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Chapter 1073: Gelled Fuel

The laboratory was thirty square meters of controlled disorder.

Milky-white rubber had dried in streaks across every horizontal surface. A row of buckets along the wall held fresh worm secretion — pale and faintly iridescent, still warm from extraction. Something black and caramelized was cooling in the bottom of a large pot that had been pushed to the corner of the main workbench, leaving a pungent chemical ghost in the air that Roland’s eyes registered before his lungs did. Long-handled spoons, glass stirring rods, an array of graduated containers that had clearly been repurposed from medical storage — the whole room had the look of a place where one man had been working without sleep for a long time.

Kyle Sichi glanced up from his notes when Roland entered. “Your Majesty.” A brief nod — the greeting of a man who considers social ceremony a rounding error. He looked pale. One finger was wrapped in gauze.

“Are you injured?”

“Minor.” Kyle waved the hand with the gauze as if dismissing a proposal he’d already rejected. He picked up a cup from the bench — filled with something the color of diluted blood, a light, uncertain red. “Look at this.”

He turned the cup upside down.

The liquid did not fall. It slid — slowly, with the resistance of something that had decided what shape it wanted to be — and formed a soft hemisphere against the rim of the cup, clinging there, trembling faintly when Kyle shifted his grip.

Roland reached toward it.

“Your Majesty.” Kyle pulled the cup back. “It’s corrosive.”

“Corrosive? The worm secretion is non-toxic.”

“It is.” Kyle set the cup down and touched the gauze on his finger. “The secretion changed after it made contact with blood.”

Roland looked at the gauze again.

“You didn’t—”

“An accident,” Kyle said quickly. Something in his expression tightened — not guilt, exactly; more like the professional embarrassment of a man who dropped a calculation. He smoothed his beard. “I’m committed to the chemistry, but I haven’t reached the point of deliberate self-harm in service of an experiment. There’s too much left to explore. I intend to keep this body intact for some time yet.”

He had been testing solidification methods for weeks, he explained. The worm glands produced a secretion that gave their mucus its particular tackiness — it was this component, in varying concentrations, that determined how quickly the secretion set and how hard the resulting rubber became. Once set, it could not be liquefied again. The question was whether something analogous could be produced from outside: a reagent that would drive the liquid rubber into a gel state without losing its chemical character.

Kyle had tried elementary substances first. Then pure acids and alkali solutions. Then inorganic salts in sequence, working through the periodic logic he had assembled from Roland’s notes. Several of these combinations produced interesting gels — but none with the right properties. Too rigid, too brittle, too slow to ignite, or simply inert when mixed with fuel.

Then he had cut his finger over a cup.

“The blood hit the secretion and the reaction was immediate. A large volume of white smoke. The Bird Beak Mushroom trace in the liquid — used to stabilize the suspension — melted into yellow residue within a few seconds. When it cleared, the liquid had become this.”

He lifted the cup again and carried it to the furnace. He opened the door and dropped the gel in.

The fire changed. It did not simply grow larger — it moved, roaring upward with a sound Roland felt in the back of his throat, the flames running blue-white at the base and orange at the tips, consuming the gel in seconds. The air above the furnace shimmered.

“I added a single spoonful of oil to it before the test,” Kyle said. The light from the flames was still moving in his eyes when he turned around. “Burning the gel alone doesn’t achieve that. The gel holds the oil in suspension and releases it into the flame at exactly the right rate. It’s better than what you described. Considerably better.”


Roland had been thinking about napalm since the moment he first heard of the rubber worms.

In his previous life, napalm was the product of a gelling agent mixed with petroleum or a similar fuel — not particularly sophisticated, but devastating in application. The gel prevented the fuel from flowing away from its target. It burned long and hot and stuck to everything it touched. A conventional incendiary weapon, even a large one, produced a brief fire that a disciplined force could survive if they moved fast enough. Napalm produced a fire that followed them. The oxygen consumption alone — in an enclosed space, in a defended position, in a reinforced outpost — could be lethal independent of the burns.

He had intended to use it against the demons’ forward positions.

The Taquila records described the outpost problem in terms that felt clinical until you understood the scale of death they were summarizing. A Red Mist installation was not just a fortification — it was a denial weapon that removed the ability of common soldiers to operate anywhere near it. The Union’s Blessed Army, those rare and irreplaceable survivors of the God’s Punishment ritual, had been required to screen and clear every approach. Every assault on an outpost had consumed Blessed Army soldiers the Union could not replace. The Union had won individual engagements and still lost ground, because the math of attrition ran against them and the outposts made the math worse.

Napalm, delivered correctly, solved the outpost problem from outside the Red Mist envelope. Fire did not breathe. It did not require a witch to clear a path through contaminated air. It was not stopped by stone walls and it could not be surrendered to — once inside a position, it found everything, consumed everything, and left the Red Mist dispersed by its own heat.

Alethea had complained about the rubber worms when they first arrived at the Third Border City. She had described them in terms that suggested the ancient senior witch had preferences about what kinds of creatures existed near her. Then someone had explained what the worms were for, and her complaints had ended overnight.

Roland turned the question he had been holding back.

“Does it require human blood specifically?”

“No.” Kyle had anticipated this. “Animal blood produces the same result. The only requirement is that it be fresh. Stored blood loses the relevant component within hours.”

“Why blood at all?”

”…” Kyle spread his hands — the gesture of a man who has looked at this question and found only the shape of his own ignorance.

“The worms’ origin may be relevant,” Pasha said from the doorway, where she had followed them from the breeding farm. “The Multi-Eyed Monster used them to capture and preserve its subjects. Blood is a plausible trigger — it signals the presence of living prey, and the worm’s instinct converts accordingly. Even separated from the monster, the biology persists.”

“The monster collected information,” Roland said, following the logic. “Not food. So preservation made sense. The gel would hold a sample intact.”

“That’s our working assumption.”

He considered this — the worms designed as specimen jars, the gel as biological fixative — and found the horror of it less interesting than the utility. Whatever the purpose had been, the mechanism was his now.

“Start production immediately. Bring the alchemists from the old king’s city into the process — they have the capacity and Kyle needs to rest.” He glanced at Kyle’s gauze-wrapped finger. “You’ve done the hard part. Let them do the scale-up.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Kyle placed a hand on his chest, the gesture of a man who knows when to be formal and chooses it deliberately.

“I have a suggestion,” Pasha said.

“Go ahead.”

“When you test the weapon,” she said, “we could invite a particular guest to observe.”

Roland understood immediately. “The demon is still alive?”

Kabradhabi’s soul, transferred into a damaged human body to disorient it — the interrogation had produced useful information until the demon had adapted to the body and simply stopped responding. They had left it with the Taquila witches expecting that it would either take its own life or be consumed by the witches’ accumulated grievances. It had done neither.

“Alive and eating well,” Pasha said. “It accepts all the food we bring. Every meal.”

It refuses to break. Refuses to confess. Refuses to die.

Waits, with complete confidence, for the day when humanity fails and its patience is vindicated.

Certain that anything as small and slow as a bug beneath a human face could not be the thing that unmakes it.

Roland’s mouth curved — not warmly. “That’s a good idea. Bring it to the test.”

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