Before executing her plan, Yvette began searching the village for materials to prepare for her task.

  First, she needed fuel for energy. Circling the nearby houses, she found barrels of tallow, beeswax, kerosene, and other flammable materials. She also took bundles of rushes used for making candle wicks and oil lamps.

  The most crucial item was flour. Though not hard to find, the traditional mill of such an old village meant the flour often contained bran and small stones, which could affect her plan. So, she sieved the flour using kitchen tools, extracting the finest and lightest powder from several bags. She stored the refined flour in dry jars and sealed their openings with wax.

  Once the tools were ready, Yvette descended through the well back into the secret passage of the underground shrine. She didn’t lower the water level completely; instead, she stopped draining the water when the entrance was just submerged, jumped into the water, and proceeded inside.

  In the dimly lit flooded passage, she cautiously raised half her face above the water and surveyed her surroundings, finding no trace of the guardian wasps.

  Previously, they had resided inside the queen’s body. Now, after some time with no target to attack, she guessed they must have returned to their disgusting nest.

  The image of that grotesque, porous, obese worm-like body—enough to trigger anyone with trypophobia—made Yvette glad her nerves were strong. Though disturbing at first, she believed facing it again would no longer unsettle her.

  Confirming the entrance was safe, she returned to the surface, carefully lowered the jars of fine flour into the well, and stored them in a dry spot inside the tunnel. Next, she poured the collected fats into empty milk cans, each with a bundle of wicks, fashioning makeshift lamps. Using the well rope, she lowered them into the well, keeping them floating on the water’s surface.

  Since the water level only partially submerged the entrance, the water-filled section separated the air inside the well from that in the tunnel.

  Inside the tunnel, Yvette first extinguished the remaining candles in the chapel before returning to the tunnel entrance. Standing waist-deep, she used her supernatural abilities to sense the floating lamps in the well, now positioned three meters behind her.

  With a heat source secured and the well water isolating the air, a relatively sealed space was formed—ready for the next step.

  She absorbed and transferred heat from the lamps, converting it into electric current directed into the water. Soon, small bubbles the size of fish eyes rushed to the surface, like bubbles in freshly opened soda.

  Electrolyzing water produced hydrogen and oxygen. If ignited at this point, it would cause an explosion—hence why she extinguished all candles in the chapel.

  But this alone wasn’t enough to deal with the monster deep in the cave. Hydrogen, being light, would gather at the ceiling, and since the chapel’s roof had numerous hidden vents (to prevent suffocation during prayers), the hydrogen would escape, rendering it ineffective as a weapon.

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  Her target wasn’t hydrogen but oxygen.

  With its density similar to air, she needed to saturate the area with high oxygen concentrations—then strike the insects with her finely sieved flour.

  Flour—it sounded laughable, but this seemingly harmless substance had caused numerous tragedies throughout history.

  On May 2, 1878, an explosion at a flour mill in Minneapolis, Minnesota, killed 22 and destroyed five mills.

  On December 22, 1977, a grain silo explosion in Louisiana claimed 36 lives.

  On August 20, 1997, a granary explosion in Blevy, France, killed 11 and destroyed 28 of 44 warehouses.

  These explosions, known as dust explosions, occurred because fine powders suspended in air behave like flammable gases. A spark, arc, or high temperature could trigger a blast resembling a bomb—sometimes even producing a mushroom cloud. Consequently, facilities processing flammable powders use inert gases for dust control.

  Yvette’s goal was to increase oxygen levels to create ideal conditions for a dust explosion.

  Electrolyzing water for oxygen was a tedious task. Using several oil drums’ worth of energy would take hours to fill the underground space. As she mechanically repeated the process, her mind wandered.

  In many cultures, bees symbolized positivity.

  Loyal servants defending their queen made them a favorite metaphor for monarchs. At the College of Arms, an elderly scholar had once told her bees represented integrity and courage—so cherished by French royalty that their fleur-de-lis was said to derive from a bee motif. Yvette had noticed the resemblance: it looked like a downward-facing bee.

  Recently, Pierre-Fran?ois-Pascal Guerlain, founder of the famed luxury brand and perfumer to French royalty, had gifted the Sun King and his mistress a custom fragrance, Eau de Cologne Impériale, adorned with 69 gold-engraved bees and honeycombs—later becoming the brand’s emblem.

  In ancient European beliefs, bees also held mystical significance. The name Beowulf, from the Old English epic, meant "bee-wolf" (bear), linking bees to heroism. Lithuanian pagans, driven out by Teutonic Knights, worshipped a bee goddess as part of their solar deity cult.

  Perhaps bees’ social nature mirrored human societies. Even linguistically: while most animals had distinct words for death, bees shared the same term as humans—honored as equals.

  Bees were noble—loyal and brave. Yvette almost admired the one that stung her: even in death, it fought on. A paragon of virtue…

  She touched the sting on her neck. Still numb. But as she withdrew her fingers, the skin beneath twitched faintly.

  A jolt of terror slithered down her spine. Sweat drenched her back. Something was very wrong.

  Something alive had moved under her skin.

  Why had she fixated on bees? Why this reverence? Were these truly her thoughts?

  Or…

  She knew parasites could hijack hosts—like horsehair worms driving crickets to drown. But experiencing it firsthand chilled her.

  Bubbles rose silently in the water, bursting with soft pops.

  They will be born from my body, nourished by me—my children…

  She strangled the thought like an enemy.

  Her eldritch hatred for the creatures clashed with the controlling agents injected by the wasp’s sting. Her ancient god was powerful but distant; the Hive’s influence, weaker yet near. The two forces reached a macabre equilibrium.

  [They are noble. I must stop before harming them…]

  [Cursed abominations. Their ugliness proves their sin. They must die.]

  These opposing emotions, warring for dominance, gradually merged into something eerily familiar—a psychological phenomenon humans called cute aggression: the urge to squeeze or bite adorable things (puppies, babies). A mental circuit breaker, tempering overwhelming affection with mild violence to restore balance.

  Except Yvette’s calibration had gone horribly awry.

  Bees were adorable—so cute she ached to destroy them.

  This twisted mindset made the oxygen-generating drudgery thrilling. Like a domino artist setting up rows, her anticipation swelled—a river cresting against a dam, yearning for collapse.

  Oh, to see them ignite. To watch their jewel-like carapaces rupture like popcorn, steaming from within. Magnificent.

  Maybe she’d keep a few intact… as trophies.