Her Majesty’s Burden

  Far beneath the frost-choked earth, hidden under layers of enchanted alloy and dead-world bedrock, the Vaeloria Enclave stirred from a slumber that had lasted over a century.

  Once sealed, it had become a myth—the “untouched vault”, whispered about in underground trade routes and scavenger reports. Traders called it the moon-cradle, the last clean bastion, or simply the one that never opened. No human had ever breached its walls.

  Until now.

  Now, it was open.

  And Queen Vaeloria Thal’avel, sovereign of the last matriarchal elven line, sat upon her throne beneath the pulse of the bastion’s mana-dome, listening to the silent echoes of her empire’s slow decay.

  The Queen’s expression never faltered. Even as system reports buzzed quietly through the inner air, painting a picture more damning than any invading army.

  “Stasis pods: 91% capacity. Remaining nutrient reserves: 28 days. Hydroponics: 0% yield. Terraforming array: inoperative.”

  A hundred years of solitude. A century of silence. And now they stood—proud but starving, armed but dying.

  They had survived where others fell because they never opened their gates. They had preserved their bloodline, their culture, their warriors, and their technology. But the world had not healed. The soil remained sterile. Magic, no matter how pure, could not force life from rot.

  And the elves—a race without males—could not procreate, could not rebuild, without outside help.

  Their human breeder stock had long since perished. Cryo-rot. Defiance. Weak genes. One by one, they’d died off. Only preserved human sperm remained in sealed vaults—collected before the apocalypse, used to ensure controlled, genetically superior lineages.

  But food could not be synthesized from pride. Slaves could not be conjured from air.

  “We must acquire new slaves,” Aerinys had said, ever the tactician.

  “And food,” Sylrielle had added softly. “There’s a human on the surface… feeding people.”

  A human.

  A myth.

  A filthy relic trading meat from the snow and somehow thriving where even elves had failed.

  Vaeloria hated that they needed him. But she would not allow her people to perish for the sake of ego. Not when her Enclave was the last—the final flicker of elven superiority in a world that had fallen.

  And so, for the first time in a hundred and twelve years, the Queen had given a single order:

  “Send a delegation. Find the human. Negotiate. Trade. If he resists… remind him what power looks like.”

  Her scouts left that same night, cloaked in veiled armor and crystalline blades.

  The vault had opened.

  The world would learn that the elves still lived.

  And the man called “Kenji” would learn the price of dealing with the Thal’avel.

  Grubmaster Negotiations

  Kenji didn’t stand up to greet them.

  He sat on his reinforced camp chair beside the Shack’s ramp, legs crossed, coat half-zipped, and a steaming bowl of curry rice balanced on one thigh. The smell of spice and synthetic meat wafted across the ice as the elven delegation approached.

  He watched them come—three tall, gleaming figures wrapped in mana-filament cloaks, light armor that shimmered like frost under the gray sky. Their boots didn’t crunch so much as glide across the snow. Elves didn’t walk like normal people. They floated. Posed. Like models trying to look natural while pretending not to freeze.

  Kenji shoveled another mouthful of food and chewed slowly. His turret swiveled lazily, tracking their every step.

  System chimed:

  “Arrival confirmed. Species: Elf. Class: Vaultborn. Emotional state: suppressed tension. Hunger levels: elevated. Combat threat: High. Trade probability: Moderate.”

  He muttered between bites, “So they really crawled out of the myth-vault after all…”

  The lead envoy stopped twenty meters out. She wore a pale blue circlet and had sharp silver eyes, the kind that judged you by scent. Her voice projected smoothly through a collar relay:

  “We come under order of Queen Vaeloria Thal’avel of the Thal’avel Enclave. We seek trade for sustenance and biomass.”

  Kenji sniffed. “Got manners, at least. What’s on the table, sparkle-face?”

  The elf raised her hand and activated a floating interface. Data scrolled in real-time—a clean list of high-tech offerings: a decrypted cryo-data capsule, two mana-infused alloy plates, a portable power core, and a drone shell crafted in their unmistakably elegant style.

  Kenji tapped his console.

