Kenji sat in his usual spot, legs spread, coffee in one hand and datapad in the other. He scrolled through resource logs, food production rates, and salvage manifests, all while wearing the same annoyed expression he always did when he had to work.
Across from him stood Flanksteak, motionless and terrifying as ever—seven feet of genetically engineered menace. Even without armor, the man looked like a tank sculpted from stone. His expression was blank, as always, but the other drones and even Mirelle gave him a wide berth.
“Three more,” Kenji muttered, tapping through the system interface.
[Minion Spawner? Available – Astarion Compatibility Required]
[Crimson Core Energy Sufficient: 36% (Conversion Load Approved)]
He had already scanned several potential candidates during his last underground trip. One was already unconscious in the pod chamber—ready for conversion.
Kenji grunted. “Gotta keep up with the demand. Too many moving parts now.”
Outside, a faint boom echoed through the wasteland—likely another small beast wandering too close and getting shredded by a turret blast. Routine now.
[Beast Eliminated: 1]
[Biomass Recovered: +6 units]
The system pinged softly.
Lira appeared beside him, holding out a fresh can of tea. Her eyes, as always, were locked on him like he was the center of her universe.
“Do you want the patrol logs for today?” she asked quietly.
Kenji took the tea without looking up. “Leave it on the desk.”
She hesitated, then added, “Should I start prepping for more… rooms? If you’re making more of them…”
Kenji sipped his tea. “Eventually. Not yet.”
Three Astarions was manageable.
Ten? He’d need space, infrastructure, rations, and a few drones assigned solely to housing.
He groaned as he leaned back in his chair.
Retirement, they said.
The crawler rumbled across the icy surface, treads kicking up slush and buried frost-crusted bones. Kenji sat behind the controls, grumbling as the suspension rocked him side to side. The reinforced snow crawler had already proven its worth—its auto-adaptive treads easily cutting through rough terrain, and its heated interior keeping the temperature just above freezing.
Beside him sat Flanksteak, expression unreadable as always. Dressed in a salvaged patchwork of padded armor and plate scraps, he looked like a walking slab of reinforced muscle. Even seated, he filled the cabin like a piece of siege equipment with legs.
The underground entrance loomed in the distance—a steel vault door half-buried under a collapsed overpass. Accessing it required triggering an old maintenance switch wired into a rusted beacon. As the crawler parked, Kenji activated the system link and waited as the ground shook from beneath.
With a groan of ancient hydraulics, the elevator platform emerged.
Kenji exhaled. “Here we go again.”
As the elevator descended, the light above faded and the world of the surface gave way to the underbelly of human survival. The moment they crossed into the bastion's threshold, the air changed—warmer, stale, thick with a cocktail of oil, human breath, and recycled despair.
Kenji stepped off the platform into the upper corridors of Bastion 6-Beta, Flanksteak behind him. The bastion was a maze of rebar walkways, glowing heat vents, flickering digital signage, and grimy crowds.
People moved fast and didn’t make eye contact—especially not with a man escorted by a walking slab of engineered meat.
Kenji walked with confidence. He had food, influence, and something even the nobles didn’t: a divine system that could create life and power from trash and protein.
He passed street vendors selling reconstituted soup made from roach paste and sludge. Junkies dozed beside rusted heat coils. Traders argued over gear while bounty hunters leaned against steel pillars, scanning faces for wanted tags.
Bastion 6 operated on a strict hierarchy:
Nobles ruled from the central chamber domes
Guilds (bounty, trader, scavenger) managed operations and kept the masses busy
Slavers supplied both
And everyone else? Barely surviving
Kenji ignored the noise. He was here for one thing: new candidates.
Over the past few visits, Kenji had started establishing quiet ties with the Dust Chain, one of the more discreet slaver networks. He didn’t need fighters. He didn’t need girls. He needed adult males with no ties—those who wouldn’t be missed if they vanished.
And today, word was waiting.
A handler greeted him with a nervous bow, gesturing toward the private stockroom.
“We pulled in six from the southern tunnels,” the man said quickly. “A few scavengers, some debtors. We tagged the ones you like—quiet, strong, and no records.”
Kenji didn’t respond. He simply walked past him, Flanksteak trailing behind, and entered the holding chamber.
Cages lined the room, each one dimly lit and sealed with lock chips. Men sat in silence or paced. Most didn’t even look up.
Kenji’s system began scanning.
[Subject Scan: In Progress…]
Kenji moved between the cages with a lazy gait, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding a small console linked to his system. The slavers thought he was just inspecting slaves like any noble would—but only he could see the scan data being silently processed by his divine interface.
