraped at the vocal cords, interspersed with ragged, panting breaths. The sound was unmistakably grating on the ears—but more than that, there was a lingering sense that something urgently needed to be confirmed. Yet his eyes wouldn’t open. His head felt clouded, like it was wrapped in fog, and his consciousness was slipping further and further away.
“Ugh, you son of a bitch…!”
Crack. A dull snap like a branch breaking rang out. The dirty-blond man winced and grabbed at his shoulder. Having twisted his body just in time to avoid a stinger being driven into his abdomen, Tchaikovsky was gripped by a chilling terror and boiling fury as he examined the pain shooting through his shoulder. Only the soft surface layer had been grazed by the stinger, leaving it bleeding slightly. His dense exoskeleton and the vulnerable tissue underneath remained perfectly intact.
“Ha… You crazy bastard…”
The spider glared, baring his teeth with a venomous hiss. Completely naked and tightly bound in silk, the enormous body of the bee lay unconscious, his broken stinger sticking out from him. With the exception of his relatively soft abdomen, few creatures on Earth could inflict serious damage on the hardened exoskeleton that served as the spider’s natural armor.
And yet that puny insect had the gall to come at him without fear. He didn’t feel the slightest inclination to give such a creature a quick or painless death. He’d sever his limbs, tear out his voice box, and disgrace him—utterly debase him—before killing him. In the name of Goldeny.
“Now then… where should I start cooking you…?”
Tchaikovsky racked his brain, desperate to figure out how to inflict a pain more humiliating than death on the creature he wanted to crush. But then, he noticed something strange—his feet were suddenly cast in deep shadow, and a chill began creeping up his spine from his toes. There had been a full moon out tonight. So why was it suddenly so dark all around him?
“…Huh?”
Something—its shape indiscernible—was staggering toward him like a reanimated corpse. It was a sight so grotesque he momentarily forgot how to speak. The terrifying scene made Tchaikovsky tremble without realizing it, until his sense of superiority kicked back in. He was a tarantula—a predator sitting comfortably atop the food chain. What could he possibly have to fear?
But his attempt to intimidate the living corpse was in vain. In the blink of an eye, something—a hand, perhaps—moved so fast it couldn’t even be seen, and grabbed him by the back of the neck.
His breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. His once-sleek face began turning a furious shade of red.
“Kh… K-Kuhk, you… what…”
Crack. Crack. A grotesque sound echoed from the fingers, wrist, and forearm that held his throat.
Even as his consciousness dimmed, Tchaikovsky thought: If this keeps up, my neck’s going to snapclean in half and I’ll die.
Overwhelmed by primal survival instinct, he thrashed wildly. And that’s when he made eye contact with two dark spheres.
They were perfectly round—pitch-black, like the bottom of an endless well. Like smoke rising from a bottomless pit. Perhaps the final depths of hell looked just like that.
“Kh…! Kugh—! Kuhk kuhk! Guh… urgh…!”
Whether you’d call it “unfortunate” is hard to say, but Goldeny’s prediction was wrong. Before his neck could snap with a crack, Tchaikovsky’s body was hurled through the air and slammed into the thick trunk of a tree.
His sturdy exoskeleton should’ve protected him, and yet his body felt like it had burst apart, his guts liquefying inside him.
“–!”
And in the next instant, he couldn’t even scream. Something crashed into his abdomen with sickening force. It felt like his organs were about to explode.
He couldn’t utter even a final word. And in the midst of his fading consciousness, the last thing he saw were those two pit-like black voids, utterly devoid of light.
***
“Blaine, you’re up? That’s rare.”
“…Oh…”
Blaine, always faithful to the routine of a diligent honeybee, was used to waking up early and watching with shy affection as the lazier spider slept soundly. He’d spend half an hour just staring, spellbound by the delicate lashes casting shadows over pale cheeks, and the soft, parted lips gently exhaling. And without fail, as if he could sense the heat rising in Blaine’s face, Hurel would slowly open his eyes like a painting coming to life.
But today was the opposite—and it was the first time Blaine had ever experienced that.
“Still sleepy? Look at you, not even able to open your eyes. Cute.”
Was it because he hadn’t slept properly last night, pretending to be a chunk of wood while holding his breath? His mind was a mess. He felt like he’d had some kind of disturbing nightmare. He couldn’t remember any of it, but a chill still clung to his spine.
This isn’t good. Sleeping in is a sin.
He forced open eyelids that felt like steel beams. And there, next to the bed, was the beautiful figure of Hurel, seated in a plush-looking chair, quietly knitting.
The yarn tangled around the knitting needles was so fine and delicate it was barely visible—only the morning sunlight glinting off it made it possible to see.
Ah… that’s right. That’s for my clothes, thought Blaine, his head still foggy.
He groped at the sheets, trying to push himself up, when a soft, low melody drifted through the air.
“You can sleep a little more. Go on, rest.”
Shaking his head, he tried to force himself upright, but the gentle voice clung persistently to his ears. It reminded him of a lullaby he’d heard long, long ago, back when he was still just an egg.
No matter how much he tried to shake it off, it stuck—sticky and inescapable. Like being caught in a trap.
“Be good, okay? Close those pretty eyes and sleep, hmm?”
“Ah… mmh…”
Then, as if something had grabbed hold of him and pulled him straight down— Blaine slipped back into sleep.
In his awkward half-risen position, he let out a few slow breaths. Hurel, watching the dozing bee, let out a faint laugh, softer than a whisper.
Then, without hesitation, he pulled the knitting needle free and began unraveling the yarn.
***
“Ugh… I have gained weight…”
Sitting blankly on the bed, Blaine mumbled to himself as he looked down at his body. His once deeply indented abdomen had flattened a little. His thighs were slightly raw and reddened, likely from friction.
But more than anything… His chest—something he always tried to compress because it made clothes feel suffocating—had grown even more, likely from being naked for several days with no friction to suppress it.
With a hopeless expression, he slowly lowered his hands to grab at his butt, where it pressed against the sheets.
“Even… even this part got f-fat…?”
Well, of course it did. He’d obediently eaten every meal offered to him, and his activity had dropped dramatically. It would’ve been a miracle if he hadn’t gained weight.
He used to be the model of a dedicated Worker Bee, going from sunrise to midnight without even sitting down, let alone catching a nap.
Now, the hours he spent moving around could be counted on one hand. No matter how he looked at it, if he died like this, he’d go straight to the Hell of Sloth.
Growing more and more depressed, Blaine clenched his fists tightly.
Alright. Starting today—I’m going on a diet!
“Blaine~! Come eat lunch~!”
“Ah…!”
He turned toward the voice, intending to proudly declare his new resolve—to skip lunch in honor of his fresh start.
But… what the hell?
The next moment, he found himself seated in front of a massive, sturdy dining table.
“Wha—? What the—what’s going on…?”
The table was covered corner to corner with steaming, vibrant, mouthwatering dishes. It was enough to make his stomach growl on the spot.
Still, Blaine tried to steel his heart once more. This wasn’t okay.
A brave and hardworking honeybee did not go back on his word.