  [TradeScan Active – Analyzing Elven Offerings]

  ? 1x Cryo-Data Capsule (Decrypted) – Energy efficiency protocols. Value: 9.3 cans

  ? 2x Mana-Infused Alloy Plates – Lightweight armor-grade. Value: 3.8 cans each → 7.6 total

  ? 1x Portable Power Core (Low-tier) – Rechargeable, Tier-2 compatible. Value: 5.2 cans

  ? 1x Drone Shell (Elven Make) – Scout-grade modular drone body. Value: 6.5 cans

  Total Trade Value: 28.6 food cans

  Total Biomass Recovery: 2.0 units

  Trade Status: Favorable to user.

  Kenji leaned back and grunted. “Not bad. Tech’s clean. Shame none of it feeds the biomass tank, but it’s got some value.”

  The lead elf didn’t respond. She waited, cold and composed.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Kenji smirked. “You didn’t even ask how much food you were getting. Either you’re starving… or too proud to haggle.”

  No reply. Only that blank elven stare.

  He stood up and kicked the release panel on his dispenser module. With a hiss, twenty vacuum-sealed ration cans rolled into a reinforced black crate—each one stamped with the glowing logo:

  Kenji’s Post-Apoc Snack Shack? – “Savor Salvation, One Bite at a Time!”

  The lead elf’s lip twitched—barely.

  “Twenty units,” Kenji said. “That’s the deal. Mixed menu. Some spicy. Some weird. All edible. Mostly.”

  She stepped forward, scanned a label, then nodded to the others. Two elves retrieved the crate without a word.

  “We will return when rations deplete,” she said. “Expect a higher-volume exchange. You may prepare accordingly.”

  Kenji raised an eyebrow. “Next time, bring some biomass. Or a slave who can shovel snow without complaining.”

  “We do not barter our own.”

  “Not yet,” he muttered, already walking back inside. “But hunger’s a hell of a motivator.”

  The moment the elves were out of sight, Kenji’s console beeped again.

  [Alert: Surface Movement – Sector South Ridge]

  [Source: Scavenger Drone #4]

  [Raider Tags Detected: Crimson Chain | Rust Wolves | Bone Diggers]

  [Cross-faction comms detected. Projected convergence: 36 hours.]

  Kenji’s grin faded.

  “Perfect timing. Elves show up. Raiders start planning a party. Can’t be coincidence.”

  He cracked his neck and eyed the turret.

  “Better warm up the Shack. We’re about to get real popular.”

  Unwanted Attention

  Kenji leaned back in his chair, sipping lukewarm broth while the Shack’s perimeter screen pulsed with red pings. Movement clustered along the southern ridge—coordinated, sloppy, desperate.

  [Raider Factions Identified: Crimson Chain | Rust Wolves | Bone Diggers]

  [Cross-faction communication detected. Estimated convergence: 36 hours.]

  The system chimed in, cool as ever:

  “Estimated force size: 30–50. Projected threat level: Moderate. Raider firepower: standard. Current Astarion squad survivability: 100%. Drones: active. Defensive posture: stable.”

  Kenji snorted and set the cup down.

  “Yeah. Not even worth polishing the turret.”

  He flicked through feeds—overhead drone visuals, thermal overlays, tracking data. Four defense drones were circling slowly above the Shack, relaying constant updates. Builder drones were on standby, and scavenger units had been recalled as soon as the threat level spiked.

  Nothing was getting done outside until this mess passed.

  He switched to the Astarion feed.

  ? Flanksteak Vengeance? stood at the Shack’s front ramp, arms crossed, a slab of meat in scavenged armor scraps.

  ? Brisket Oblivion? paced slowly along the western ridge, twin hatchets hanging loose but ready.

  ? Dante Ironfang? had taken a seat atop a broken loader crate, watching the raider blips like he was reading a book.

  ? Razor Stonewolf? stood still with his head tilted just slightly, as if listening for the first scream.

  None of them wore proper armor. Just makeshift gear. Salvaged parts. Loose straps. But they didn’t need more. Each one could punch through walls, catch bullets with their hands, and erase anything short of a tank with raw force.

  Kenji sipped again and muttered, “Still can’t believe I got these freaks for the price of bad soup and a dying merc.”

  The Shack’s rear door opened with a soft hiss.

  Elyra stepped in, brushing snow from her shoulders. Her sharp eyes flicked to the screen.

  “We’re locking down?”

  “Yep,” Kenji replied. “Drone feed’s more than enough. You and Saeko stay inside.”

  “Scavenging?”

  “Paused. Not worth the risk.”