[Scanning: Subject 2132… Compatibility: 5%]
[Subject 2133… 0%]
[Subject 2134… 14%]
He kept walking, passing men with hollow eyes and broken spirits. They were cheap, discarded, and unremarkable.
Then the system pinged.
[Subject 2137… Compatibility: 93% – ASTARION-CAPABLE]
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Kenji stopped.
Cage 7.
Inside sat a man in his early twenties. Broad shoulders, short dark hair, and a cut over one eye that had scabbed over. He didn’t look up. He didn’t speak. He didn’t flinch.
The others showed signs of begging, fear, or hostility. This one? Still as a corpse—emotionless, but not hollow.
Kenji studied him for a moment.
“Story?” he asked the handler casually.
The man flipped through his tablet. “Voluntary sell. Offered himself up for food for his little brother. Said nothing else. Didn’t resist. Not violent, just… weird. Gave me the creeps.”
Kenji glanced back at the system scan.
Perfect.
“I’ll take him.”
“Sure. Full ownership transfer? You want him drugged or awake?”
“Drugged. He won’t remember anything useful.”
As the handler stepped forward with an injector, Kenji looked back at the slave—who now finally looked up, meeting his gaze. Not with fear or hope.
Just quiet, silent acceptance.
He wouldn’t be that man for long.
The ride back was silent, save for the constant rumble of the crawler’s treads cutting through the snow-covered deadlands. Flanksteak rode shotgun, as usual—still, alert, and unsettling to anyone who didn’t know he was engineered to obey one command:
“Protect Kenji.”
In the back of the crawler lay the unconscious slave—Subject 2137—strapped to a low-profile med-bed and sedated with a cocktail of muscle relaxants and memory-dulling agents. The man’s breath was steady. His body was already being scanned by Kenji’s system in real time for pod optimization.
[Subject Confirmed – 93% Compatibility]
[Conversion Recommended – Resources Available]
Kenji grunted, sipping his drink as the Shack came into view, rising from the icy horizon like a metal thorn in the snow. Turrets rotated lazily. Drones zipped along the perimeter. And above it all, the Crimson Core flickered with divine light, visible even from this distance—its energy arcs dancing through the freezing air like strands of crimson lightning.
He smirked. “Home sweet hell.”
The crawler docked smoothly along the reinforced ramp. Saeko was already waiting with a datapad in hand, dressed in her usual utility harness and thermal gloves. She nodded once as Flanksteak stepped out with the unconscious man over his shoulder, carrying him like a sack of rice.
Mirelle stood at the observation deck, arms folded, her eyes wandering to the new body. “Another one already?” she said with a soft smile. “You’re building an army, Master.”
“Damn right I am,” Kenji muttered, stepping out.
Inside, the Minion Spawner? was already activated. Its pod glowed with internal light, and the air in the chamber had grown hotter, more energized. The Spawner’s hunger could be felt like static in the air—subtle, divine, insatiable.
Lira peeked from around the corner again, her voice small.
“Is… he going to be like the others?”
“Stronger,” Kenji said flatly.
Flanksteak carefully lowered the man into the open pod. As the chamber closed, the system chimed:
[Astarion Conversion Beginning… Estimated Time: 12 Hours]
[Name Assignment Pending]
Kenji watched the pod seal shut, his arms crossed.
Three active. Four after this.
He was starting to feel like a general instead of a retiree.
And for once… that wasn’t such a bad feeling.
The pod hissed.
A gust of pressurized steam spilled into the room, swirling around the chamber like breath from a sleeping giant. The walls glowed faint red as divine energy laced with biomass coursed through the newly converted body inside.
Kenji stood just outside the chamber, arms folded, watching as his fourth creation awakened.
[Astarion Conversion Complete]
[Vital Sync: 100%]
[Neural Conditioning: Stable]
[Environmental Immunity: Confirmed – Cold/Heat]
[Combat Proficiency: All-class Weapon Certification]
[Assigned Name: RAZOR STONEWOLF?]
Kenji blinked once.
“…Huh. That one’s actually not bad.”
The chamber hissed open fully.
Steam parted like curtains on a stage, and out stepped a towering beast of a man. Broad shoulders, lean but heavily muscled frame, skin smooth and flawless, but reinforced. His eyes glowed faint amber—intense, predatory, aware.
Tattooed across his chest in bold divine script:
RAZOR STONEWOLF?
He looked down at his own hands, flexing them slowly, then turned toward Kenji and dropped to one knee in perfect silence.
