The queen's charge was not the scuttling rush of her children. It was a low, powerful glide, her eight thick legs carrying her bloated body across the web-strewn floor with a speed that belied her size. The distance between them closed in an instant. The very air seemed to grow heavy, displaced by the creature's presence. Its eight intelligent eyes were locked on Aryan, and in their deep red depths, he saw not just hunger, but a cold, calculating rage.
This wasn't just an animal defending its nest; it was a queen punishing an intruder.
Aryan's mind, honed by the System's reconstruction, operated with flawless clarity. He categorized the new threat instantly.
Target: Shadow Weaver Queen. Estimated strength: equivalent to the Fourth Layer Qi Condensation Realm, perhaps higher. Notable attributes: enhanced speed, superior physical defense, intelligent combat patterns.
There was no time for a Gale Palm. The creature was too close, too fast. He abandoned area-of-effect tactics and defaulted to the most direct application of force. As the queen lunged, its obsidian fangs aiming for his throat, Aryan planted his feet, channeling a significant portion of his Qi into his right fist. The energy, pure and potent from the Supreme Immortal Scripture, wrapped his knuckles in an invisible, vibrating sheath of power.
He didn't try to dodge. He met the charge head-on. He pivoted on his heel, twisting his body to add his full momentum to the blow, and slammed his fist into the side of the queen's head.
The impact was a brutal, jarring lesson. Instead of the satisfying 'crunch' of a breaking exoskeleton, there was a dull, sickening 'thud,' like striking a wall of dense, wet leather. A violent shockwave shot up his arm, and his knuckles screamed in protest. The armor had barely buckled—a cruel education in the hierarchy of flesh and chitin.
The queen let out a pained, furious hiss. The blow had hurt it, knocking its head aside and forcing it to stumble past him. But it was far from crippling. It was a wound that enraged rather than disabled. Aryan understood the difference immediately. His raw power, which was overwhelming for the drones, was merely an annoyance to their queen.
He had bought himself a moment. He used it to retreat, putting distance between himself and the enraged beast. The queen righted itself, its head swiveling to glare at him with pure hatred. Where he had struck, a faint, web-like pattern of cracks now marred its carapace, from which a thick, yellow hemolymph began to ooze.
It was wounded. The swarm, which had held back, grew agitated at the scent of its queen's blood, their chittering rising in pitch.
The queen didn't charge again. It had learned from the first exchange. Its opponent was stronger than he looked. It changed tactics. Its bloated abdomen pulsed, and with a guttural heave, it spat.
This time, it wasn't a glob of venom. It was a high-pressure, cohesive stream of the milky-white fluid, shooting across the basement like a water jet. It moved faster than the globs, and its target wasn't Aryan himself, but the floor beneath his feet.
Aryan's eyes widened. He threw himself backward just as the stream hit the ground. The milky venom didn't just sizzle; it detonated on impact, covering a five-meter area in a rapidly expanding, sticky white foam.
The stone floor dissolved beneath it, releasing plumes of toxic smoke. It was a potent acid and a strong adhesive all in one. He had avoided a direct hit, but a few drops spattered onto his plain cloth trousers, which instantly dissolved as if touched by a hot coal, leaving angry red welts on the skin beneath. The pain was sharp and immediate.
He landed in a roll and came up in a crouch, his mind racing. New data: venom is projectile, corrosive, and adhesive. Direct confrontation is a losing strategy.
The queen wasn't finished. It spat again, not at him, but at the walls and ceiling around him, weaving a web of corrosive, sticky traps, systematically limiting his movement, boxing him in. This creature wasn't a mindless beast; it was a patient, intelligent hunter.
Every dodge was a gamble, every landing a new calculation. The safe zones on the floor were disappearing with each corrosive splatter.
The air itself became a weapon, thick with acrid fumes that burned his lungs and stung his eyes. He was being corralled, his world shrinking to a desperate dance between sizzling pools of venom. His Qi reserves were now below fifty percent. The Gale Palm was too slow and too expensive against this single, durable foe. His physical strikes weren't powerful enough to guarantee a kill.
He needed a new approach. He needed to create an opening.