  She nodded without protest. She might be proud, but she wasn’t dumb. Neither was he.

  “Want us to prep fallback routes?”

  Kenji shook his head. “They won’t make it past the turrets. If they do, Flanksteak’ll mop them up with their own legs.”

  Elyra grinned faintly, then turned and headed to the back—probably to check the supply storage out of habit.

  Kenji leaned back and pulled up the thermal overlay again.

  The raiders were huddling around a rusted tower now. Some were smoking. One was trying to signal with a cracked flashlight. No formation. No order. Just noise.

  He tagged the tower for a low-priority drone pass. No strike—just a reminder they were being watched.

  “Let ‘em gather,” he muttered. “Sooner they rush, sooner I can harvest.”

  He turned and glanced toward the main hallway.

  Four supersoldiers. A net of drones. And a Shack that never runs dry.

  Quiet Before the Stupid

  The Shack’s interior lights dimmed slightly as power shifted to perimeter mode. Outside, the wind howled, brushing fine powder against the plated walls. A dome of heat and silence pressed out from the Crimson Core, keeping the snow at bay within a hundred-meter radius.

  Inside, Kenji cracked open a fresh ration can—spiced meat stew with mystery grain—and sat back in his chair.

  “Defense status: Perimeter sealed. All scouts recalled. Drone patrols stable.”

  The system’s voice paused, then added:

  “Enemy movement within observation range. No direct approach detected.”

  Kenji chewed slowly, eyes half-lidded.

  “That’s right. Keep circling, you mouth-breathing jackals. Get your courage up nice and slow.”

  Behind him, the floor creaked with heavy footfalls. Flanksteak Vengeance? walked in and stood near the door, saying nothing, doing nothing—just radiating pressure. The other three Astarions were still outside, each stationed at their designated perimeter arc, waiting.

  Kenji waved the can vaguely.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call you when something needs smashing.”

  No reply. Not that he expected one.

  Further inside the Shack, the others had gathered near the heater pod in the back lounge.

  Elyra sat curled up, a data pad in her hands, flipping through recent scavenged entries—markings, collapsed structures, zone tags. Saeko was organizing salvage from earlier finds: old wires, batteries, broken drone components. Mirelle stretched out on one of the long padded benches, toying with a ration pack while casting side glances toward Kenji’s door.

  None of them were afraid. Not anymore. Not after seeing what the Astarions could do.

  The last time a group of bandits tried to test the Shack’s defenses, Brisket had turned three of them into wall paint before the turret even warmed up. Razor had finished the last one with his bare hands—no blade, just silence and force.

  Still, tension crept in like the cold outside. Not fear. Just… the weight of knowing something was coming.

  Kenji finished his stew, wiped his mouth, and leaned back.

  “System. If they get within fifty meters, arm the turret and ping the squad.”

  “Confirmed. Auto-engage threshold set.”

  He closed his eyes and let the warmth settle in his chest.

  The wind outside howled again, but he didn’t care.

  Let the bastards come. They’d be doing him a favor—free biomass delivery.

  Ashfang’s Gambit

  Ashfang knelt in the snow, chewing the edge of a dried meat strip as he stared at the horizon. The Shack was barely visible in the distance—just a dark silhouette behind a shimmering thermal haze. The sky above it shimmered unnaturally, tinged red where that glowing orb hung suspended in the air like a warning.

  He spat.

  “Magic. Tech. Doesn’t matter. It bleeds, we take it.”

  Behind him, the remnants of three different gangs huddled together—armed with scrap rifles, pipe bombs, repurposed armor, and the kind of confidence only starvation and desperation could give.

  The Crimson Chain, the Rust Wolves, and the Bone Diggers—each gutted by years of fighting, frostbite, and surface madness—had finally agreed to something none of them liked:

  A temporary alliance.

  And Ashfang was the one holding it together.

  He wasn’t the strongest. Not the oldest. But he was smart enough to listen.

  And what he’d been hearing on the wind for weeks now?

  “There’s a man with food. A shack in the storm. People trade with him and walk away healed. Fed.”

  They called it a relic. A curse. A trap. They called him a king, a god, a joke.

  But the part that caught Ashfang’s attention was simpler.

  “He doesn’t move.”

  A man with something that valuable… sitting still? Letting people come to him?

  That was a man waiting to be taken.