Flanksteak and Brisket watched from the corners, unmoving. Dante Ironfang?, the third, stood behind Kenji with arms crossed, giving an approving nod.
The new one rose slowly, standing at full height—a hair taller than Brisket—and let out a quiet breath that echoed with inhuman stillness.
Personality: Calculated, cold, protective
Melee Preference: Dual carbon daggers
Special Trait: Enhanced reflex loop – 1.3x reaction time in close combat
Mirelle peeked into the chamber and raised an eyebrow. “Another one? You’re really collecting them now.”
Kenji grunted. “He’s not a collectible. He’s a tool.”
Lira, of course, peeked in next—eyes wide. She said nothing, cheeks already flushed.
Razor didn’t react to them. His eyes only remained fixed on Kenji.
His master.
Inside the Shack, the hum of the Crimson Core provided a low, pulsing rhythm to Kenji’s growing domain. Drones floated overhead, the air was warm and sterile, and the sharp hiss of the Minion Spawner? pod echoed as another conversion completed.
Razor Stonewolf? emerged like a living weapon. Fast. Cold. Calculating. His dual daggers rested in custom sheaths on his hips. A tattoo bearing his name was etched in divine ink across his chest—evidence of another gift forged from biomass, crystals, and divine trolling.
Kenji leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching the four Astarions now assembled like statues waiting for war. Flanksteak Vengeance?. Brisket Oblivion?. Dante Ironfang?. And now Razor Stonewolf?.
It was starting to feel real.
He grunted and turned back toward the control panel, checking the logistics data and resource flow. The Shack was running smoothly. For now. But four Astarions meant more mouths to feed, more biomass to burn, and more drones to assign just to keep the place from turning into an overcrowded barracks on wheels.
And yet… he wasn’t unhappy.
He just hated that he wasn’t unhappy.
Lira peeked in from the side, her arms full of data slates. “The new one’s kinda scary,” she whispered.
“They all are,” Kenji muttered, taking his tea. “That’s the point.”
Outside, another beast triggered the turret. One loud boom later, silence returned.
Kenji opened the system dashboard and stared at the glowing red interface, now updated with his latest totals.
Structures & Interior:
Shack (Truck): Fully transformed interior—now a hybrid command hub and storefront
Minion Spawner? Pod: Active and recently completed conversion of fourth Astarion
Sleeping Quarters: Expanded but nearing capacity
Front Store: Operational and stocked for trade
Modules & Systems:
Divine Auto-Turret (x1): 100% accuracy. Still making beast paste.
Resource Recycler & Biomass Processor: Chewing through demon flesh with enthusiasm
Drone Hive (Tier 2): Supports up to 20 drones. Current load: 18
Minion Spawner? Pod: Cooling down. Next conversion ETA: 16 hours
Drone Fleet – 18 Active
Scavenger: 6 – Active in nearby ruins
Builder: 4 – Expanding shelves and interior reinforcement
Combat: 5 – Perimeter security
Sensor: 3 – Monitoring anomalies, movement, and weather shifts
Astarion Supersoldiers – 4 Active
Flanksteak Vengeance? – Walking tank. Power gauntlets. Loyal to a fault
Brisket Oblivion? – Dual hatchet executioner. Cold, silent, unstoppable
Dante Ironfang? – Tactical thinker. Axe preference. War philosopher vibes
Razor Stonewolf? – Dual daggers. Enhanced reflex loop. Creepy calm
All Astarions are cold- and heat-resistant, unflinching, and tattooed with divine branding.
Slave Crew – 4
Lira – Admin assistant. Banned from lewd contact. Still sneaking into bed to cuddle
Elyra – Scout. Beastkin muscle with a soft spot for ear rubs
Saeko – Logistics genius. Inventory so organized it sparks divine approval
Mirelle – Trade rep. Squeezes nobles for every last crumb. Also Kenji's favorite chair
All slaves are blissfully broken in by divine food. Zero jealousy. Total loyalty. Weirdly happy about it.
Assets & Vehicles
Snow Crawler (Salvaged): Operational. Smells like old boots and Flanksteak's armpit
Crimson Core: Still pulsing. Still red. Possibly humming show tunes
Resources
Food Cans: 930
Biomass: 217 units
Recycled Scrap: 565 kg
Medical Kits: 14
Monster Crystals: 5
Trade Tokens: 45
Unused Slave Collars: 3
Cumulative Totals Since Arrival
Drones Built: 18
Astarions Created: 4
Slaves Acquired: 4
Food Cans Produced: 1,470
Beast Attacks Survived: 3
Crimson Core Evolutions: 2
F*cks Given by Kenji: 0