Laito screamed into the void of his own consciousness.
Reincarnating as a Broodmother was an indignity he could swallow—power was power, regardless of gender or biology. But to be reborn as a malnourished, unhatched runt? That was an insult.
He thrashed against the interior of the egg, fighting the calcified shell that felt less like a cradle and more like a coffin. To any ordinary Broodmother, the shell was protection. To Laito, an Awakened soul with the memories of a Demigod, it was a cage. It was the only thing standing between him and the resources he needed to ascend.
Horath. Antarid. You miserable bastards.
I know this is your doing. Just you wait. When I claw my way back to the apex, I will flay your spirits inch by inch.
Complications during reincarnation weren't unheard of in the God-Devouring Insectoid Race, but for a Demigod like Laito, the process was supposed to be curated. The swarm protected its investments.