  “He’s probably got drones. A turret or two. Maybe some slaves guarding the place.”

  Ashfang didn’t care.

  Because even if he lost twenty men storming it—if they got the Shack, they’d control food. Real food. Not rat jerky and melted protein packs. Warm food. Trade. Power.

  It was worth it.

  Hell, he figured, maybe the man’s bluff had just lasted longer than expected. Maybe it was a dead system running on fumes. One good push might break the illusion.

  “We hit from two sides. Rust Wolves come in hard on the east, blind the turret. Bone Diggers take the back wall—cracked plating, maybe a breach point. Chain holds the high ridge and lays down suppressing fire.”

  He tightened the straps on his chest rig. Slapped a charge into the receiver of his slug rifle. His breath steamed in the air, fast and sharp.

  “We hit at dawn. Before the snow buries us. Before anyone else finds out how weak he really is.”

  He had no idea what was really waiting inside.

  No clue what kind of monsters were standing at that perimeter.

  But raiders didn’t plan for failure.

  They charged. They overwhelmed. They feasted.

  And tomorrow, Ashfang was going to rip that shack open and see what spilled out.

  Come and Die

  The charge began before dawn.

  Ashfang led the Rust Wolves from the eastern slope, boots hammering frozen ground as smoke bombs and shouted orders filled the air. Behind him, the Bone Diggers looped wide, aiming for the rear. Crimson Chain lit torches along the ridge for suppressive fire.

  The Shack loomed in the distance like a fortress wrapped in fog. Strange heat shimmered around it, but there were no guards on the walls. No counterfire. No warning shots.

  “He’s bluffing,” Ashfang told himself. “He’s not ready.”

  They closed to within thirty meters.

  Then the first drone struck.

  A whine, a blur, and one of his men dropped instantly—head gone, body twitching.

  Another explosion of motion, and a raider’s torso split clean down the middle.

  Panic hit fast. Their smoke cover meant nothing. The drones moved like ghosts—silent, deadly, everywhere.

  “Fall back—regroup!” he shouted. But it was already too late.

  A scream ripped across the field.

  That’s when he saw them.

  Four figures walked through the drifting fog with calm, unhurried steps. They wore mismatched gear—scraps of armor, bare arms wrapped in fabric, scavenged belts—but their sheer presence made Ashfang’s blood run cold.

  They weren’t men. They were walking engines of destruction.

  One of them—massive, bare-chested, with gauntlets too big to be human—grabbed a fleeing raider and threw him hard enough to vanish behind a snowbank.

  Another stood motionless, waiting, daggers loose in his hands. The moment a raider came close, he moved—fast, quiet, efficient. No wasted motion. The man didn’t even scream.

  Two others advanced through the chaos like it didn’t matter. One with broad shoulders and a look of grim focus, the other dragging blood-soaked hatchets and cutting down anyone too slow to run.

  “What… are these things…?”

  Ashfang froze. His legs refused to move. His rifle felt like a toy in his hands.

  These weren’t guards.

  They were punishments.

  One of them turned his way.

  No emotion. No hesitation. Just movement.

  Ashfang ran.

  Kenji didn’t bother standing up. He sat back, sipping hot broth while the Shack’s screen lit up with blinking alerts.

  [Drone Assault: Active]

  [Enemy Force Reduction: 27… 19… 12… 6…]

  He chewed slowly, watching one of the feeds.

  “Well, look at that. One of ‘em’s trying to run.”

  The turret hadn’t even fired yet. No point.

  Astarions didn’t leave survivors.

  The last red dot vanished from the map.

  [Combat Complete. Biomass yield: 71.4 units. Survivors: 0.]

  [Drones recovering equipment and remains.]

  Kenji let out a long sigh and tossed his empty ration can into the bin.

  From Elven Trade:

  ? 1x Cryo-Data Capsule (Decrypted)

  ? 2x Mana-Infused Alloy Plates

  ? 1x Portable Power Core (Low-tier)

  ? 1x Elven Drone Shell (Scout-Class)

  From Raider Assault:

  ? Biomass: +71.4 units

  ? Salvaged Metal (Scrap-Grade): +128 units

  ? Weapon Parts (Low Quality): +63 pieces

  ? Electronics (Scavenged): +31 fragments

  ? Armor Pieces (Damaged): +19 usable plates

  ? Misc. Raider Gear (Recyclable): +44 items